I prefer this to part one... thanks to SA for the beta... and Kate, you better keep your end of the bargain...
"I bought you a dress."
Lying on the bed, Nikki sighed. "I don't know which part of that statement I should be most disgusted by."
"It's nice," he insisted, sounding slightly put out as he presented a red sundress.
She propped herself up, studying the deep crimson. It was nice. But she certainly wasn't going to say so; the dress had never been the disgusting part of his statement. Crossing her arms over her chest, almost hugging the filthy grey tee, she glared.
"I'm willing to make concessions," he said, laying the dress down on the end of the bed. "You can keep the uniform. Just wash it."
"You'll steal it as soon as I take it off," she growled. She wasn't usually sentimental, but these filthy clothes were all she had left of her old life. The grey shirt and camo pants remained a point of defiance; while she still wore them, she could pretend that he didn't completely and utterly own her.
"I'm yet to steal your pants, and you've taken them off enough," he replied with a smirk. She kept her expression closed, thinking about the fact that she hadn't taken them off at all. When she didn't so much as blink, he laid the dress on the end of the bed and raised both eyebrows. "Please, Nikki?"
"No." Sighing again, she decided against lying back down. It was bad enough that she had to lie here, on the bed they slept in, whenever she wanted a rest. He had started furnishing the house after moving in, but was yet to get a lounge. She was always so tired, though, so the bed it was. As tempting as it was to flop back onto the pillow and close her eyes, it would present him with too good a target.
Of course, that didn't stop him from moving forward and sitting next to her. "You're beautiful," he whispered, running a finger up her arm. "And you're mine."
She lowered her gaze, staring at his chest as his wandering hand brushed several long strands of hair out of her face. Two weeks. It had only been two weeks, and she had already become accustomed to this sort of interaction. The soft touch, which at any second could turn brutal – and would, if she fought back.
There were moments, all sorts of moments. Times when she was too fatigued to fight and would surrender to his touch; sometimes kissing him back just because it was easier. Other times when she couldn't look at him without remembering in vivid detail the day she had found Josh's body. Sometimes she would fight, kick and struggle and bite, and each time it ended up costing her more than the moment of satisfaction was worth.
She'd never imagined her life would come down to this. Maybe it was naïve; but she'd always assumed that if she was taken prisoner there would be an opportunity, however small, to escape. There had been plenty of opportunities over the past fortnight, and she'd taken none of them. He didn't watch her all the time, didn't restrict her movement. She had free run of the large beach house he'd moved them into; what was to stop her finding the largest knife in the kitchen and running it through his back while he was sleeping?
Nothing. There was nothing to stop her, but she had always been one to plan ahead. If she killed him, if she escaped, if she ran in the middle of the night, she'd be stuck. This country – she wasn't even sure which one it was – had no treaties with Australia, and no embassies. She had no ID and no passport. She wouldn't trust the police, either; they could easily be as bad, if not worse, than Fulton.
He hurt her and abused her but, strangely, he also protected her. Without him, she would have nothing; nowhere to go, no way to live. And she was beginning to realise that she didn't want to die.
She hadn't noticed his hand moving around her face, so she blinked in surprise as his fingers cupped her chin and brought her gaze up to meet dark brown eyes stared at her, and she searched for a hint of malice. These were the same eyes that had laughed as he ripped through her lip – as she remembered the incident, her tongue gently touched the healing scar – and had gleamed almost red as he forced her down for the first rape. It was what she saw now, however, that made her blood chill.
Warmth. She felt totally exposed, more so than when he was holding her or advancing on her. It was when he acted like this that she found it hardest to hate him, and she wanted to hate him. She needed to hate him, because she didn't want to think what she'd feel if she didn't.
"I have to go out," he said. She nodded slightly. Out? Where? He was leaving her here, alone? "Just for a few hours," he added, his tone almost reassuring, and she wondered what had flown over her expression.
"What for?" she asked, trying to keep her voice neutral. She couldn't decide which would be worse: sounding concerned or sounding curious. In the past fortnight, there'd been nothing he'd had to leave the house for. He even paid one of the poorer locals to deliver fresh food and other necessities.
