The Light Between the Trees Ch. 14

Author's note: Traumatised by being held hostage in the cafe siege, Chloe has chosen a new direction in her life. She gives up her steady boyfriend and stable job to seek out new thrills in risky encounters. Covalent has laid out his plans to make her disappear and Chloe finds herself spiraling deeper and deeper into his fantasy of total control.

The story contains themes of female submission, edge play and autassassinophilia. Discretion is advised: please check the story tags to see whether this a series you'll enjoy.]

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A CHANCE TO RUN

"We're running low on supplies," Covalent announces after breakfast, "I'm going to need to take a run into town. Want anything?"

I gesture at my bare body. "I'm good. What else could I possibly need?"

"I meant, food-wise. Any special requests?"

"No more pasta bake," I quip with a little smile.

"You complaining to the chef?"

"No."

"Good."

"I'd have to meet a chef first."

He grins at me. "And so what am I? Kitchen boy?"

"I wouldn't say that," I fire back, "Even kitchen boys have a repertoire of at least three dishes."

"Harsh."

I laugh. "Fair."

"Fine. Point noted. I'll work it out."

He's smiling at me, but then my expression clouds as a thought bubbles up in my head.

"How much you getting?"

"Huh?"

"Food. How many days?"

Slowly, his smile fades and I get an awful knot in my stomach at having ruined the moment.

"Enough," is all he says then he takes my face in his hands and gives me a kiss.

"I might be a few hours," he tells me, "Depends. I know the track better now."

He goes into the house and after a moment, he returns with the keys. I nod at him and he waves back, opening the screen door and barrelling down the wooden steps. I watch him disappear around the corner of the house and then faintly, I hear the engine start. Why did I say that? We were having fun.

I go out and around the house to watch him leave, the tyres kicking up a trail of dust in the parched earth. I stand there, watching him until he's out of sight, until even the dust has blown away, and I know I'm left on my own in the absolute middle of nowhere. I feel my skin prickling in the morning sun; it's going to be roasting hot today.

But the question still remains: how much food is he going to get? It occurs to me that he stocked up before he brought us out here. If we're running low on supplies, what does that mean? Perhaps he thought that he'd have finished with me by now, that by today he'd be packing up and going back to the real world. Covalent is meticulous and calculating. Getting caught short is not something that happens to him.

I walk back to the house, up the steps. Without him here, it feels so empty. I look down at the mattress on the decking, then out at the tree line and it occurs to me all at once that I could leave. A couple of hours would put me on the main road, able to flag down a ride. My pulse quickens as I realise I suddenly have an escape. I'm puzzled by the fact that he didn't think about this, or if he did, he didn't take steps to secure me. He could have tied me up, but maybe he didn't in case he got into an accident. Maybe he didn't want me thirsting to death on this verandah as he lay in a hospital bed.

Maybe he expects me to run, and even now, he's waiting down the track to recapture me, knowing it'll break my spirit.

Maybe he's trusting me not to run.

But, instead of running, another thought occurs to me as I stare at the front door. I've never been inside, but he's always been here, guarding me and now he's not here anymore. I know I shouldn't, and my palms itch as I reach out and turn the door handle. I push the door open, take a deep breath, and cross the threshold.

It feels weird, forbidden, the kind of thing that people do, not whatever it is he's turned me into. Being actually inside the house after accepting my role as an outside toy thrills and scares me.

It's bare inside, furnished with an old sofa, a kitchen table, the minimum. The floor is wood, but polished to a deep shine, battered and marked over the years by the comings and goings of the occupants. There's a small kitchen, and I wander in, opening cupboard doors and exploring. He's telling the truth about the food situation, which means something. He isn't telling me the truth about something else, but he also doesn't have to. He's in charge; I don't have the right to ask him any questions.

I take in the details of the room, my hands on my hips, feeling like a naughty kid for being somewhere I'm forbidden. I'm keenly aware of the silence, which is reassuring. But, all of this is raising more questions. I've been removed from the face of the earth by a man who, on the one hand, I'm beginning to understand intimately, but on the other, I know absolutely nothing about. I don't know his history, his job, even his real name.

I wander back out into the living room and see a little bag against the wall. I creep over to it, like it's unexploded ordinance, and crouch down. It's zipped up, and for a brief moment I consider the issue of leaving fingerprints. No, that's paranoia. I can do this and not leave a trace. He'll never know.

