Chapter 15

Consciousness eludes me. I seek it, struggling up through darkness, wallowing in silence, floating in absence of sound and sensation. Near consciousness. A slow delicate sliding across the meniscus of wakefulness. Where there is awareness of self, but no ability to truly perform higher functions.

I struggle. But it is like being wrapped up in a cocoon; it is a fight I cannot win. I succumb.

There is a fist in my hair. My head is tugged back. I'm moaning. I'm faking the sound, though, because the grip on my hair is painful, but the moans are expected.

I'm on my hands and knees. On a bed. In the dark. Silence, but for my moans, and the low male grunts behind me.

It hurts. Too big, too much. Too hard, too rough.

I've been here on my knees for an eternity. Taking the punishing, driving thrusts for forever. I'm raw.

I want it to stop.

But I'm not allowed to talk. Not allowed to make a sound but for the moans. I know the rules. I know the punishment if I break them.

I am expected to orgasm. But the breath washing over my neck breath smells of whisky, and orgasm seems to be out of reach.

A hand smacks across my buttock. "Say my name." The order is a rough, slurred growl.

"Caleb . . ." I whisper it.

Another smack, to the other side. "Say it again."

"Caleb."

"Louder." A harder smack.

The pain sears through me. These aren't playful, sexual spanks. They are meant, they are punishment for a failing. They hurt.

But the pain at least is a distraction from other discomforts.

"Caleb!" I say it loudly.

"You're going to come now." Despite the whisky breath, the words are clear and lucid and not slurred.

I cannot. But I do not dare say this. Nor do I dare fake it as I do the moans. I am very bad at faking orgasm, I've learned. I am always caught out.

"Come, X. Come hard."

"I—"

Upright now. Still behind me, the thrusts continue unabated. Fingers steal around my waist and between my thighs. It's only a sizzle at first, but it's something.

The fist in my hair tugs hard. Pulls my head back so I'm forced to stare at the ceiling. Whisky breath on my face, in my ear. "Come for me, X."

The fingers at my core move swiftly, precisely, and lighting lances through me, hot and sudden. I do not have to fake it, thank god. The pleasure is a dull throb next to the anticipation of being released.

But I'm not released. The presence behind and within me pulls away, moves to sit at the edge of the bed. I remain kneeling, hunting for breath. My scalp tingles.

But I'm not done. A hard hand grips my wrist and tugs hard. Pulls me roughly across the mattress, shoves me to the floor, to my knees. Fingers curl into my chin-length hair. Guide me to the waiting member. Hard, but not completely.

"Finish me."

I do as I am ordered. With my hands, with my mouth. It takes a long time. I am tired. So tired. My jaw aches. My forearms ache as well from constant up-and-down motion. When the release comes, it is much less forcefully than usual.

I am allowed to climb into my bed then. I curl up on the mattress, in the center, and a blanket settles over me.

I note the absence of footsteps, feel the presence beside me. Standing. Watching me.

I allow my body to go limp. Even my breathing. Let my mouth fall open. After many long minutes of pretending to sleep, I smell whisky, hear breathing. I am not entirely faking this descent into slumber anymore. I am nearly asleep now.

"Isabel." This is whispered, so low it is nearly inaudible. "My lovely Isabel." Sadness. Regret. Longing. Misery. The whisper is fraught with these things.

Who is Isabel?

Lips touch temple. Gently, so softly it could have been a whisper of air, a figment of my imagination. "It wasn't supposed to be this way."

What wasn't?

"I'm so sorry. It wasn't supposed to be this way."

I am losing the battle to stay awake. I fight it. This close to sleep, nothing seems real. I am delirious with exhaustion. I am imagining this, surely. I've fallen asleep and I am dreaming. Surely. Surely.

The man I have come to understand over the past year would not speak thus, does not experience such emotions. It is a dream.

Just a dream.

Only a dream.

"Wake up, X." The familiar rumble in my ear.

I blink. Open my eyes, and experience a debilitating disorientation. Am I awake? Am I dreaming, still?

Where am I? When am I?

I am in my room. My blackout curtains are in place. My noise machine shushes with the sound of soothing crashing waves. My bed. The door to my bedroom is cracked, emitting a sliver of light. Through it I can just barely make out a slice of my living room. My couch. The Louis XIV armchair, the coffee table with its antique map.

What is going on?

Have I dreamed everything?

I am near tears. No. No. I didn't dream Logan. That was real . He is real . It wasn't a dream.

It wasn't.

