His Captive Ch. 04-06

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Four days.

Foi gras au torchon takes exactly four days from preparation to consumption.

Yet in preparation for her welcoming dinner to her new home, Malachi spent the four days elbow-deep in ingredients, measuring, slicing, draining, cooking— all for her.

All for his Olive.

Numerous people had criticized the meal. 'Serious Eats' a mediocre tumblr page went as far as questioning the meal and its chefs. "..a cured, fattened duck liver barely cooked and rolled up in a kitchen towel? What the heck kind of a dish is that?"

Their ignorance and lack of specified tastes towards such divine, yet macabre meals hardly irked Malachi. He could not blame the less educated. Foi gras au torchon was an acquired taste, much like any other painfully expensive dish.

Far be it for Americans to love anything that isn't deep fried or slathered in cheese, he thinks amusedly slicing through the lobe to the vein, following its path and pulling the foie apart to see the vein clearly.

The first day was always messy. The exposure and removal of veins which surfaced blood that sleeked the Danby marble counters of his kitchen and hands. The blood was glossy and still vibrant red, and indication of how healthy the duck's liver was.

It tainted his hands, and when he brought those slender skillful fingers to his mouth, licking thoughtfully on the blood, it painted his mouth a vicious red too.

Four days.

He had began to prepare the meal before bringing his Olive to their abode. They arrived on day three as his meal sat at room temperature.

While she lay unconscious one floor above, he proceeded with the liver. Rolling it into a log, twisting and squeezing the ends of the parchment to help compact it.

Afterwards he unwraps the foie, discards the paper and transfer it onto a cheesecloth only to roll it to force the foie into a compact log again.

Malachi thoroughly doubted that Olive had acquired any sort of expensive taste, let alone a civilized one.

Over the three months of watching her every step, every meal, he concluded that the most expensive dish she had was at a restaurant. Pork.

Even then despite her being of legal age, she did not consume wine. Only beer and coolers.

"In time," he hums in time to J.S Bach whilst reaching for a butcher's knife, carefully laying the blunt edge along a thick limestone and swiping it back and forth, sharpening the edge. He counts eight tilted strokes on each side before the blade is sharp enough to effortlessly cut through the liver.

Malachi stills then, amidst slicing, and cocks his head to the side listening to any sort of sound above. An indication that she had woken. For a moment, he wonders if he had miscalculated the chlorofom dosage, having administered a lesser amount. But there is no sound and he relaxes, sawing the liver.

Submerging the foie gras in stock, he lets it simmer whilst preparing an ice bath and soaking it for ten minutes.

Malachi loses track of time throughout, and not until he gazes up at the kitchen window that overlooked his herb garden, does he notice darkness spreading through the forest like a fog.

He wraps the final product in a cloth, rolling it tightly as possible, before placing it on the top shelf of the refrigerator.

Tomorrow she will wake and they would dine.

The next morning found Malachi in the house's cellar, casually drifting from one barrel to the next, rasping his knuckles on them before twisting the tops open and lowering his nose, inhaling the stale sour smell of well aging wine yet to be packaged.

Stepping away from the barrels, he moves towards the wooden shelves with hands formally clasped behind his back, inspecting each dusted bottle from top to bottom. For the foie gras au torchon, clarice is chateau d'yquem wine would be most preferable. Red wine that isn't overpowering.

And besides, it would be her first time drinking wine, it would have to be memorable. And not all too strong.

Although he wouldn't mind catching brief glimpses of her drunk self. Intoxicated people are all too willing and less uptight.

He could almost envision her sitting across him by the table, cheeks flushed rosy red, hazel eyes glazed over and slightly hooded as she leans forward in that flirtatious manner. Those long obsidian lashes that brush her upper cheeks, and that mouth; bittersweet altogether.

"No," he chastises himself halfheartedly, then settles for the light red wine.

He opted for a cold shower to calm his nerves, then stood before the bathroom mirror, carefully tracing the shaving blade across his jawline then neck in slow upward strokes, clearing the cream and stubble.

Malachi stared at his profile once done. His expression was serene, his complexion ridiculously healthy; no stress lines or signs of exhausting all-nighters.

He was relaxed, tall and handsome; carefree in beige slacks and a black shirt, the world at his feet. He made his way downstairs to set the dining table; Foie gras au torchon with a late harvest of vidal sauce with dried and fresh figs.

