Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

LIZZIE

" I was very proud of you tonight."

"Thank you," I answered stiffly. With my mind racing, I was desperately trying to keep my rapid thoughts from shining through my eyes.

I know, you bastard!

I know!

The moment he called me Lizzie my mind snapped awake. I couldn't account for why, other than he always insisted on calling me Elizabeth. There was something about hearing Lizzie.

Lizzie. Me. My name. My old name. My real name. My identity. My forgotten identity. It was all there in just that single utterance of the name, Lizzie, coming from his lips.

Now I just needed time. Time away from him to think. To clear my head further and figure out how my life had become so incredibly messed up. I knew enough about Richard's moods and predilections to instinctively know he couldn't know I was on to him yet. I needed to buy myself time to figure out what to do next. Otherwise, I may find myself back at the asylum being subjected to the same tortures that fractured my mind to begin with.

I was an actress. I could do this. I just needed to get through the next several minutes playing the vapid innocent.

Richard was in my room, strapping me into my restraints for the night. As the evenings had grown cooler, he had begun to allow me to wear a nightgown, although on more than one occasion it had been torn off me by morning.

It was the same routine as usual. First he strapped in my ankles. Then my wrists.

"This leather is becoming too soft and malleable, I believe. I will have to look into getting it replaced with something firmer," observed Richard, as he was buckling the restraints.

"Do we still need the restraints? I've been very good and done everything you asked for weeks now."

Richard stroked my cheek. "We've talked about this. The restraints are not because you have behaved badly, they are for your own protection. They are to keep you safe from your own night terrors and flights of fantasy. We cannot have you waking in the middle of the night with one of your silly dreams about having a different kind of life, can we?"

"I haven't had any of those dreams since you started my… my daily instructions," I said, trying to keep my newfound shame from my voice. I thought I was going to be sick.

"We will talk about it again sometime soon, I promise."

With that discussion closed, I decided to venture to ask, "Tonight a different woman showed up to help me undress. Is Parker ill?"

"Parker has left my employ," he answered smoothly.

My mind screamed.

I cleared my throat. I needed to be careful in how I proceeded. Calling up some fresh tears, I allowed my lower lip to protrude slightly as I softened my face. A hard expression was a sign of intelligence and alertness. He mustn't suspect. Giving my voice a slight, plaintive whine, I said, "According to the books, a lady's maid is almost like a companion to her mistress and that it is appropriate for that bond to be deeper than the standard servant but still with a respect for their social status."

Richard smiled and brushed a curl back from my cheek. "Very good, my love. I am pleased you are taking your reading so seriously."

"Why would Parker leave without showing me the respect of a goodbye?"

"You were doing your duty as the lady of the house greeting our guest and she would never want to get in the way of that. I believe she had an emergency back in her home village and it was already going to take at least three days' carriage ride to reach it. She had to be swift in her departure."

Bullshit.

I didn't know how far his obsession stretched and if Jane was alive or dead but I did know that after her outburst to me earlier there was no way she left willingly. Perhaps I could use this to my advantage. I needed to get to Jane. She would be able to tell me more about what the hell was going on.

"The parlor maid, Rose, seemed like she would be a good replacement for Parker," I offered, keeping my eyes lowered so he couldn't read my intent.

Richard paused. I could feel his eyes studying me.

"My love, you do not think I would allow your beloved Parker to travel the countryside without the benefit and added protection of a companion. I gave my permission for Rose to attend her as long as needed."

Bullshit!

"You really do think of everything, Richard," I said through a clenched jaw as I gave him a waning smile.

He gave me a chaste kiss on the forehead and left.

How did this happen?

How did I let this happen?

I didn't sleep a wink that night, just laid there in bed, staring into the darkness. Nothing to distract me from my own damning thoughts. I just kept turning over in my head the events of the last several weeks. Over and over, I kept asking myself the same question.

How did I let this happen?

The worst part was I couldn't pinpoint a particular moment when my mind fogged over and I began to accept Richard's word as law. There wasn't a particular afternoon or word said. It just happened gradually.

