Identities Ch. 02

Thanks for reading! Part 3 is in the works, and Part 4 is in the research and development stage. I'm having fun with it and I appreciate the support. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Thanks again to LaRacasse for the feedback and advice.

Cast your votes now as to who you think she really is.... It won't be a secret forever!

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With a small groan, Arley shifted, nestling deeper into the softness that surrounded her. Flashes of colour continued to flit before her eyes and she tried to continue following their stories, even as her conscious brain struggled to wake, reaching for daylight.

His arms bore her onwards, sending her whirling across the dance floor, and she laughed with exhilaration as she spun. He was tall and handsome and the most skilled partner in the room. With effortless grace, he cast out his arm and she twirled to its end, flinging herself outwards as the music swelled to its peak. And then she was pulled back against his body and he was guiding her once more.

Stiffness in her whole body. Why did every muscle ache?

His dark beard grazed her temple as he pulled her hard against him. Still spinning across the floor, his grip tightened and she knew he was going to dip her. Suddenly, she felt afraid, unwilling to lean back towards the ground. He was skilled, but she did not trust him. She tried to push away from his wide chest but he ignored her efforts and kept hold of her. Faster and faster they spun and she could not get free.

She wasn't able to move properly. Something was wrong. Arley's mouth opened and she panted gently, caught between dreaming and waking.

With no warning, he had tossed her downwards into the dip and she was falling. She cried out, expecting to collide with the cold floor, but it did not come. She was falling, still falling, and everything had gone dark. Deep laughter rang in her ears as wind whipped her hair around her face and still she fell. Then a voice through the dark: "Nadia."

With a gasp, Arley jolted awake.

For several moments she lay perfectly still, allowing her heart to slow to its normal pace as the sound of the voice faded slowly away. It was only a dream. As the vertigo drained from her mind and awareness of her surroundings returned, a fresh wave of fear surged through her insides. Where was she? She stared at the blank wall that was facing her. For a few moments, she was completely lost.

And then her memory came crashing back. Michael, smirking down at her, his body filling the alleyway, calling her Nadia. The photograph -- the damning evidence of warm brown curls and bright blue eyes. You've been found. Daniel and Chris standing on either side of Michael, their eyes fixed hungrily on her. The crushing strength of arms wrapped around her, holding her fast. The cold, sharp pain of a needle entering her arm, and then the darkness that followed.

Panicking, Arley abruptly tried to sit up. But she had only managed to lift herself a foot before she collapsed again, groaning, as a knife-like pain shot through her temple. She twisted awkwardly, trying to bring her hands to her forehead, and found that her wrists were tied together in front of her by a length of smooth rope. She stared at her bound hands, aghast. The fuck?

"Nadia."

Arley thought she was having a heart attack. With a small shriek, she twisted about to see a large, dark shape seated at the foot of her bed. The voice from her dream, the voice that had woken her, it had been real. Momentarily overcome, she felt the world tilt and slide around her as the man got to his feet and drew near. Ignoring the pounding pain in her skull, she hastily propped herself up onto her elbow as best she could with her restricted range of motion and tried to shimmy backwards as he came and stood over her. The mattress she was lying on was raised less than two feet from the ground, and the low position made her feel horribly vulnerable as she stared at the man's knees in front of her. Still disoriented from his sudden appearance, she had no clear thought, only an overwhelming instinct to get away. But her limbs seemed to weigh an impossible amount.

He bent swiftly and Arley flinched back as he grasped her by the shoulders and lifted her into a sitting position. The pain in her temple seared and she closed her eyes momentarily as a wave of dizziness swept over her, temporarily unaware of his hands. Gradually the dizziness receded and she started to support her own weight again. She opened her eyes as she felt the mattress dip beside her.

It was Mark. The sight of him caused the scene in the alleyway to suddenly fill her mind, his hand pinning her head back against his shoulder, the feeling of his warm body, so large and solid, so male, pressed hard against her own, the arm like iron around her waist. Hurriedly, Arley pushed down the fear rising in her throat and tried to refocus her attention on her present surroundings. Mark was sitting next to her, one precautionary hand still on her arm. He held a water bottle out towards her, filled with some cloudy substance. She looked at it distrustfully.