Once done, he sits and pours himself a quarter amount of the wine, gripping the glass by the stem and swirling it near his nose before tentatively sipping.

Sweet and thick. Much like he wanted.

The silence was disrupted by the consistent ticking of the grandpa clock overhead. He waited. He stared. He drunk. Five minutes twisted to fifteen then thirty and at forty five, he downed the last of the wine and rose from his seat.

Olive had not yet woken.

How strong had been the dose he administered? Perhaps there was a miscalculation?

Approaching her bedroom door, he lingers by the entrance and listens past the wooden barrier, ears tilting to the steady sound of her heartbeat. She was alive, that much knowledge was enough to ease his worry.

Gently nudging the door open, Malachi steps into the cool darkness, feet silently propelling him towards the bed where her figure lay above the sheets.

Olive is arguably the most beautiful yet normal looking female he had ever seen.

Despite the darkness, he sees each distinguished feature. Her short curled hair roughly spread across the pillow, eyelids the color of a starry night and those eyes hidden from view in slumber.

She was fresh-faced, her lips artfully curbed and delectably pink, the same pale tinge as her nipples.

"Pretty as a picture," Malachi muses, gently stroking her cheek, his dark eyes smoldering.

The pad of his thumb trails along her jawline then chin, rising slightly to press on her bottom lip. Her mouth is soft, warm breath fanning his hand intimately.

A memory passes him then; one where his Olive sits out on the front lawn in shorts and a bikini top, watering her mother's flowers.

She was sucking on a lollipop, lips pouting each time she popped it out, pink tongue tracing in circular motions—

Malachi groans, carefully lifting his hand from her mouth and slipping them into his pockets. His body was growing hot, galvanic effects of her surging blood towards his manhood which slowly came to life and strained beneath the zipper of his pants.

He begins to step back only to still, sapphire eyes lingering on her face, tracing her button nose that stops short of that delectable mouth.

So fuckable.

He wonders how her lips would feel wrapped around his throbbing cock. The warmth of her mouth as her soft tongue lolled around him, like a lollipop. The soft jerking of her throat as it involuntarily contracted around the head as she took it in like his good girl.

His palm surreptitiously rubs against his crotch, then after a moment, works the button and zipper open before reaching in for it. Still partly limp, Malachi works himself to life in slow, long strokes.

He sees her kneeling before him, small hands wrapping around his cock which twitches from contact. The tip of her tongue carefully licking his slit, drawing pre-cum. Her eyes drooping shut in relief as she takes him in halfway first before retreating.

His hand would run through her hair, securing at the back as he guides her deeper and deeper still, until her nails pleadingly dug into the front of his thighs.

But he wouldn't stop, not when tears brim along her long lashes. Neither when she begins to gag and choke, slobbers of spit forming between her pouted bruised lips and his cock which each retreat.

She would beg for more, trace the vein beneath his cock with the flat of her tongue down to his balls and perineum—

"Fuck," Malachi's eyes snapped open, hand shooting out like a viper and catching the Jets of cum which threatened to land on her face.

One drop landed on her cheekbone.

She did not wake.

(05)

Her senses begin to return one at a time; she feels the softness of a mattress pressed beneath her belly, the touch of a light sheet spread over her back. Briefly, she simply stares at the wall in hazy stupor.

Her mouth tastes as though a baby dragon had used it for a potty, and the faint thumps of a headache phantomed between her brows, like a toothache in her brain.

"Ugh," she mumbles, carefully pushing herself up only to stutter as her stomach clenched.

Nausea rose quick and sharp, causing a galvanic effect as she blindly shot from the bed and raced on Jell-O legs towards a random door, which she unconsciously presumed to be the bathroom.

Her knees gave way, slamming onto the cold tile surface as she doubled over the toilet's bowl.

Her stomach clenched, diaphragm caving upwards as contents rose and gurgled past her lips, bile dripping down her chin. She heaved and heaved until there was nothing but an empty pit in her gut.

"Shit," Olive moaned in agony, leaning against the toilet wishing her brother would hand her a glass of cold water.

Cracking one eye open, she peered down the toilet bowl at the brown mushy soup that smelled sour and hot. Her face paled at the strong odor but her stomach felt relieved.

