Caged Bird Sings Ch. 01

(Based on true events. Fictionalized a few things and changed names for obvious reasons. Turn back, all ye seeking a quick bondage stroke-off. This one is complicated and the sex is a good bit away, but it'll be worth it if you linger. Promise.

Xoxo,

hisbelovedroisin)

****

For once, Rose wasn't running.

She was taking the usual route home—up past the falling-down book store and between the two competing make-up shops. She was walking, slow, whether from the ease and familiarity of her trip or from the still-healing bruises blooming from her lower back up her spine and spreading over her shoulders. They had been fresh when she'd boarded the plane four weeks ago, and eight hours of sitting hadn't helped matters.

A car horn honked. She jumped so dramatically that she almost crashed into a nearby lamppost. A passerby gave her an odd look, but she was too busy frantically looking over her shoulder to notice. Her mouth was dry and her entire body was a live wire.

Eight weeks was nothing compared to eighteen months of hell.

****

Eighteen months of living with beatings, slaps, name calling, and broken bones. Fourteen of those months had been in dark isolation, a perfect captive after abuse and control had whittled away at her friends, job, social life, and even some of her family until she had no one left to notice the bruises.

She hated herself for waiting to run as long as she had. She hated her parents for not noticing, for just keeping on in their perfect WASP worlds, keeping up with deposits of money into her account without regard for lacking phone calls.

It wasn't that they had allowed him to keep abusing her. They just hadn't paid enough attention to notice it was happening at all.

Rose swallowed hard enough to hurt before pulling the hood of her sweatshirt up over her ears, ducking her head, and started walking again. Faster this time.

Back to running.

She was disoriented now. Her ears were ringing and all the noises around her felt too loud. She could feel the bile rising up in the back of her throat.

Fuck. Fucking fucking fuck fuck.

Just get home. Just get home.

****

His name was Ryan, and he was good at what he did. She was six months grieving a fiancé marked "missing in action," words that sounded so hollow coming from uniformed men paired with empty "so sorry for your loss." Mateo had been her world. And now he was gone, and she was alone.

She was exactly the kind of woman he targeted. She was too vulnerable, guard all the way down. Lonely and grieving. He was a good listener. It hadn't taken long.

By then it was too late.

****

It was later than she'd planned. Walking under the cover of dusk had seemed smart fifteen minutes ago. Now it felt like the sky had transformed from the soft glow of an Irish sunset to the harsh darkness of some horrible mystery novel.

There was only one alley between her and her destination. She could just see the corner of the pub's dark purple sign whenever the wind caught it hard enough to lift it almost over the post from which it swung.

****

It had taken her eighteen months to run. Eighteen months too long, but she'd finally done it. Maybe she should have gone to the police. Maybe she should have called her parents. Maybe she should have done a dozen other things. But Rose wasn't thinking about anything else. The house was empty and the basement door was unlocked. A trap? A mistake? She didn't know. She didn't fucking care.

All her important paperwork was still in her safe deposit box two towns over.

He kept petty cash under the ceiling tiles in the laundry room. He was too confident in his role as captor. She'd overheard one of his buddies talking. It was the work of a moment to grab two handfuls of hundreds and her passport, which fell out onto her face like a lucky break from heaven.

Ryan was too cocky. His mistake.

Bus. Airport. One way ticket to Ireland.

The running had begun. No sign of stopping.

****

The pub was owned and operated by Riot and Kallie, the married couple who had given her hot soup when she staggered through their doors by mistake—a bedraggled tourist with black and blue rope marks still fresh around her wrists. They hadn't asked questions. She loved them for it. The minute they found out that she had no place to stay, no money, and no friends in the entire country, they'd invited her to stay with them. They had an extra room, they said. She had nothing to give them. They didn't care.

Riot was a former member of Her Majesty's Army turned chef. Kallie was his sous chef and the light of his life. Their hearts were huge, and they were known for helping people out wherever they could. Rose knew she'd never be able to thank them enough.

One more turn, and she'd be safely inside, out of the wind with her hands busy at work prepping for the next day's lunch rush. Her culinary past was finally being put to use again for good, instead of cooking meals with shaking fingers while hot breath snarled against her neck and the threats of a savage beating loomed over any imperfection.

Her fingers twisted inward to her wrist where the almost imperceptibly tiny letter "M" rested at her pulse point. Her only centering point these days. Fuck, I miss You, she said for the thousandth time that day, never aloud.

Deep breath.

"Just a few more feet," she said, this time out loud in an effort to calm her growing anxiety. "Almost there."

Something exploded behind her eyes and she fell. Her face hit the pavement and her legs splayed awkwardly beneath her.

Heavy warmth laid on top of her. A hand slid down the front of her shirt and grabbed a twisting handful of her right breast. Through the haze of pain in her head, she was able to make out the familiar sensation of cold metal against her neck.

"Did you really think I was that stupid?"

Ryan.

He laughed.

"Gotcha."