I unzip the bag, careful not to move it, and peer inside. I find his laptop and a few bits and pieces: a charger, a phone cable. The laptop calls out to me, and I slide it gently out of its confines. Flipping it open in my hands, I give it the once-over, like I'm looking for booby traps. My pulse is throbbing in my neck. All his secrets will be on here.

I set the laptop down on the kitchen table and power it up. There's no hard drive encryption password, no security prompt, just a picture of a valley covered in snow and a login prompt. I select the keypad login option and am presented with a prompt for four digits. That's ten thousand combinations, which would take weeks to brute force, but he's been sloppy. I already saw the first two digits, following his fingers on the keyboard as I stood behind him once, after asking him to look up the weather forecast. I couldn't see the last two, blocked by his shoulder, but that cuts the possibilities down to the keys one through to four. I smile to myself. Computers are my life; this is a walk in the park.

It only takes me seventeen attempts, and when the desktop screen reveals itself I let out a little squeal of delight. The first thing I click on is his email, and I begin to filter through his messages. I know that I shouldn't and that this is wrong, but each message solves another piece of the puzzle, gives me another clue to the man who holds my life in the palm of his hand. I can't stop myself, and I read everything.

By the time I'm done, I'm just staring at the screen, numb with shock. All my attention is focused on the screen, on the picture of a woman about my age. It's the only thing in my world.

His real name is Hayden Byre and he's a monster.

The door opens and I jump.

"You shouldn't have done that."

Covalent comes in, walking calmly up to me and reaching out. I quail, but his hand goes to the laptop, clicking it shut.

"Out."

I can't read his expression. My mind is utterly blank.

"Out, now."

He takes me by the arm, his grip firm, and propels me out onto the verandah.

"Display pose," he tells me.

He doesn't check that I comply, hurrying to wrap my arms behind my back, straighten my spine, standing with my feet apart, eyes cast down submissively at the decking. Instead, he picks up two bulky bags of groceries and takes them indoors. The door closes behind him and I'm left in silence. Round and round in my head, the only thought is this: what the hell have I done?

---

I'm ignored. The sun passes its zenith and begins to dip and still he doesn't come out again. I watch the shadows as they begin to lengthen, my stomach grumbling. I'm thirsty too, my skin glistening in the heat under the metal roof of the verandah, but I dare not move. When the door opens again, I jolt in surprise and I nearly look up. Nearly.

He walks up close to me, and I find myself staring determinedly at his boots. I'm trembling, feeling him staring at me, and I start to shrink under his gaze, but the worst part is the silence. I lick my parched lips. Why doesn't he say something? What's he doing? Is he waiting for something?

"I'm thirsty," I tell him.

My voice is tiny, barely above a whisper. I dare not move my eyes.

"Do you want some water?"

I can hear the tone in his voice: neutral, businesslike. It chills me to my core.

"Yes," I gasp, and I screw my eyes tightly shut, waiting for the outburst, the fury that's coming.

My knees are shaking. I know he can see it. I know who he is now, and I know there's absolutely no chance of escape.

"No point."

It's so very final. He shows me what he's holding: a thick coil of rope.

"Come on," he says, using the same even tone, "Let's get it done."

He steps to the side, and I find myself going forward to the screen door, my feet moving on their own down the wooden steps and out onto the grass. He's following closely behind and taps me on the shoulder. I flinch, but he's just indicating the direction I need to take. It's unnecessary because I already know. We're heading across the paddock to the mound of freshly-dug earth.

I don't try to run, I don't scream or lash out, because I know it's pointless: he could just overpower me. The only choice I have is not to run, to take my time crossing the field of grass, delaying, stealing extra seconds. But, however much I don't want to, I close the distance at last and find myself standing by the little square hole in the ground. I'm not able to look up from it.

"Please," I gasp, like it's a tiny prayer.

Covalent doesn't answer me. He drops the length of rope to the ground and begins to tie the end. I know what he's doing, and I can only stare in mute horror as he fashions a noose. Once it's done, he walks over to the tall tree and slings it up over a branch so that it dangles down, swaying slightly in the dusty breeze.

"Come on," he says, beckoning to me, "Let's go."