Pushing away from the toilet, she staggered to her feet and made for the sink, fumbling with the taps then drinking directly from the mouth. Cool relief washed over her dehydrated, exhausted body. Cupping both trembling hands beneath the flow, she cupped water and splashed it onto her fuzzy face.

After three splashes, Olive carefully straightened, eyes peering at the rectangular polished mirror before her.

Her reflection was wretched and wasted like a glamorized queen with watery eyes and smudged mascara underlying the puffiness. Her skin had paled to a disturbing deep color and her hair resembled that of a bird's nest.

She presses a palm to her forehead with another groan then grows utterly still as bits and pieces of memories slowly fell in place; the movies, Amir, texts, the parking lot, his car, a man-

The gasp that left her was strong and startling. As though some invisible hand had pressed against the center of her chest, Olive staggered back, still staring at the panicked and terror filled girl in the mirror. She whirls around blindly, rushing into the room and tearing about, searching.

For what?

Kidnapped, she thinks in panic, I've been kidnapped.

Suddenly she is moving about the room like there is a hurricane inside her. She moves like her brain is demanding the energetic expenditure of an athlete but won't tell her limbs what to do.

She backtracks into the bedroom and explodes into motion again towards the bedroom door. "Please please please—" gripping the dead cold doorknob, Olive turns it over then pulls.

Locked.

"No no no no," she tries it again, each pull leading to another until the whole door begins to shake on its hinges whilst she tugs viciously, "no no no-" gripping with both hands, Olive tries to yank it open. Nothing.

The panic is swelling now, the spark of fire in her belly spreading like a fog, it crawls up her throat and down her limbs; "Help!" She slams one palm rapidly on the wooden surface, ignoring the stinging sensation that is incomparable to the pain and dread that grows within. "Help! Help!"

Stilling just for a heartbeat, Olive presses her ear onto the door and listens. There is no sound beyond the barrier and all she hears is her own harsh breaths and the roar of blood that rushes through her ears.

kidnapped

Her sentences breaks into fragments and her thoughts seem to jump from one conclusion to another.

Where was she? Who had taken her? Why had he taken her?

If they kidnapped her for the sole purpose of attaining money then he would be sorely disappointed. Her parents were not rich, they were barely making it through. And she- well she had fifty three dollars and sixty nine cents to her name.

kidnapped

Was it a pervert ring? Had she been stolen for the purpose of sexual entertainment and degrading? She had binged enough movies and series on Netflix to know the captor's motives were always ill-intentioned.

"Oh god," her eyes slip shut as all her fear tumble out unchecked by her brain, she's in some kind of mental free-fall, unable to analyze things or assess risk. "please please please-" Suddenly, her head jerks upright and she pivots sharply, staring wildly at the satin purple curtains.

Windows.

She crosses the room in three seconds and jerks the curtains open, reeling back as sunlight streams into the dark room. The light momentarily blinds her, warmth pooling over her skin before her eyesight adjusts to the sight.

Her stomach sinks within itself at the ironclad bars fixated beyond the glass window. Dazedly, her hand reaches out and tentatively touches the glass. She works the latch open and lifts it, a shudder coursing through her as warm noon breeze billows past her and into the room.

The tips of her fingertips trace the iron grills, then curls around it and tries to pull. When that doesn't work, she switches tactic and pushes at it. Dread molds to anger which has her thrashing the grills back and forth like a madwoman, and for a moment she truly believes herself to be one.

No no no no- the tremors on her hands spread along her forearms, chest, she feels it along the uneven clenching of her abdomen as panicked breaths struggle to make it past her collapsing lungs.

The feeling of hopelessness and fear overwhelms her and the bridge of her nose begins to burn as she clenches the iron grills futilely. Trapped. Beyond the window lays a vast forest, thousands of tall looming trees that would have once been considered beautiful, but now they resemble a nightmare.

Her body begins to deflate in grim despair when something catches her eye. Along the rubble path, Olive watches as a obsidian dark car curves from the corner, its engine so silent she would have never heard it. The windows are far too tinted to make out the figure within.

Carefully, she withdraws and shuts the curtains, peering from the corner as the car slows to a halt before the house. Her heart leaps into her throat as the door casually opens and a head full of curls appears.