"Pick something up," he replied softly. "You'll like it, I promise." She gave another cautious nod, and he pressed his lips to hers for a few seconds. "Have a shower. Wash your clothes." Then he stood up and walked away. Watching him go, she struggled against the unease rising within her.
Alone. That was good, wasn't it? Freedom. For the first time in two weeks, he wouldn't be nearby. But instead of feeling liberated, something similar to panic was rising in her belly. She couldn't explain it. Nor did she like it. But there it was. What could she do? Beg him not to go? Insist that he stayed with her? No, no, that was wrong. Of course she didn't want him here.
She sat on the bed for a while after he disappeared from sight, though it wasn't until she suddenly found herself on her feet that she realised what she'd been waiting for. The beat-up second-hand ute he'd purchased was noisy… and the sound of the engine had now faded away. He was most definitely gone.
The front door was open, the world outside waving tantalisingly. There was nothing and no-one to stop her from walking out. Resting a hand on either side of the doorframe, she gazed at the wide dirt road in front of the house. Yes, she could leave; she could run – well, walk – out the door right now. But something held her back.
She sighed. So damn tired. Not just from lack of sleep, this was something deeper. It was fatigue, the sort that came from fighting and losing so often that she wanted to give up. It came from being alone, but not alone. It came from not wanting to live, but being too scared to die.
He had arrogantly called his property "half an island", but she was beginning to doubt that. The house was quite large, with one side facing the beach, and surrounded by rough scrub. It was a decent sized property, but the island had to be much larger. Somewhere along that road was what Fulton called "town", though she found herself imagining a village.
From the silky white sand of the beach and the dark skin of the few locals she'd seen, she was able to estimate a location in the tropics. Somewhere north-east of Australia, probably. She couldn't remember which countries in the Pacific didn't have extradition treaties with Australia – but this had to be one of them. Fulton wouldn't risk deportation from his little paradise.
Well. Now she had time to herself. The idea, the feeling, was foreign and uncomfortable. Had she changed so much in two weeks? Most definitely the longest two weeks of her life.
He'd told her to wash, and maybe that wasn't such a bad idea. Re-entering the house, she headed for the ensuite, fingering the waistband of her pants. They were starting to smell. She was a prisoner, but she had free reign of the house, and that included the laundry; there was no reason to look as dirty as she felt.
She had showered three or four times in the past two weeks, but only quick, cold-water washes while he was outside, and each time she had kept both eyes on her uniform. There was no doubt that he would prefer she didn't have it – its mere presence strengthened her – but he was yet to forcibly remove it. Possibly he reasoned that the fight would cost him more than he would gain. She felt a moment of satisfaction whenever she saw him favouring his left shoulder, where a large yellow bruise remained from the night he'd taken her camo shirt.
But he's not here right now. A chill ran down her spine as she looked around the empty bathroom. While she was thinking, moving, acting, the uncertainty was kept at bay; but as soon as she stopped, the feeling returned twofold.
"He's not here," she whispered aloud, and flinched at the sound of her voice. It was weak. "He's not here," she repeated, more forcefully. Her breathing roughened and, clenching her jaw, she drew the pants down in one firm movement. After stepping out of them, she more gently pulled the shirt over her head and dropped it.
Her hair was pulled back loosely, and she slowly released it. As her hands reached behind her back for the clasp on her bra, she caught sight of her reflection in the shower screen and froze. For several long minutes she could only stare. Her eyes stung with unshed tears and her chest jumped raggedly with deep, unuttered sobs.
Two weeks, and she had changed almost beyond recognition. Her fingers fumbled with the clasp for a few seconds, then the bra hit the floor. The black fabric had once contrasted nicely with the grey of the tee, but the shirt was so dark from dirt, dried sweat and blood – not all of it hers, she was pleased to note – that she could barely distinguish between them.