"Water, with electrolytes," Mark told her. "Coming out of that drug you were under is going to be rough. This will help."

Arley hesitated. Suspicion surged in her every vein, but with a bit of rational thought she realized that it hardly made sense for him to kidnap her, bring her to this room, tie her up, and only then poison her. She had to be here for a reason. She started to reach for the bottle with both hands, but then paused. What if it wasn't poison, but another drug that would knock her out again? As painful as it was to be conscious, she vastly preferred awareness of her surroundings to the alternative.

Mark saw her hesitation and gave her a smile that was half exasperated, half sympathetic. "I promise it won't hurt you," he said.

She took the bottle, not entirely convinced that it was safe, but wanting him to move away and leave her alone. He kept a light hold of her arm as she raised the drink tentatively to her mouth and sipped. It really did taste like water and electrolytes, with a healthy dose of sugar added in, and she took another gulp, finding that she was thirsty.

Apparently satisfied that she could sit upright on her own, Mark released her and got up off of the bed. He crossed the small room to the door and pulled a key from his pocket. Arley watched him as he unlocked the door and opened it, wishing that she had the strength and speed to knock him over and run out, knowing it was impossible. As he made to leave, Mark turned back towards her. He seemed on the point of saying something, his eyes met hers and an expression remarkably like concern flitted across his face. But then his features seemed to close, and he spoke in a hard voice, "Drink that whole bottle. You'll need it." He left, and Arley heard the hard click of the lock behind him.

She gave a small snort and returned to the drink. Concern. As if he was in any way concerned about her. If he was, he would not have smothered her screams or dragged her down that alleyway. She suppressed a shudder and turned her mind to examining the room she was in. It was small, perhaps ten feet by ten. The twin sized mattress on which she sat occupied the better part of one wall; there was just room for a chair at the end of it, in the corner. Besides the bed and the chair, the space was empty. The door was set in the opposite wall, and there was no window. She had a vague sense that the room might be underground. Although the floor was covered with thin carpet, the place had a slightly musty smell that she associated with basements.

The pain in her head lessened and she started to feel less lethargic as she came to the end of the bottle. Her thoughts moving more quickly now, she began to speculate on what Michael, Mark, and the others would do with her. Thinking over the conversation in the alley, she concluded that it had to be a ransom deal. There are people back home looking for you. People who would pay a lot of money to see you again, Nadia. Shit.

Well. If the men were hoping to be paid for delivering her, maybe it guaranteed her some measure of safety. Although that would depend on who it was that was paying. Arley's stomach twisted uneasily as she considered various possibilities. She needed to get out of this room. She couldn't find an escape route stuck in this room. And she had to escape - she could not be handed over to the Germans.

Just then, she heard the rattling of a key in the lock and looked up to see the door opening. She considered getting to her feet so that she could face her captors at something more like eye level, but didn't think her legs would support her. So instead she placed her back against the wall and watched from the bed as Michael entered the room. In his hands was a plastic grocery bag, which he set on the floor as he relocked the door behind him. Satisfied with the door, he turned to look at her. Fear swirled in Arley's gut as his eyes moved slowly down her body, pausing on her bound hands. Watching the corners of his mouth flick upwards, she thought suddenly that he looked like a hungry man savouring a delicious meal placed before him. Stupid thing to think. Don't think that. Her heart beat a little faster. She fought to erase all traces of fear from her face as his gaze moved upwards again and she met his eyes. The look in them was confident. Confident and possessive.

"How are you feeling?" he asked. His deep voice was startling in its familiarity.

Arley said nothing. She refused to allow him even this small instance of cooperation. She glared up at him, angry at his presumption for showing interest in her well-being after all he had done.

