CapturedbytheSS (29 page)

“Her mistake,” he whispers in English, “was in letting
her
American go.”

I turn to him, but he’s already refocused on the stage. My
attention returns to the performance as the audience once again settles. For
some reason, I can’t shake off my captor’s words. It’s as if there was some
veiled promise in his statement, as if he’d never make that mistake. I watch
the rest of the opera in a bit of a daze, shaken and confused by his words.

After the curtain goes down and the performers take their
bows, my captor and I stand.

“Thank you for taking me out,” I whisper in English.

“No, thank you. I very much enjoyed tonight. When we get
home, you’ll try on some of the lingerie I bought you. Yes?” He looks eager.

“Yes,” I whisper.

He opens the door.

As we exit the box, we pass a mirrored wall. With my arm
wrapped around his, I don’t look anything like his prisoner. We look like a
couple. I’m not sure I’ve ever looked so happy. Hell, I look radiant with joy.
The image only lasts a moment, but it haunts me as we walk. A queasy feeling
settles deep in my stomach as we descend the stairs.

I’m a bit dazed when we step outside. The valet takes one
look at him and hurriedly rushes off to retrieve the car. The familiar black vehicle
cruises up to the curb.

“Here you are, sir,” the valet announces, passing him the
key. My captor hands him a piece of plastic.

“Add thirty percent for yourself.”

“Oh thank you, sir,” the valet chirps, swiping the card
through a handheld reader. I can tell my captor is in good spirits. I was too
until I saw my reflection.

I force myself to smile as my captor opens the door for me.
I keep my smile frozen as I sit down. He pauses for a moment before closing the
door but doesn’t say anything. He walks around the car and gets in. Without
saying anything, he starts it and then drives down the street.

Tears pool in my eyes. Taking shallow breaths, I manage not
to sob. Even though I don’t make a sound, the car suddenly slows before pulling
over on the side of the road. Without saying anything, he kills the engine. I
hear a soft click. In my peripheral vision, I see him putting his seat back.

“Slip off your shoes and come here,” he orders simply.

Confused, I only study him.

“Slip off your shoes, climb over the console and straddle my
lap,” he specifies.

Tears spill from my eyes as I slip off my shoes. Shifting
around, I hike up my dress before climbing over the center console. Without
looking at him, I gingerly sit spread thigh on his lap.

His gloved hands pull my wrists behind my back. He holds
them there firmly with just one hand while his other tilts my chin up. I manage
to avoid looking at him.

“Now why are you crying?”

“I…I’m a traitor,” I whisper.

“How are you a traitor?”

“I shouldn’t be out with you like this. No matter what my
country did to me, I still made a promise. I—I took an oath, I promised to
defend my country from all enemies,” I sob. “I mean, look at me.”

“Yes, you’re wearing a gown I had made for you, a gown I
told you I wanted you to wear. You’re wearing jewelry I purchased as well as
makeup that I wanted you to apply. You were my escort tonight, and I wanted you
to look a certain way. I couldn’t very well take you out wearing one of my
dress shirts.”

I only close my eyes as tears spill down my cheeks. He
hitches my chin up farther, and I reluctantly meet his hard gaze.

“American, do you remember the morning I tied you up and
held a knife to your throat?”

I hesitate for a moment. “Yes.”

“I could have easily slit your throat that morning. You
understand that, don’t you?”

Uncomfortable with the question, I look down.

“Look at me,” he orders coldly.

Shaken by his tone, I meet his eyes. He looks angry. “You
have control over
nothing,
American. Your very life is in my hands.” His
gloved thumb sweeps gently across my left cheek. “You’re not a traitor. Now
stop crying.”

His facial expression softens as he pushes back my tears.

“Now,” he whispers. “Where is all this traitor talk coming
from?”

“I saw our reflection in the mirror outside the box.”

“So?”

“I looked…happy.”

“So? That doesn’t change your status with me. There’s a
reason you’re still wearing your locator. You’re not my wife or my girlfriend.
You’re my prisoner, my slave, my captured American.” He smiles darkly at me.
“You’re my war prize. I own you.”

His strange and possessive tone actually makes me feel
better, though I know logically it shouldn’t. Somehow, I feel he just told me
something I needed to hear. It doesn’t make any sense, I know, but I needed to
hear I was
owned.
It’s as if the word itself,
own,
struck some
deep, resonate chord with me.

He’s staring intensely at me as if he’s reading my thoughts.
Comprehension slowly fills his eyes.

“You feel better now, don’t you? To know that you’re owned.”

Hesitantly, I only nod. I know he doesn’t like gestures in
questioning, but I honestly don’t think I can verbally respond. Thankfully
though, he doesn’t push the issue.

“I should have told you that sooner. I’m sorry. I thought
you understood your status.”

“Understand? I…I don’t understand anything about you or
about us,” I whisper.

He smiles at my comment. “All you need to know is that I
will always take care of you, American. I promise.”

He knows how I feel about promises. I suppose he could just
be saying that to gain my trust, but that’s not what I’m sensing.

“Now get back in your seat,” he whispers, pulling his hands
away.

Gingerly, I ease back into my seat before he restarts the
car. The seat belt snakes around me.

“I’ve kept you cooped up for a while now. I hate to take you
straight home. Would you like some ice cream?”

I haven’t had ice cream in ages. The very thought reminds me
of the few happy times from my childhood. “Yes,” I whisper, smiling at him.

Nodding, he steers the car back into traffic before turning
left down another road.

Also by
Gail Starbright

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