I look up, finally meeting his eyes and I'm shocked. I see compassion there, and sadness.

"You don't have to do this," I tell him, timidly, but he just shakes his head and beckons me again.

I look around, at the empty paddock, at the old wooden house, at the picket of trees hemming us in, and it seems like a lonely place to have found my end. But I've read his files and I know there's no way out now. Even if I ran, even if by some miracle I escaped him, he'd just find me again. A man like him, it would be easy.

It takes everything I have to put one foot in front of the other, crossing the space between us to stand under the noose. He tugs it down and slips it over my head, arranging the knot against my jaw and taking up the slack. I reach up and touch it, feeling the thickness of the rope as it coils around my neck. He takes the free end and folds my arms behind my back, pushing them up painfully far and then tying them off. He steps back to survey his work. I'm my own counterweight: any attempt to pull my arms down tightens the rope around my neck. It's elegant and simple, and I've been here before. I know what's next.

He adjusts the way the knot is sitting against my cheek and then walks off between the trees. When he returns, he's carrying a thick log in his hands. I know what he's going to do, and I'm pleading with my eyes, but he doesn't seem to notice. He goes behind me and I hear the rope being tied, and suddenly I feel the rough wood in my hands, weighing me down.

"It's simple," he tells me, "Keep the wood up to stop the noose tightening. If you drop it, it'll dangle down beyond your reach and then there's nothing you can do."

He steps back, circling around me, his eyes travelling over my bare skin, slick with perspiration from the heat and the stress. My thighs are quivering and his gaze lingers there. The wood is so heavy.

"Why didn't you run?" he asks.

"You were right behind me."

"No, I meant why didn't you run when I left? You had all the time in the world."

He touches my hip and I shudder. I can't stop the quaking in my body; it's got nothing to do with the weight in my hands, although I'm aware of my arm muscles beginning to strain.

"You could have been miles from here by now. You would probably have made it to the road, to safety. You'd have been free. Instead, you had to find out."

"Who's the girl?" I ask.

He frowns at me.

"I want to know. Who am I gonna tell?"

Covalent contemplates my question and seems to make a decision.

"She's a job. I turned it down."

"Why?"

"You."

The log slips a little and I feel pressure against my neck. I'm losing my grip.

"Who is she?"

Covalent isn't going to tell me, even now. I don't know why, but it's the most important thing in the world to get an answer from him.

"Who am I gonna tell?" I shout at him.

My heart is pounding, my body balancing precariously. Does he think I'm stalling, that this is some attempt to distract him from finishing me? I meet his eyes and the fury boils up, from deep down, where it always is.

"Who am I gonna tell?" I hiss, "You owe me this."

It changes something in his attitude, seeing my expression, and his posture shifts.

"The people who employ me, they're a network. They've got dirt on everyone, built up over years. They can get to people, find people, make things go their way. They can supply your wildest desires. They call it carbon trading," Covalent says, "They buy and sell people."

"And you help them."

"I, uh, yes. The people they pick up, I train them."

"Just like you trained me."

At last, his visage cracks, and I see something I hadn't expected: remorse.

"You train them," I repeat, hammering it home, "You make them obey. You brainwash them with your conditioning and get them ready to be sold."

Covalent doesn't respond.

"Who's the girl?" I spit.

Covalent breaks eye contact, scanning the field, the house, like he's looking for enemies. At last, something in him yields.

"They find them, male and female, hunt for them online. If they snare one, if they turn out to be worth it, then they're brought in."

"So that girl was worth it?"

"She's nothing to do with that. She's a special project, for the woman who runs it all. Her golden boy acquired the girl for himself, but she wants it all done properly. She wants the girl fixed to keep him happy."

"And you were supposed to do it?"

I recall her face, the long dark hair, the dark eyes. She's beautiful, whoever she is, and she's doomed, just like me.

"Yeah, but I turned her down."

"Because of me."

His gaze snaps back to my face and all of a sudden I can see the intensity there, before he shields it. It could be anger, I can't tell, but I'm angry too. The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, but it doesn't matter because I've nothing to lose. There's nothing more he can do to me.

"You have a little project of your own, right? Breaking me down, turning me into the thing you want, turning a woman you met online, a woman with a job and friends and family and a future, turning her into a thing that wants to be thrown away."