He considered her for a moment or two, the corners of his mouth still lifted slightly, utterly unfazed by her hostility. Then he moved towards her. He covered the room in two long, deliberate strides, and before she could duck away from him he had grabbed hold of her bound wrists and raised them to his chest, pulling her arms up above her head. Arley let slip a small gasp as she was drawn close to his body, her face level with his hips. She tugged at his grip, but he didn't seem to notice as he held her hands in one of his while he rummaged in a pocket with the other. Then he withdrew a knife and flicked the blade open and she fell still, fear flooding her at the sight of the silver metal. But he only brought the knife to the rope at her wrists, and with a few swift moments her bindings were cut.

Arley snatched her hands back and pressed herself against the wall again, watching Michael warily as he refolded the blade and put it once more in his pocket. He then went and picked up the plastic bag and took from inside it a length of blue material that fell in loose folds about his hand. He tossed the object at her and instinctively, she reached out and caught it.

"Put it on," he said. And, moving with an easy laziness, he folded his arms and leaned back against the opposite wall, watching her.

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She stared at him, eyes wide. He could see her processing the order, could see the distress and outrage cross her face when she realized he was not going to leave to allow her to change clothes in privacy. He couldn't resist a satisfied smile. She was so easy to read, her face was practically a mirror of her inner thoughts and feelings. He watched as the bold brows contracted, the blue eyes flashed. Anger was growing stronger than fear.

"Fuck you," she spat. She threw the dress back at him.

He caught the garment, but said nothing. He allowed his face to fall from the amused half-smile into a more somber expression as he gazed at her, allowed his urge to dominate her and to subdue her rise up, knowing it would be visible in his eyes, knowing she would see it. The silence stretched on a little longer as he let himself fantasize about grabbing the neckline of her dress and ripping it savagely from her body. He pictured filling his hands with her soft breasts, running them down the smooth length of her perfect legs, reaching into the secret, warm place at her core. He suddenly hoped that she would continue to refuse the command. As much as he was enjoying the prospect of watching her strip, his desire to touch her, to own her, had grown overpowering.

He straightened, and walked towards her again, noting with satisfaction that she shrank from his approach, her shoulders curling inwards.

"He wants you to wear blue. You can either put this on, right now, or I will put it on you myself."

The anger receded quickly and fear bloomed over Nadia's face as she looked up at him. Her lips parted at his words, and her pupils dilated. He saw the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, saw the throbbing of the pulse in her throat. The fragile tension written upon her body at that moment was so exquisite that Michael nearly lost control. He wanted nothing more than to reach down and seize her, to press his lips to hers and consume her, to plunge his aching cock into her sweet wetness, to feel her body arch and twist beneath his. He forced himself to think of the caller, with his strange accent and even stranger demands. The caller with his forty million dollars. Forty million dollars.

"Okay," she said in a choked voice. "Okay, I'll do it." She held out a hand.

Slowly, and without removing his eyes from hers, Michael dropped the dress into Nadia's outstretched hand.

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Arley brought herself to the edge of the mattress beside Michael and got carefully to her feet, testing the strength in her legs. Straightening, she ignored the watery feeling in her limbs, the churning in her stomach, and lifted her eyes to meet Michael's. The dark emotion burning there caused a tingling wave of heat to sweep over her body. She summoned her courage and unstuck her tongue.

"Who wants me to wear blue?"

She waited for the answer, terrified by the thought of what she might hear. But Michael only continued to stare at her with hungry eyes and said nothing.

"You have five seconds to take off that dress and put on the blue one before I will do it for you."

Arley's heart plummeted. Her hands trembled as she fumbled with the thin fabric, holding it up and letting the folds fall to reveal the shape of the dress. For one tense moment she studied it closely. Then she threw it over Michael's face.

Before he could do more than raise his arms to the garment, Arley had slipped her hand into the pocket of Michael's jeans in which she had seen him drop the door key. Her fingers found the metal object immediately and she lurched towards the door, willing her weary body to move faster. In one second the key was in the lock, in the next second she had turned the door handle, and then-

If it had not been for the last traces of the sedative still slowing her limbs, she might have made it into the hall and up the stairs. As it was, she only caught a glimpse of a second room through the open door before she was yanked backwards by the large arms that suddenly closed around her.

