The Reluctant Read online

  “Tell me your name,” he said again, a harsh and urgent whisper in my ear.

  Then the tears started. I felt so helpless with his roughened hands gripping my backside and his teeth at my throat. I couldn’t even get my own body to obey me at this point!

  “Please,” I whispered.

  He growled at me—literally growled! I tried to jerk away, terrified that this noise signaled a more violent assault, but his hands went to my hips and pushed hard. Pain shot through me as my hands fell limply to my sides over his muscular arms, trying in vain to make him see I would not fight back. All of him was hardness, sleek, heated skin. He gathered up my arms and pressed them against my chest, constricting my breath. A hand crept up to my throat and he applied a faint amount of pressure. I could feel the strength of his hands. He could crush my windpipe if he chose.

  “Now,” he said softly in that fluid accented voice. “Tell me your name.”

  “Emily,” I choked out. The pressure immediately eased. “My name is Emily,” I repeated a little more loudly.

  “Emily,” he groaned, the passionate rumble a faint echo of the earlier growl.

  I began to sob. My body trembled, probably a side effect of the syringe from earlier. The last show of energy had completely drained my strength.

  His breathing grew quicker, shallower; one of his hands never left my throat as the other slid down to my thighs. Hot needles prickled in my groin. Instead of reaching between my legs like I thought he would, he reached behind me, heaving me up. Pushing me against the wall, he forced himself into me. Amazingly, I was slick and ready to receive him. His hand moved to my jaw and palmed me roughly as he began to shove himself in and out of me.

  My cries only seemed to excite him more. My head knocked against the wall as a counterweight to his rhythmic thrusting. The dark only made things worse. My sobs were becoming hysterical. The darkness enhanced everything, including the fire that ripped through my loins as his motions grew more frantic. My body hit the wall—thump thump thump—and my butt stung as if it had been repeatedly slapped at with a leather thong. His hands found my hair, pulling at it and adding to the force with which my head hit the wall.

  I had been fucked before, but never like this. I felt like he would rip me apart. I refused to let my body orgasm in response to him. The angle of my body made it impossible to ignore the sharp jabs of the wall behind me, and the man in front of me made it impossible to ignore the building fury between my legs. Had he not been pressing me against a wall, I might not have had a choice in my orgasm.

  Finally, oh God, finally, he gave a deep thrust and I felt the hot gush of him rush into me. I still panted like an animal, my body feeling as if it had been raked over hot coals from such mishandling, my tears making my hair stick to my face, my sex pulsing and quivering with something akin to disappointment.

  He leaned against me and the wall, supporting himself with the hand that had clutched so desperately at my hair a moment before. He did not speak, just breathed hard into my face. I inhaled and thought I could taste my own tears and sweat on his breath.

  I bit my lips to silence the hysteria, but my chest still heaved with emotion. I finally closed my eyes, shutting even the darkness out. Had there been light, it would not have made me any braver.

  I hung, suspended against the wall for some moments while he collected himself. And suddenly, he gently withdrew and cradled me as I slipped to the cold, tile floor. I did not hear him walk away, and the shadows gave no clue if he still stood near me. I did not care at this point. I sank completely to the tile and allowed my head to rest on it. Now he will kill me, I thought. The stickiness between my legs leaked out onto the floor, my sense of self sliding out with it.

  The air conditioning unit came on and my body shivered without my consent. I heard the door open and shut, but still no light came into this tomb. I never heard him move.

  Instead of thinking about all of the things I had never achieved in my life, I thought about the owl in the park. Now his sounds of mourning would be for me.

  “Emily?”

  That smooth, anonymous voice flowered out of the artificial night some time later. The darkness suddenly proved insubstantial to his whim for illumination. Light overtook the room with the vengeance of the long denied as Will flipped a switch that I had not bothered to look for. Sometimes I could be so assuming; yes, Emily, surely all rapists and killers have a room that has no electrical facility whatsoever like in Silence of the Lambs. Geesh. Even my clothes were neatly folded and slung over the arm of a particularly terrifying paisley-print sofa. My shoes were still inexplicably M.I.A. though. To add to my discomfort, Will turned out to be even more handsome in the light than he had ever been on the ill-lit jogging trail.