Was it?

I still have the fragments of memory floating in my head, you in my room, the aching, the exhaustion, the numbness. The near-sleep fantasy of a Caleb who experiences real emotions, for someone named Isabel.

Isabel.

I sit up. You crouch at my bedside, and when I sit up, you rise to your feet. You are imperious, cold, distant. Tan suit, dark blue button-down, top button undone. You fasten the middle button of the suit coat.

"Time to get up, X. You have a client in thirty minutes. I've prepared your breakfast."

"Wha—um. What? Caleb? What am I doing here? What's going on?"

You turn. "What do you mean, what's going on? You have a client. Travis Mitchell, son of Michael Mitchell, founder and CEO of Mitchell Medical Enterprises."

I shake my head. It aches. Feels thick. Memories jog and tumble with fragments of dream.

It wasn't real? Logan, his town house on the quiet street. Cocoa. Naked in bed with Logan, savoring every touch, every kiss. I remember every moment. I can picture every scar, every tattoo.

"No." My voice is raspy, hoarse. "No. Stop, Caleb."

"Stop what?" You seem honestly confused.

"You're fucking with my head. It won't work." I slide my feet out of bed and stand up. I am naked.

"Get in the shower, X." A step toward me. "Now."

I back up. "Stop. Just . . . stop."

I run my hands through my hair, and that's what shakes everything loose. My hair is short.

Mei.

Logan. Oh god , Logan. "You shot him!" I lunge forward, smash my fist into your cheekbone as hard as I can, suddenly full of fiery rage. "You fucking shot him!" I swing again, my other hand, connect with your jaw.

You rock backward, stunned, and then you catch my wrists and easily overpower me. A moment then, as I resist you. But you are far too powerful. You grunt, and throw me aside.

I land on the floor between the bed and the wall, and in a blur you are there, kneeling in front of me. Your hand latches onto my chin, gripping my jaw in a crushing vise grip.

"You... belong... to me ." Your voice is the venomous hiss of a viper. "You are mine. You are Madame X, and you are mine ."

I lash out with my heel, catch you off guard, and my foot impacts your chest, sends you toppling backward. I lurch to my feet. Back up. Catch against the corner of the bed.

"Fuck you, Caleb!" I spit. " Fuck... you. My name is Isabel Maria de la Vega Navarro. I am not Madame X, and I am not a possession. I do not belong to you. I will never belong to you again."

You collapse backward against the wall, lying where you landed after I kicked you, as if you meant all along to lie there. "You are mine. You will always be mine. You've been mine since you were sixteen."

"What? What does that mean?" I think of what Logan told me.

"I thought you had all the answers. I thought your precious Logan knew everything."

"Don't be petulant, Caleb." I hunt in the darkness for some way to cover myself without having to pass you, since you are between me and the closet.

I end up tugging the sheet off the bed and wrapping it around me, letting the end drape behind me like the train of a wedding dress. After a moment, you stand up, brush off your suit. Glance at me. The cold hard mask is in place.

"You might as well have breakfast." You exit my bedroom without a backward glance.

I follow. Everything is as it was. My books. Empty mantel, no TV, no radio, no computer. My library, the case with my antique books and signed first editions. The paintings— Portrait of Madame X ; Starry Night . The breakfast nook. A single simple white porcelain plate, half a grapefruit, vanilla-flavored Greek yogurt, a mug of Earl Grey tea imported from England, a single square of organic wheat bread toast with a thin scrim of farm-to-table butter. I stare at the food, and my stomach rumbles. I want scrambled eggs with cheese, a Belgian waffle piled high with whipped cream and strawberries drowning in processed syrup, crispy brown bacon, white toast slathered thick with jelly.

I ignore the breakfast you've provided. Put in four pieces of toast. Find a container of cage-free eggs and an unopened rectangle of Dublin cheddar cheese. I set about making scrambled eggs, and I'm not sure how I know how to make them. But I do.

I crack four eggs into a bowl and whip them while the pan heats.

I'm struck by a memory:

Mama is at the counter, a white bowl in one hand, a fork in the other, whipping eggs in a smooth circular motion of the fork. Music fills the kitchen from a small radio on the counter near the stove, guitar and a man singing in Spanish. Mama's hips sway and bob to the rhythm. The morning is bright. Waves crash. I sit at a table, running my thumbnail in a crack in the aged wood, watching Mama beat the eggs. I wait for my favorite part: the liquid bubbling hiss when she pours them into the pan.