Lastly, she hooked two fingers around the hem of her undies. They were dirty, and several large rips marked the first few days of her captivity. They were barely there, barely hanging together as a single item of clothing… but she kept wearing them. She wouldn't make things so easy for him as to go without.
As her thoughts returned briefly to Fulton, she glanced fearfully towards the door. Who was to say he hadn't just stayed out of sight for a few minutes, and was now on the way back, to see what she was doing with her alone time? Instinct was telling her otherwise. He'd left, just like he said he would – and it was the lack of his presence, not the possibility of it, which was making her jumpy.
Enough. Taking several deep breaths, she closed her eyes and removed the undies. After a few long moments, she opened them again to finally examine the body reflected back at her.
Her hair looked lank and lifeless, all the usual shine gone – and not just because it was filthy. Her face seemed gaunt, cheekbones much more prominent than they used to be. She was thin; not overly so, because Fulton insisted that she eat, but enough to indicate her health wasn't being properly overseen. Her skin was pale and appeared somehow moist. Where once she had stood tall and independent, now she looked as if the weight of the world was slowly crushing her.
And that was all. There were words for what she was – woman, captive, beaten – but none of them seemed to mean much. Words didn't make sense anymore. What was she really? Nothing.
Who was she? She squeezed her eyes shut again. Everything that wasn't part of this new life seemed so far out of reach, so long ago, the memories were like glimpses into someone else's past. Oh yes, she had a name. Fulton used it, just to make her hate it.
Nikki.
"Nikki." Josh.
"Nikki." Her mother, father, brothers.
"Nikki." Kate, Bomber, the rest of the crew.
"Nikki." That slow, satisfied drawl. It was so much more vivid in her mind than any of the others, so real, she had to turn just to check that she was still alone.
The tears finally broke through, and each desperate gasp for air seemed to only fuel the burning in her chest. This was all that was left of Nikki... and she didn't know how much that was.
Eventually she forced her gaze away from the screen and stepped into the shower. She carefully adjusted the temperature, making the water as hot as she could stand it – and then a little more. Turning both taps up evenly, to keep the temperature but increase the pressure, she stepped into the water. Her skin began to tingle as feeling rushed back in, and her eyes flew open. Ducking her head under the punishing spray, a choking gasp escaped. The tears disappeared in a flurry of hot water and, once again, by keeping her hands and thoughts busy she was able to retain calm.
After ten minutes of brutal exposure – which had done wonders for her grimy skin and oily hair – she readjusted the taps. Now under a cooler trickle, she rubbed soap over her body and focused on removing the tangles from her hair. There was no shampoo, and she made a mental note to request some. As much as she didn't want to ask him for anything – or talk to him, or see him – there was dignity, and then there was stupidity.
Finally clean, she took a few moments to examine herself more carefully. The worst bruises – those from the first forty-eight hours – were beginning to clear up, but the more recent ones still hurt when she touched them. The ache between her thighs was lessening with each day, as her body adapted to his attentions. There were numerous small cuts and scrapes, most of which she couldn't remember attaining.
She sighed deeply, letting the water wash over her face once again. That was long enough. Ceasing the water and exiting the shower, she wrapped a towel around her body and tucked it in.
Now... she gazed at the pile of clothes, considering. If she had put them in the washing machine before getting in the shower, they might be nearly done by now. Well, she couldn't put them back on like that. Keeping the towel tightly around her, she grabbed the pile and carted it to the laundry, casting a nervous glance towards the front door as she passed. He'd been gone less than an hour, and he'd said he'd be a few; but she definitely didn't want him to come in on her dressed like this. For her, it certainly wouldn't end well.
That said, being alone in the house was still unnerving. When he was here, she knew all the danger, knew the worst that could happen. This was a fear of the unknown; a fear of things that weren't there. A common enough fear, but one she'd never had before, and she didn't like it.
Tossing the uniform into the washer, she wondered vaguely whether the undies would survive. Something else she'd have to ask for.
The dependency bothered her, more so than the captivity. Or maybe they were synonymous; as long as he kept her here, she relied on him for all her basic needs. Food, water, clothing, company. She swallowed, turning the thought over in her head. Was friendship, love, a human need?