  I’m not one to dwell on tragedy. Maybe that makes me a little shallow, but I hate those who seek out drama through their own actions. I had moved from my fetal, cringing position long before. The darkness had finally accepted me, and I, it. I felt at peace in the warm room against the chilly tiles. I stood, willing to put up a better fight this time if need be, thinking that my past listlessness had been a shade on the ridiculous side. I was not some helpless maiden who swooned when a man sought to take advantage of her.

  “There are things you should know about me,” he announced as he picked up my clothes from the couch and handed them to me.

  My patience snapped as I yanked them from his hands. “The only thing I care to know about you right now is when the hell you’re going to let me go.”

  I might have been naked, but damn it, I was hungry, tired, a little sore from Will’s jagged handling, and scared. Those things present in a woman do not make a good combination. Nudity was the last thing on my mind.

  He smiled smugly, not turning away as I clothed myself. “When, exactly, is a good time for you?”

  I quirked an eyebrow at him while pulling up my pants. Was he flirting with me?

  “Now’s always good,” I answered with the acidity of the annoyed.

  His expression deepened to a deadpan seriousness. “I’ll check my schedule.”

  “You can’t keep me here,” I said, emboldened by my realization that this room was not a prison. It was, for all practically purposes, a generically designed guestroom—bigger than most, with tasteful accommodations that reminded me of an upscale hotel. Even with no windows, it still proved to be a nice room. The bed was huge and the tiled floor had a nice mosaic pattern. Very Italian. “You just can’t,” I reiterated.

  “I can certainly try,” he declared. “Aren’t you interested in knowing whose attention you’ve attracted?”

  I mulled over his words for all of about two seconds. “You’re insane, you know that? You think I want to stay here with a murderer?”

  He looked shocked. “You think I’m a murderer?”

  “You killed that guy in the park,” I pointed out.

  He chuckled. “Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. I knew you were smart. I need to ask you something, Emily. What do you think about pedophiles? Especially the ones that kill their victims afterwards?”

  “They’re the lowest scum of the earth,” I answered instantly.

  “Do you believe in the death penalty for those who are the lowest scum of the earth?”

  “Yes,” I answered instantly. I had not really considered political machinations at this point, so as an abstract concept, the death penalty was fine with me. I may have lived in California, but my liberal ideas hadn’t developed yet. Now, I realize that I spoke with all the absolute certainty that comes with being nineteen. I’m not sure I would answer that question without a little forethought now.

  He smiled. “Then I need not defend my actions to you.”

  The wheels in my head choked on this one. “There’s no need to change the subject. This isn’t about child molesters. This is about you not only kidnapping me, but also imprisoning me, and then raping me! It has nothing to do with the death penalty.”

  He laughed. “No, but it has everything
to do with your evaluation of my character, which might influence whether or not you stay with me.”

  My temper shot up, mostly because in the darkest corners of my mind, I suddenly thought it might be exciting to stay with a handsome stranger. Oh God, was I an adrenaline junkie? Now, I was the insane one. I ignored his statement completely. “You talk like you’re rich or something. Where did you go to school? Harvard?”

  “Actually I attended Whitney in Cerritos and did my undergrad at U.C.L.A, but now you’re changing the subject.”

  Oh my, educated and handsome—and older than me. No wonder his words came out velvet and refined with that delicious trace of accent. I shook my head violently to clear away such traitorous thoughts.

  “You’re a monster. You raped me,” I said with as much anger as I could muster against his striking smile.

  Concern drowned the smug grin on his face and I regretted my harshness. “Did I hurt you?”

  I hugged my arms around myself. “Well, no, but I told you to stop.”

  “Your body told me yes. I could tell you were turned on.”

  I blushed. “That’s still rape!”

  He recovered some of his self-satisfaction. “Well you’re certainly not afraid of me, nor are you mad at me it seems. To be honest, I think you might have enjoyed it.”

