Captive Torment – Joss Andersen

He cuts me off. “I want more of that. If something hurts, you tell me. If something feels good, you show me. Can you do that for me?” I swallow hard. I’m terrified and aroused and jealous and confused. I want to give him something real, even though real is the most vulnerable thing I can be. “Yes.” His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck and he walks me backward until my shoulders hit the wall.

The impact is just hard enough to startle me. He pins me there with his body, his hips pressing into mine, his chest solid against my breasts. The heat of him bleeds through his clothes. He pushes his jacket off my shoulders and drops it on the floor beside us. I’m standing there in my bra and jeans, barefoot, trapped between him and the wall, and his gaze drags down my body slow enough to burn.

“You’re so beautiful.” “Don’t say things you don’t⁠—” “I asked for honesty.” He cuts me off, but there’s no anger in it. “That means I get to tell the truth, too.” He unzips my jeans, then tugs them down my legs. I let him strip them off me, and he tosses them aside, his eyes never leaving mine. My underwear is simple cotton, nothing sexy. His fingers trace the waistband. “These need to come off, too.” I hook my thumbs in the elastic and slide them down.

Then I stand there in only my bra. “All of it.” I reach behind my back. The clasp gives under my fingers, and the straps slide down my arms. I let the bra fall and stand there completely exposed to his gaze. My nipples tighten into tight peaks. Goosebumps rise on my arms and thighs.

“Cold?” “No.” I’m being honest, the way he asked me to be. “Scared.” “Of me?” “Of this.” He steps so close that his clothed body brushes my naked one. The denim is rough against my thighs, the cotton soft against my breasts. The contrast makes me shiver.

he Council wants to see me. Not through the voice box in the chapter hall or through one of their masked messengers. In person. In the room beneath the Garden Grove University Library, where they conduct business that doesn’t go on record. I check my texts one more time before I go in. Noah Roy’s message is still there, sent twenty minutes ago. Two weeks. No excuses. I pocket the phone. The corridor is empty.

I’m surrounded by concrete walls with no windows and security cameras every fifteen feet. I’ve walked these halls hundreds of times, delivering packages, cleaning up messes, making problems disappear. I’ve done three years of grunt work, all the while proving I can keep my mouth shut and my hands dirty.

Tonight I find out if any of it was worth something. I roll my neck to crack the tension out and push through the door. The room is smaller than I expected. It’s got white walls, bright overhead lights, and a long table with three men sitting behind it. They’re wearing the standard Society masks. Black leather covers everything from the nose up, leaving only their mouths and jawlines exposed. The one on the left is heavyset. Gray stubble dusts a thick jaw, and his fingers drum against the table like he’s got somewhere better to be.

The one in the middle is younger, clean-shaven, and smirking. The one on the right is nondescript, except he has thin, bloodless lips pressed together in a line that almost makes his mouth disappear. No one offers me a chair. There’s one in the corner, pushed against the wall, but it’s clearly not meant for me. I stop three feet from the table and wait.

A monitor on the wall behind the men shows a live feed of the chapter hall upstairs. It’s empty right now. They could switch that feed to anything. Anyone. It’s a stark reminder that they see everything, always. “Nicholas Martini.” The guy in the middle says my name like he’s reading off a traffic citation. “Yes, sir, that’s me.” “You have a request.” “I do. I’m formally requesting transfer of custody for Alina Graham. She was formerly assigned to Paul Roca during the last competition and is currently in Phase 2 of rehabilitation.”

“We know who she is.” The heavyset one cuts in. “What makes you think you’re entitled to her?” “I’m not claiming entitlement. I’m proposing an arrangement.” “An arrangement. That’s cute.” This from the guy in the middle. He folds his arms across his chest, biceps straining his sleeves. He’s built like a wrestler under that suit.

“What? You want to take her to dinner? Buy her flowers?” The heavyset one snorts.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

Book Information

• Unique ID: 55d479928c6ec135
• File Extension: .pdf
• File Size: 2,166,311 bytes (2.066 MB)
• Title: –
• Author: Unknown
• Pages: 175
• Language: English (en)

Reading & Word Statistics

• Estimated Reading Time: 259.7 minutes
• Total Words: 51,940
• Total Characters: 284,037
• Average Words per Page: 296.8
• Average Characters per Page: 1623.07

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