Day by day.

Piece by piece.

Kiss by kiss.

Punishment by punishment.

He has taken away Lizzie Larkin and replaced her with Lady Elizabeth, ward to the Duke of Winterbourne.

I had seen a documentary once on Patty Hearst and Stockholm syndrome. They said it was the mind's way of coping with an ongoing traumatic experience. Having your mind escape into a place of acceptance was actually a survival mechanism. Without it, your mind was in danger of just snapping from the relentless stress and pressure.

Was that what happened to me?

I kept turning over in my mind the constant cycle of punishment and pleasure that I had been subjected to these past few weeks. Being strapped into that chair each morning. Having him whip my breasts with that leather belt till I begged for him to just fuck me instead. The taste of his cock. The feel of his tongue on my cunt. The hedonistic fucked-up nature of what we were doing. And the entire time, while he was driving his cock into my body, he was driving the idea into my mind that my real life was just a dream, the hysterical illusion of a fractured mind.

I guessed these things never happened quickly. It took a special kind of finesse and patience to slowly strip a person of their entire identity. One day it was the kiss of his leather belt that took away a piece. Another day it was his cock pounding in my ass while I was bent over a pile of cushions in the conservatory. Still another it was a stroke of his hand down my cheek. Or the quiet evenings before the fire with him reading and me drawing dress designs. It was in the extravagant dinners. The beautiful gowns and jewelry. The afternoons spent learning how to waltz with just him and me in that large ballroom.

This was dangerous. I should be focusing on the numerous instructions I received at his hands. The humiliations and degradations. Not the times it felt like I was living inside an Edith Wharton novel. Sure, it was still the best sex of my life. Sure, it was weird to know I had a kinky side that apparently relished pain with my pleasure but that wasn't the point!

He'd used me.

Tricked me.

He'd actually made me love him!

If I were honest with myself, I mean really truly brutally honest… I think that pissed me off more than this whole fucked-up scheme of his.

Saying it was Stockholm syndrome was just a cop-out. I had to face the truth. I had let this happen . I never would have believed the lie if deep down I didn't want it to be true. If it weren't for the kidnapping, drugs, and rough sex, it would also be the perfect fairy tale.

Rich, powerful lord swept a woman off her feet and spirited her away to a fantasy world where his only focus was her. Each day she was lavished with gifts of silks and jewels. She was no longer expected to work but rather to idle her days away dreaming and drawing. All of her wants and needs taken care of, from delicious meals to a household of servants to do her bidding.

The only catch was she had to be okay with being face fucked at his pleasure and taking it up the ass occasionally.

Okay, so it was an extremely dark and twisted, fucked-up fairy tale but there was something fascinating in a horribly messed-up way about a man so obsessed with you that he would go to these great lengths to have you. Not to mention the undeniable turn-on of a man just taking what he wants. A girl just didn't get pushed up against a wall and just plain fucked anymore in the modern era.

Wait.

In that twisted, rambling, rage vent in my head, did I actually say I loved the bastard?

No.

I didn't.

Absolutely not.

He was a fucking psychopath! Domineering. Arrogant. Obsessive to say the least. What kind of life could I possibly have with a man like that?

This one… my traitorous heart whispered .

My inner mind recoiled from the idea. Perhaps I shouldn't dismiss Stockholm syndrome too quickly. Obviously, this whole thing had screwed with my head and made me believe I loved a man who kidnapped me for his own sexual pleasure.

And what about all the servants? They were all people I knew from the theater… people I thought were my friends. Even Jane, my own best friend and flatmate, was in on the scheme.

At least, I was assuming they were all in on it.

What could they possibly have thought otherwise?

That I actually wanted to be here?

Again, my stupid heart whispered, that's what it looked like to an outsider during all those romantic dinners and ballroom lessons.

Fuck me. Literally.

Well, one thing was certain. I was no longer going to be the mouse in this twisted game of cat and mouse we were playing.

It was time I grew claws.