  “You’re scum,” I spat, more embarrassed than angry by his bulls-eye assessment.

  He shook his head. “No, I thought we established the definition of scum already. I, my dear, am not scum. However, as you referred to me recently, I am a monster.”

  I rolled my eyes. “No need to be dramatic. You just said you weren’t a murderer.”

  “Are we going to run circles all day around the real issue at hand here?”

  “I don’t know that I know what’s worse: that you raped me or that you kill people.”

  “I only kill people who deserve it.”

  “No one deserves to be killed.”

  “Now you’re contradicting yourself.”

  I paused. My mouth had gotten ahead of my brain again.

  He reached out and put a calloused hand on my shoulder and amazingly, I did not flinch. “I’m not implying that you’re wrong about anything, Emily. I just need you to understand that I interpret murder as a malicious act. There is nothing malicious about protecting our young.”

  His words made me think of female animals defending their cubs, and I involuntarily softened towards him.

  “Who are you?” I asked, kindly pushing his hand off my shoulder.

  “As I said before, my name is Will, and I am completely enamored of you.”

  “You don’t even know me…Will.” His name felt thick on my tongue as I said it for the first time, and my body warmed in his proximity. There was none of the passion from last night, nor any overt threat from him. He was simply a gorgeous man being attentive towards me, professing his feelings. I suddenly felt so flattered instead of violated. I knew that good looks did not equal a good person, but he seemed so…nice…in the light.

  He chuckled, a deep low rumble. “I know you much better than others do.”

  I said nothing, for I knew he meant carnal knowledge. I’m pretty sure I blushed, but a vivid memory of the sparks between my thighs and what he had ignited shook the words from me. My head was spinning a little, probably from hunger, fatigue, and stress, but mostly from the proximity of him.

  He stepped closer to me slowly. I could have stepped back if I chose; there was nothing impeding me. But for some reason, I let him pull at the distance between us.

  “Will you stay with me, Emily?” he asked earnestly.

  I swallowed what little spit I had in my throat. My mouth was suddenly dry and I felt the urge to lick my lips—as if he would kiss me and I needed to be prepared.

  “What are you doing to me?” I asked, voice trembling.

  He reached up and stroked my face, leaning in to nuzzle my neck and kiss it. He pulled back just a bit and stared into my eyes. Those emerald eyes, bright and alert, looking at my boring brown ones for acceptance. My heart pounded against my chest. He looked at me like he wanted to swallow me whole, but protect me from the world by doing so.

  His hands never stopped stroking me. “Your body responds to mine, even if you haven’t accepted it in your head yet.”

  “But I don’t know you.”

  His hand trailed down to my collarbone. “Your body does.”

  A calm awareness of my situation overtook me amidst the confused state of enmity between my mind and body. Yes, I was in the house of a stranger and I shouldn’t talk to strangers. Yes, I had been raised to know that even the best-looking men could have the worst intentions. And yes, of course I knew that sex was not the answer to any question.

  But goddamn, he was so hot.

  And as his mouth met mine and his blistering breath filled me, I opened myself to his control and the possibility that maybe, just maybe, everyone else was wrong about the rules of the world—at least that’s went through my mind when he kissed and caressed me. I may have freed myself had his hands been not quite so liberating in their own right.

  Will

  You won’t believe that I never meant to hurt you that first time. I had to have you right then or become a monster from my anguish. I don’t know how you’ll ever understand what drives me, but maybe this will help.

  After a fairly normal childhood in Mexico with my mother, we moved to California so, as she told me, I could attend a better school. I learned later it was to keep me away from the Clan. At this point, as a ten-year old child, I was human and in constant danger from my mother’s violent family. My father was Lycanti and my mother Lycanthrope: my father, a Changeling forced into the order by my pure-blooded mother to serve as a mate. The gene is carried only by males, but my mother was breeding before she changed him, hence a very human Will as a child. I always wondered if she planned it that way.