"No," he hisses, the word boiling up from within him.

"You're the one putting a rope around my neck," I rail at him, "You're the one standing next to my grave. You planned all this. You changed me. You turned me into this."

The log is getting so fucking heavy, and I'm dancing on my tiptoes, trying to avoid stumbling, the noose tightening. He looks sad, now, and when he finally speaks, it's gentle.

"No," he insists, "I didn't. I tested you, I showed you, but you went headlong into it. Every step I asked you to take, you took three. You asked and all I did was show you the way. When I look into your eyes, I can see how much you want it."

He comes close, running a hand through my hair.

"You're running from something, and you're looking for a way out. I promised I would help you find it."

How? How does he know that? The deathwish, the reason? How can he be so completely sure when he doesn't know what I did to deserve all this, the secret terrible thing? Adrenaline courses through me like an overdose, the terror and the horror, the thing I've been running from, and the realisation that I've nowhere left to run.

My fingers are going numb. The log tumbles out of my hands all at once and I feel the jolt as the rope snaps taut, lifting me up onto my tiptoes, tightening around my throat. I struggle desperately, but everything I do just makes the noose tighter. I arch my back, locking my body rigid, trying to remain absolutely still to avoid the constriction. I suck in short, laboured breaths, eyes desperately fixed on Covalent's face.

"There," he says, his voice almost kindly, "All done. Not long now."

His fingers trace over my slick skin and I close my eyes, my thoughts reeling as a desperate panic sets in. I can't breathe properly, and I can feel my pulse hammering in my neck. It feels unreal, like I can't believe it's happening, like I didn't ever really believe we would come to this. At least, not until an hour ago, when I saw his history and I knew I was doomed.

Fingernails travel over my skin, winding down and down, past my waist, over the shaved skin, finding the gap between my legs. He probes me tenderly, and I remain absolutely still as he spreads me wide open. I feel slickness leaking down my inner thigh and his fingers trailing through the flow of my juices. I keep my eyes tightly closed, feeling his thumbs pressing into me.

"Now that you know who I am, it has to come to this," I hear him say, "You can't walk away, not now. Believe me, this is a mercy."

I stare into his eyes, and it feels like an eternity.

"I know," I whisper.

He kisses me then, and I close my eyes. I can't breathe, I can't speak. I mouth one word silently: please. He knows I'm not begging for my life. He knows I need to feel him, I need the completion.

He enters me and I feel such an incomparable rush.

He grasps my hips, bracing me, fucking me with sensual, delicate motions. It's all I need, my body wracked and stretched to the limit. He's so gentle, but I can feel every twitch, every movement, magnified impossibly, until it's overwhelming. A kiss, but my lips feel swollen, the veins standing out on my forehead as I struggle.

Deep within, I can feel it as my climax begins to build, as the terror and the pleasure amalgamate into a single rarefied emotion. He's thrusting harder now, and I'm vaguely aware of his breath, hoarse and fast against my neck as he buries his face in my hair. I'm suspended, helpless, feeling the animal motions of him as he grasps my body, pushing me closer and closer to my edge.

His core tightens and I feel the cadence change, thrusting up into me implacably, bringing me to a high plateau even as he begins to shudder and pulse, and I know what he's doing, I know he's found his release and that I'm free to fall into my own climax. It's no longer strange, right here on the edge, that I don't cum unless he does, a good girl unto the very last. My mouth opens wide, but there is no sound. I want to howl, but there is only silence. My orgasm hits like a tsunami and I am swept away.

My legs give way and the noose closes, finally cutting off my air. I feel myself fading, the world receding down a long tunnel as my senses give in, my awareness narrowing down to the bite of the rope around my neck and the hardness of his manhood, still embedded in my listless, flopping body.

"There," he murmurs, "It's okay."

And it is. I feel light, floating, free, and the tightness around my throat fades. It's as he promised: he made it perfect.

I gradually become aware of his arms around me. My eyes flutter open to look into his face. I can't speak, my thoughts are reduced to a cloud of white noise. He lowers me gently, until I'm sitting on the grass, watching dumbfounded as he unthreads the noose from around my neck. His manhood is bare, and I know he's filled me, leaving his trace. Tears spring to my eyes. All I can do is stare up at him and frown. I don't understand.