“Go ahead! There’s nobody close enough to hear you.” Hooking his hand over her throat, he growled, “If I strangled you right now, nobody would care. You’re of value to no one.”

“Fuck you,” she breathed.

His hand closed around her throat. “I could snap that skinny chicken neck like a matchstick.”

“Please … don’t,” she wheezed. “I—promise … I—”

“What do you promise? Hmmm? Tell me.”

“I’ll give you—”

“Give me what? What can you possibly offer that I haven’t already taken?” He cupped one hand over her breast and bunched the mound of flesh. “This is the only appealing thing about you, and even that is beginning to bore me.”

“Please,” she panted. She spotted her own reflection in the bathroom mirror and saw a pitiful stranger, her face red and contorted and her eyes wide with terror. Spittle dribbled down her chin. Her hair was a tangled bird’s nest.

He caught her looking at herself in the mirror. “You used to be such a pretty, classy girl. Now look at you. You’ve let yourself go, darling.” He released her, letting her fall forward on her face with a thud. “What was I thinking? You’re nothing like her.”

She moaned on the floor. A puddle of red was forming on the tile beneath her. She’d broken a tooth or her nose or both. Her entire face throbbed, and she wondered why the fall hadn’t mercifully knocked her unconscious. As she turned her head to one side, she felt the blood smear across her cheek. The bastard was standing over her, examining his bitten hand. She wished she could have taken a chunk out of his testicles. “Let me go,” she slurred, spraying blood along with the words. Eyeing the food spilled on the floor, she licked the blood off her lips and said, “I’m hungry.”

“Good. I made you a light supper.” He kicked the plate, smashing it against the wall.

She cringed as the stoneware shards ricocheted around. “Please. I’ll eat it.”

He stepped on the bread and meat, grinding it into the floor with the bottom of his shoe. “Bon appétit, ungrateful bitch.”

She rolled onto her back and coiled her bound legs back, preparing to deliver a kick. “Fucker!”

“That’s quite enough theatrics.” He stepped into the shower stall and returned with the bar of soap, dotted with his pubic hair. He held it over her face.

“No,” she said.

“Yes,” he said, trapping her chin with one hand and stuffing the soap in her mouth with the other. “Eat that instead of the sandwich.”

The feel of his hair in her mouth repulsed her more than the taste of the soap. She gagged and coughed out the soap, sending it bouncing across the tiles. The white bar was streaked with red.

He stepped over her to get to the tub. “You need a bath.”

“Why?” she groaned, and closed her eyes tight. The question was addressed not to the man brutalizing her but to God. “Why?”

“I told you why,” said her captor. “Weren’t you listening, or are you too obtuse to comprehend?”

She heard the water start to pound the bottom of the tub. What had she done to deserve this? Was this some sort of retribution for the harm she’d done to her own body and soul? Was this her penance? “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the heavens. “Forgive me.”

“Too late for that,” he said. “Save your breath. You’re going to need it.”

He actually thought she was apologizing to him, the sick bastard. She stayed still.

“Open your eyes,” he said, and kicked her side. “Look at me.”

She grimaced but didn’t open her lids. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Again and again, he kicked her. Each time he did it, it was accompanied by an order: “Open your eyes … Open your eyes, bitch … Look at me.”

She’d win this round, even if it killed her.

“Stupid,” he said, giving her one last kick.

Her side throbbed, but she felt a small victory. Then something splashed in her face, and her lids snapped open. Her face and eyes were searing with pain. He was emptying a bottle of aftershave on her. “Stop it,” she sputtered, shaking her head back and forth.

“It lives,” he said, continuing to pour.

“Don’t.” She shut her eyes and turned her head to one side. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” he asked, setting the empty bottle on the toilet tank.

“Let me go.”

He loosened his tie, took it off, and draped it over the towel bar. He started to unbutton his shirt. “I’d hoped we could have a pleasant evening at home, the two of us.”

“Let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

“Some music. A little wine. More lovemaking.” He peeled off his shirt and hung it from a hook on the back of the bathroom door.

“They’re looking for me,” she said. “The police. My friends. Everyone.”

He laughed dryly. “Don’t kid yourself.”

She wished she’d black out and never regain consciousness. She sensed him moving around the bathroom and heard the squeak of the taps being closed.

“I think that’s sufficiently deep,” he said cheerfully.

The background music—the running water—was gone, and the silence made her gut churn. She felt his hands under her, lifting her off the floor. This is it. He’s going to drown me. A sense of surrender washed over her, and she rested her head against his bare chest.

“You’re finally behaving. Good girl,” he purred into her ear. “Relax.”

“Yes,” she mumbled.

“Let me know if the water isn’t hot enough,” he said.

She felt him lowering her into the water and found it was pleasantly warm and scented. “Flowers,” she murmured.

“Lavender,” he said. “From an old girlfriend.”

She felt his hands locking on her shoulders. He was preparing to push her under.

From an old girlfriend.

She remembered what he’d called her while he was raping her. She tipped her head backward and through blurry eyes saw his face suspended over her. She whispered three words she hoped would buy her time: “Ruth loved you.”

His hands froze. “What did you say?”

She trained her eyes forward and repeated the words without emotion, to make them more believable. “Ruth loved you.”

He took his hands off her shoulders. “You don’t know anything about—”

“Yes, I do,” she said calmly. “I know … everything.”

“How?”

“We were friends.”

His hands returned to her body. “That would have been years ago.”

“I visited her. We stayed in touch.”

Tightening his hold on her shoulders, he growled, “What did she look like?”

Hope started to clear her head. Her mind raced. Was Ruth a student? His childhood sweetheart? A slut he picked up in a bar six months ago? What was I thinking? You’re nothing like her. She took a deep breath and told him what she figured he wanted to hear. “She was skinny like me, but prettier. Much prettier. Classy. Liked … classical music. Older than me.” She braced herself, waiting for the hands to push her down into the water.

“Tell me more,” he said, his voice and grip softening.

He wanted to believe her. Good. “She never stopped caring about you, but her father was—”

“He was a fiend.”

“A regular bastard.” She needed to get free before she ran out of bullshit or he snapped out of his delusional state. She held her arms up out of the water. “This tape hurts like hell.”

A long silence behind her. His hands dropped from her shoulders. “I’ll get some scissors.”

“Thank you,” she said, silently releasing a breath of relief.

“I’ll untie you and dry you off and get you dressed. We can have a lovely conversation about our mutual friend. Our Ruth.” He reached into the shower stall and returned with a washcloth in his hand.

Her body tensed. He wasn’t quite finished with her, the sadistic son-of-a-bitch.

“But before I get the scissors, let me take the liberty of cleaning you up.”

She sat up stiffly. “No, that’s okay. I can do—”

“Sit back,” he said firmly. “Open your legs.”