  Unlike my best friend, I did not grow up in the Clan. The Lycanthrope stay clear of North America because of the overreaction by law enforcement. You’ll probably never meet one here. Even the murder of the most base human being is investigated, it’s ridiculous. In South America and Mexico, things are much more lax. Police down there have even taken to affectionately calling them “bounty hunters.” They don’t know what the Lycanthrope really are, of course. They only know that the marked victims die with much blood, and are always guilty of past crimes. Most of the Clan makes their living collecting rewards for turning over the bodies of rapists and murderers. Perhaps my mother did not want that life.

  Of course, my father knew none of this when he went to Mexico with some friends and seduced what he thought was a dark-skinned beauty who loved him equally possessively. When she became pregnant, he was overjoyed at the thought of taking her home to California and having a normal life. Imagine his surprise when she began disappearing for days at a time with strange men for long runs as their true selves. She can change at will, except for when the full moon calls to her, of course. She is much more in control of their emotions. As you’ve seen through me, Lycanti cannot control it. It is a talent I am often envious of. Then maybe I wouldn’t hurt you so much. Our children will be born Lycanthrope, and luckier than us by far. But I digress, again. I’m sorry. I just want you to understand. There’s so much for you to learn.

  When my father confronted her about taking up with other men, she Changed him. She could have killed him, but according to her, knew that I would be human and wanted as normal a life as possible for me. Now, I think she wanted someone to leave me with when she was ready to leave and wander as her kind are known for doing—someone who, even if he Changed, would not harm me because of his love for me.

  And my father did comply for the first few years of my life on the banks of the Gulf of California, taking care of me and repressing as much of his newly-acquired nature as possible. He was naturally a passive man, I remember that much. He had a wonderful smile. My mother had not changed that about him.

&n
bsp; Lycanthrope will choose a weaker human mate, no offense Emily, to take as his or her own. Apparently the, well, I guess it’s brainwashing, but Lycanthrope scientists insist it’s pheromones—anyway, Imprinting will not take place if the potential Lycanti does not have a weaker will. And the Lycanthrope always demand absolute obedience. My mother broke my father emotionally and physically. He was dead of his wounds inflicted by her during a mating by the time I turned five. I never knew what happened to him until a few years ago. He just quit coming to the house. Instead of his loving caretaking, I was left with often inattentive friends of my mother who had children my age—normal friends of hers, not Clan. Like I said, my childhood was very normal except for my father’s abandonment crushing me.

  My mother hid her condition very well. She told me the truth about herself before I graduated. I did not believe it. I thought perhaps it would be a kinder thing if she went back to her family in Mexico so they could take care of her. I asked many questions trying to get her to see reason, and she became angry during many of her terse answers. I think she regretted raising me away from the Clan. Every Lycanthrope child knows the history and mannerisms of its pack. But I, an ignorant human adolescent, had no idea about any of this. She thought I was mocking her, or worse, thought her insane. She was not far off from guessing my thoughts. I dismissed her careful explanations of Halflings and Pure Bloods, and it wasn’t until much later that I learned the genetic facts and far more than I ever wanted to know about my condition from Luka.

  After revealing all of this to me, she fled back to her Lycanthrope pack, presumably to finally find another mate. I was alone. And suddenly, I found myself as prey for a society that I knew pitifully little about—but who knew everything about me thanks to a mother who would not stop bragging about her very human son. Soon, one sought me out.

  Emily

  The next few days cycled as if Will and I had never been strangers. We hadn’t had sex again since that night of lovemaking after rape, and Will was polite, courteous, and more than willing to not touch me until I acted like I wanted him to—which I must admit I rubbed against him at every chance possible. We hung around his house, which was nothing fancy, but which indulged every summer whim I had. We spent hours talking about books, movies, music, and even discussed politics, always quietly and noncompetitively. He told me funny stories about his best friend Luka, and I told him about falling when I accepted my diploma the previous summer. This surreal state was achieved mainly by my newly-acquired mood of composure. I had never been this docile. Was he drugging me? He certainly fed me enough, always insisting that I allow him to show off since he rarely had anyone to show off for.