"You're not going anywhere," he growled in her ear, his breath hot on her neck. With her back held against his front, Arley couldn't see Michael's face, but she could hear the rage in his voice. She staggered as he dragged her back into the centre of the room. Then, keeping one thick arm wrapped around her shoulders, he planted his other hand at the base of her neck and pushed her forward until there was a foot of space between their bodies. He grabbed the neckline of her dress, and in one brutal movement, tore it from her.

Arley screamed, tried to twist out of his grasp, as the garment fell in tatters about her feet. Panic suffused her senses. This could not be happening. Cool air met the skin of her belly and her back, making her shudder, and before she could stop them, hot tears sprang into her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Michael's hand, warm and large, was now spread upon her back between her shoulder blades. He spun her around to face him.

She stared fixedly at a button on his shirt as his probing gaze ran over her, willing herself not to break down and sob. Merely the touch of his eyes left a trail of heat in their wake as he drank in the sight of her breasts heaving in the plain black bra, her trembling stomach, half hidden by her arms which she had clasped around herself. Then his eyes came to rest between her legs, where a thin scrap of black lace hid her sex from view.

She stood before him and he looked at her.

And then slowly, miraculously, her fear began to fade. In its place rose defiance, pride, anger. Why should she cower? Why should she try to hide herself in shame? It was he who should be ashamed. He was the one who had attacked her, bound her, stripped her. She had done no wrong. Let him look, the sick fucker, she thought fiercely. One day, it will be him on display.

Lifting her chin scornfully, she strode straight past Michael and snatched up the blue dress. She slipped it over her head, forcing herself to not turn from him as she did so. She straightened the skirt of the dress and then lifted her face once more to his. Her strong brows were set and her mouth was firm.

"Well?" she asked coolly.

Michael was looking into her eyes now, his expression unintelligible once more. Then he smiled his slow, half-smile. He went to the door, opened it, and turned back towards Arley.

"Come. He wants to see you."

---------------------------------------------------

She had been right; the little room was in a basement. Moving past Michael, Arley entered a second room that was bigger, but unfinished. Rough wooden beams hung less than two feet above her head, supporting what was not a ceiling, but rather the underside of a floor, and the walls were still unpainted, mottled with drywall mud. On the far side of the room, an old wooden staircase led upwards. Not waiting for instructions, Arley headed towards it. Cool concrete met the soles of her bare feet, and she wondered absently what her captors had done with her shoes as she padded across the room, Michael close behind her. Clever, really, to leave her barefoot in December. It would make any escape involving the out of doors that much more difficult. But still doable, she reminded herself. The cold was not new to her.

The blue dress swayed gently around her hips and thighs as she climbed the stairs. This too was impractical for winter wear, made from thin, flimsy fabric that provided no warmth whatsoever. It was simple in cut, with an A-frame skirt that stopped just short of her knees and a lightly fitted bodice. The top settled in a gentle 'v' over her breasts, held up by spaghetti straps that ran over her shoulders above her bra straps. It was, in fact, the sort of dress Arley would choose to wear in warmer months. Right now, she hated it.

She reached the top of the stairs and found herself in a dim hallway that smelled of dust and age. Her eye was immediately drawn to the door at the end of the hall. It was large and wooden, set with an opaque glass window, and she knew at once that this was the front door to the house. Yearning shot through her as she saw daylight through the cloudy window, and she was about to run towards it when a hand closed around her upper arm. Michael had come up beside her. Noticing the direction of her attention, his grip tightened and he turned her firmly away. Arley resisted the urge to yank her arm back. She wanted to fight, to kick and scream, but she remembered how easily he had pulled her about in the room below, remembered the strength in his hands as he ripped her dress off. So instead she walked with him further into the gloom of the hall.