Olive grows still as the man exits the car, his height endless as he straightens. He wears a pressed black shirt and brown dress pants, car keys swinging in one hand expertly before he pockets them.

Despite the sight of only his back, she knows he is attractive in some grotesque, inhumane way.

He's the one, she realizes frightfully.

The man opens the back seat and ducks low, drawing out two large duffel bags and a few brown grocery bags. He carries them with ease as he makes his way towards the house. Every motion is oiled and perfected, carnal appeal surrounding him like fine mist.

Letting the curtain fall shut, Olive stares at the floor beneath her feet, keenly listening to each movement as he supposedly walks to the kitchen. She walks with him, stopping when he does. He walks with predatory grace- serpent silent such that she has to kneel and press her ear to the floor and listen.

She crawls as he moves, freezing when her hand presses onto a loose floorboard. The creak was faint and she doubted her heard it, but the lack of movement below stated otherwise.

Suddenly, she heard his faint steps slowly ascending the stairs.

In a state of panic, Olive rose and dove for the bed, struggling with the sheets and blankets as she pulled them apart and settled inside. With her back facing the door, Olive stares wide-eyed at the wall, struggling to still the dangerous beating of her heart.

The footsteps approach her door and seconds later, she hears the doorknob twist.

Her eyes slip shut and she grows still despite her sharp hearing which seeks his presence. She feels his soldering iron gaze on her form. He does not move, neither does he speak.

There is movement somewhere around the bed's foot as he makes his way towards the bathroom and she realizes with sinking terror that she had forgotten to flush the toilet. Her vomit still floating about.

No, Olive struggles not to weep when the figure steps back out of the bathroom. She no longer hears his movement but she feels that predatory stare. The corner of her pillow, directly behind her head, suddenly dips and she nearly leaps from fright but remains frozen.

The flutter of scalding breath touches her neck and his mouth traces the shell of her ear a heartbeat later;

"Good afternoon, Olive."

(06)

Malachi knows the scent of fear.

He sees it in the sudden muscle jump along Olive's cheek, the tensing of each limbs as they coil with each other preparing her for fight or flight.

He knows she would pick flight, and when she does, he's a step ahead.

Olive attempts at springing away, the blankets and sheets rise all around, briefly obscuring both their visions. His hand moves as quick as lightning, steel grip clamping down on her wrist and with vicious ease, yanks her back onto the bed.

Her back hardly touches the mattress when Malachi is on her in a heartbeat. "Olive—" he begins softly, straddling her chest and easing the breath out of her expanding lungs by pressing down purposefully, "calm down—"

"Help!" The shrill of her voice startles him and he glances up, alarmed, only to relax at the realization that they stood in the middle of nowhere.

The corner of his mouth twitches up in a seldom, almost sadistic smile despite the softness in his eyes. "No one can hear you, Olive."

Her body bucks beneath him, wild with terror. The rush of adrenaline blocks out all senses, she neither sees nor hears him, only feels the immense weight pressing onto her, just below her breasts.

Malachi considers wrapping his hands around her slender neck, feel the erratic pulse beat thunderously beneath his palms as he gently but firmly presses on either side of her trachea, denying her of precious oxygen.

He would watch the light slowly snuff out in her eyes, feel the struggle in her body grow limp as she slackens against the bed. That pretty mouth fall ajar as each labored breath grows softer until finally—

No, he chastised himself. That would be cruel. Besides, the true thrill came from watching her wear herself out.

He stares intently at her, flailing about in a desperate attempt at freeing herself. Her face grows flushed, those burning feverish eyes hardly flickering to his face, Auburn hair spread out wildly on the pillow.

Perspiration surfaces along her forehead, strands of curly hair matting along her neck and collarbone.

Even in rage she remains enchanting and in his entranced state of admiration, Malachi fails to see the curling of her fist as she swings it hard.

The punch lands on his lower left jaw, impact snapping his head to the side sharply. Blood floods his mouth instantly, the taste of iron thick as he swallows and tentatively rolls his tongue around, testing the stinging wound.

His shoulders begin to shake in the slightest then, vibrations along his body spreading tremors through hers.

Olive stills, terrified, wondering if the punch had truly made him cry. But his face is void of tears, and those vibrations were not of tears but laughter.