Page 13 of Surrender to Me

Chapter 8

Owen took my hand and led me to the side of the dungeon, opening a door to a room lit with wall sconces with candles flickering inside. A three-sided box with transparent walls, the length and size of a telephone booth, was on one side of the room, a thick leather loveseat on the other. Metal handcuffs dangled from the wall. He leaned me against the tall box and unbuttoned my shirt achingly slow, taking his time, a button every few breaths. He stared at my mouth, at the bright red lipstick, one of the only pieces of makeup I had worn. I licked my lips out of impulse. Owen froze for a moment, then pulled the sides of my shirt open and grinned at the red bra.

“I—” I started to say, wanting to explain my choice of underwear, but Owen put his hand up, cutting me off.

“You wore it for yourself,” he said. Not for you, I lied to myself. The subtext was understood.

He unbuttoned and unzipped my pants, pulling them down my legs gently. I stepped out of them, staying in my black ballet flats.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispered, his mouth open. His drank me in, drowning me in his gaze. That nervous, lustful ache crawled in my stomach, working its way up to my chest.

Taking my hand like royalty, he led me to the back of the box, where there was an opening and a small platform inside. A light shined behind it.

“This is a shadow box,” he said. “I want you to dance.”

As if on command, a bass guitar strummed through the camouflaged speakers. A man and a woman sang sweet and low, their voices raspy and full of yearning. Owen held my hand, lifting it up as if to tell me something important.

“If you want out,” he said, pausing, “say so.”

“Just say ‘so’?” I asked.

He chuckled. “Sarcasm now, Riley? ‘So’ is fine, or ‘red,’ the universal safe word,” he said. I nodded, and he stepped away. The soft crunch of the leather told me he was sitting down, watching and waiting for me.

I held my hips, hesitating. I had danced for him before, but that was a long time ago, and I hadn’t danced like that since, and never without the encouragement of his touch. And I couldn’t exactly have that anymore, could I? Even undressing me as he did was questionable. Still, I reached my hands above my head, then draped them down my body. I dipped my hips, wondering what Owen was thinking. What was his obsession with making me dance? Did he do this with all women, or just me? There she was again. Poppy.

“You work every day to create something beautiful,” he said. Even though he was sitting in front of the box, facing me, it was like he was next to me, whispering in my ear. He could read my mind, answering my internal questions about what the hell we were doing, and why we were playing this game again. “To create meaningful works of art. When was the last time you felt like one?”

I could feel his presence, even if I couldn’t see him, like a thick, magnetic heat. It was like he was holding me with his aura, his whole portrayal of sleek dominance. A work of art? I had never thought of myself like that. And Owen had. He was taking me in, building me up. I held my breath. My fear wasn’t how he would break me down, but if I would like it. I had a feeling I would.

“Do you feel like a work of art, Riley?”

I wanted to see him. The barrier between us made me feel truly objectified, the fact that he could see my shadow, see each time I moved my body, when I hesitated, when I flinched, and yet I couldn’t see him; I could only hear him.

“Look deep inside of yourself,” his voice hummed around me. “What do you see?”

I stopped dancing. I looked through the walls as if I could see through them to Owen, when I felt a strong presence behind me. Owen was holding out his hand to help me down from the box’s platform. Without a word, he led me to the wall and opened the shackles, closing each of my wrists inside. He pulled two padlocks out of his pocket.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

For some reason, I knew I would walk out of that room, that my body would be fine. Physically, I would be okay. But my heart, my soul? I wasn’t sure about that. Not with the way he was able to read me. But I nodded anyway. He locked each of the padlocks and slipped the cold metal keys inside my bra. As he walked to the couch, I tried seeing if I could reach them. I could. Did he know that?

Of course he did. He wanted me to know that I could back out any time I wanted to.

He produced a red cane, thin and wiry. He dragged the synthetic tip along my skin, letting me feel its teeth. He swung it through the air, letting it hiss right beside my face. Suddenly I was questioning my earlier confidence in my safety.

“Do you think you’re worthy?” he asked.

“Of what?” If he said himself, I was going to laugh in his face.

“Of your dreams, Riley,” he said.

And even though the music was still playing, it seemed like everything in the room quieted; even our breaths were silent. Was I worthy? I never questioned that. I worked on my craft. I didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. But was I worthy of it?

“I am,” I said hesitantly.

“You are what?”

“I am worthy.”