Devil's Pawn

“Take off your dress, Isabelle.”

My throat goes dry, my entire body tense, nipples hard, belly doing strange flips.  

“I… What?”

He grins, never once blinking and I wonder about the mask he’d worn earlier. How I’d thought him some sort of beast. A devil. I wonder if he’s those things now. Not human at all. 

“Undress and show me your scars,” he says. 

I hug myself tight, glance over his shoulder. See the obstacle of my discarded heels at the foot of the rickety old bed. 

He’s watching me when I return my eyes to his and when I lick my lips to speak, his gaze falls to them. I see desire in his eyes, and I think about all the women at the masquerade ball. So many who are so much more beautiful than me. More elegant than me. More Society than me. And I wonder why he chose me. What he’d want with someone like me. 

“Isabelle.”

I blink, glance again at the open door before returning my eyes to his.  

“Do you want to run for it?” he asks as if he’s just noted my interest in that exit. 

I don’t answer. He’s playing with me. 

“Freedom is just a few feet away.” He smiles wide and steps aside. “You’re considering it. I would too.” He extends his arm, gesturing to the door. “You can try, I suppose. You won’t get far, but you can try.”

I don’t move and all I hear is the pumping of blood through my veins, my ears ringing with adrenaline. 

It’s a game. He’s playing a game. The voice inside my head screams. Every logical molecule of my being knows it.

“Go on. You want to.” 

He’s goading me. He leans closer, cheek alongside mine, scruff brushing my skin, breath a whisper along my ear. “But if you do, know when I catch you, I will punish you. And I will catch you.”

I shudder at his words.

Fight or flight. 

I know I will lose both fight and flight, but I’m not thinking anymore. Instinct has taken over. Survival is the goal, so I choose flight and my legs move. I spring forward knowing he’ll catch me, knowing I won’t make it or if I do, there will be a trap waiting for me. But I run anyway, and I hear his laughter, or is it a growl? The low rumble of a beast springing to action as his prey does exactly what he expects, what he wants, and the chase is on. 

I sprint across the bedroom, muscles moving in a familiar motion. I’m a runner, but this is unfamiliar terrain, and when I step out into the hall, I pause because it’s even darker than it was earlier. 

He doesn’t come after me, not right away. I know because I hear his chuckle. When I glance back, I see he hasn’t moved but the moment his eyes meet mine, he takes a step. 

I bolt. He’s behind me but he’s in no rush. He’s taking his time. I run toward the stairs. I know the corridor runs farther past the stairs, but it’s too dark and I’m too scared to go there. 

When I get to the stairs, he’s still down the hall. I can make it. Thirteen steps. I can make it. I take hold of the rail and run up, tripping in my haste when he calls my name, voice calm and taunting. I’m almost to the top though and I don’t need to look back to know he isn’t sprinting to catch up with me. 

It’s a trap. A game. An excuse to punish me. I know it. I know it before my hand closes around the doorknob, know it before I try the door. I know it’s locked. And no matter how much I pull and pound, it won’t give. 

A moment later powerful arms wrap around my middle. He lifts me effortlessly, carrying me back down the stairs, arms trapped, my back pressed to his hard chest. I scream. I scream and fight, half-crazed with fright as he carries me calmly, almost patiently, back down the corridor. That light at the opposite end somehow, impossibly, flicking on again, it, too, taunting me, blinking, as if watching the devil drag me back into that room. 

He drops me onto the bed, and I bounce, the springs whining. He closes the door and not a hair is out of place, not a drop of sweat beads his forehead as he pushes his hands into his pockets, watching me. His expression dark and curious and unhurried as I get back to my feet and wipe my eyes. 

“Why are you doing this to me?” I scream the words, but my voice has dried up, my throat like sandpaper. 

He shrugs a shoulder. “Because I can. Now strip.”