A seagull caws, and a boat horn goes BWAAAAAAAANNNNHHHH! in the distance.

Mama smiles at me as she scrapes the fluffy, cheesy eggs onto my plate, and then kisses me on the temple. Her eyes twinkle. "Coma, mi amor." Her voice is music.

The memory is so visceral that I can smell the eggs, and her perfume, the salt of the sea, hear the seagulls and the boat horn. Tears slide down my cheek, and I hide them by ducking over the bowl as I finish whipping the eggs. I pour the beaten eggs into the pan, and the bubbling hiss makes the memory roar through me, making me feel as if making these eggs somehow connects me to my mother. A simple but powerful thing.

I add a generous amount of cheese as I fold and stir the eggs, soaking in the memory of Mama, eggs, and a breakfast by the sea.

The toast pops, and I spread butter thickly onto the squares of toasted bread. When the eggs are cooked, I slide them onto a plate, pile the toast onto the plate, retrieve the still-steaming mug of tea from the table, and take my breakfast to the couch. I am careful to make sure the sheet remains tucked around me, keeping me covered.

You watch from the kitchen, anger boiling in your gaze. I ignore you and eat my breakfast.

As I eat, I remember the note I saw beside Logan's laptop.

When I finish, I set the plate on the coffee table and lean back on the couch, sipping at the tea. "Caleb?"

You saunter toward me. Take a seat on the Louis XIV armchair, cross one ankle over your knee, drum fingertips against the armrests. "Yes, X?"

You are trying to rile me, and it won't work. "Who is Jakob Kasparek?"

You pale, your eyes widen, your lips thin. You cease breathing. "Where—where did you hear that name?"

"Who is Jakob Kasparek?" I repeat.

A hesitation. "No one. I've never heard of him."

I eye you across the rim of my teacup. "Liar."

"X—"

"Tell me the truth, Caleb." I am proud of how even my voice is.

"I told you—"

"Lies, you bastard! You've told me nothing but fucking lies!" I lean forward, shouting. "TELL ME THE TRUTH!"

You seem rocked by my spittle-spraying scream.

I feel feral. Violent. "Just tell me the goddamn truth. Tell me what happened to me. Tell me who you are. Tell me how long I was in the coma. Tell me what year the accident happened. Admit there was no mugger. Tell me—just—just fucking tell me, Caleb!" I sob the last part. "I need to know. Why do you feel like you own me? Why can't you let me go? Where is Logan?"

You shoot to your feet. "You sit there demanding answers. But I owe you nothing. Nothing!" You stalk toward the door.

I hurl the teacup at you, tea dregs spraying across the room. The delicate porcelain smashes against the door beside your face, and you halt, spinning in place.

"Are you crazy? You could have hit me!"

"I was aiming for you, you fucking asshole." I clutch the sheet to my chest. Stand behind you, seething. "Who... the fuck ... is Jakob Kasparek? Because Caleb? That's who signed me out of the hospital, not Caleb Indigo."

Your shoulders slump. "Fine. I'll tell you." A glance at me. "But go put on some clothing."

"I'm not going anywhere. Start talking." I fear that if I leave for a moment, you'll be gone and the door will be locked and I'll be a prisoner all over again.

You perhaps understand me better than I thought. You vanish into my room—my former room—and return with underwear and a matching bra, a dress, and heels. You hand it to me and wait expectantly.

I stare at you. "Turn around. I'm not changing in front of you."

You just blink at me. "Seriously? After all we've—"

"After all you've done to me, you mean? Yes. Seriously. I'm not yours. You don't get to watch me dress anymore."

With a sigh, as if to protest the ridiculousness of the situation, you turn in place. I dress quickly, hating the uncomfortable, confining lingerie and the modest, formal dress. I ignore the high heels. Grip the front of the dress at the bodice and rip it open down the center an inch or two, so it gapes open, revealing a bit more cleavage. And then grip the sleeve on one side and rip. The delicate seam parts easily, leaving my arm bare. I do the same to the other side. I smile. Much better.

You turn around. "What the hell did you do? That was a ten-thousand-dollar dress custom made for you."

"I do not care, Caleb. I will not dress in your clothing, I will no longer look how you wish me to look."

"And your hair—"

"You don't get a say."

You sigh. "Fine." You sit once more in the Louis XIV chair. Hook a knee over the other. "What do you want to know?"

"Who is Jakob Kasparek?"

A silence. You stare past me. Your expression softens; your gaze goes distant.

"Me."