People survived in the wilderness, alone. She frowned. Some went crazy. Some killed themselves. What would happen when she became too fatigued to hate him anymore?
The feel of carpet under her bare feet brought her out of her thoughts; she'd wandered back into the bedroom. Her gaze came to rest on the dress, still lying at the end of the bed, and she sighed. Hopefully her clothes would be dry and she'd have time to change back before he came home; if not, the dress was better than a towel. Clothing was a defence, and where – whom – it came from was (somewhat) irrelevant.
Most of the water had already left her skin, absorbed either by the towel or the warm tropical weather. She picked up the dress, held it to her body. Her size. It was a nice dress, the sort of thing she once would have liked wearing. Reluctantly, she dropped the towel and pulled it over her head.
It was like getting the camo uniform all over again; reluctant as she was to change, it made sense and, once she was used to it, would be a hell of a lot more comfortable. Stroking the smooth fabric against her side, she tried to ignore the lack of underwear. She definitely wanted the washing to be done before Fulton returned.
Just as it had decreased the anxiety, movement had taken the edge off the exhaustion. But now, done with everything except waiting, it came crashing back down. She dropped backwards onto the bed, then curled up on her side. In an hour or so, she'd get her uniform out of the washing machine, put it in the dryer... and then stay right beside it until it was done.
She needed a clock, she thought with a silent sigh. Well, that definitely came under want, not need. A clock wouldn't help her survive. So; she wanted a clock.
Her eyes slid closed. She'd have to estimate time, and check the washer every now and then. In the meantime, she'd just... rest. A quick nap, to try and rid herself of some of the fatigue.
Above all else, she would make sure to wake before Fulton returned.
***
She was awake only enough to know that she had been asleep. The bed was warm and soft and, with a quiet sound of appreciation, she snuggled deeper into the blankets. Hadn't she been above them before? She must have shifted position; confirmed by the sudden presence of a pillow near her head.
It had probably only been a few minutes... she should check the washer. She yawned sleepily as she rose slowly towards consciousness. However long the nap had been, she certainly felt refreshed. Some of the fatigue seemed to have drained away.
Then she became aware of the hand gently stroking her hair. There wasn't time to think, analyse how best to respond; she could only react – by scrambling backwards and leaping away from him. Her hair swung into her face with the movement – it was dry. She'd been asleep for... hours, obviously. Goosebumps rose along her arms as she took in the room.
He was sitting on the side of the bed, almost exactly where he had been before leaving that morning. She had retreated to the opposite side of the queen bed, just out of arm's reach. The dress still covered her, but was stretched tight over her chest, and she could easily imagine what he was seeing. However, his gaze was focused on her face, not her breasts – which was almost worse, because to look at him meant making eye contact.
"You're beautiful in sleep," he murmured. His right hand was hovering above where her head had been, and he stretched it out towards her, palm up. "It's okay."
It wasn't okay. Had he really said that? You're beautiful in sleep. The trembling started anew. Fear was slicing through her, stronger than anything she'd ever felt before, and she couldn't control it. She didn't understand why; she had been scared when he left, now he was back and she was more scared.
He was right there, touching. By watching her sleep, he had somehow violated her, more deeply than anything he had done while she was awake. Without her brain to protest, her body had appreciated, relished, his touch. As he held out his hand, some part of her yearned to reach forward and take it. He could hold her, calm her… if she let him.
"It's okay," he repeated. Her eyes flickered between his earnest expression and his outstretched hand. Her nostrils quivered. No. "Come here."
It would be easier if she went straight to him, she knew that. But the adrenaline speeding through her made her jumpy, and nowhere near compliant. He raised one eyebrow, and she wished he would hurry up and force her to his side; the same end result, but she would only have to fight him and not the numbing fear.
Eventually, his hand dropped away. Instead of moving towards her as expected, he reached down for something. A second later, her washed and dried uniform landed on the bed with a soft thump.
She stared. No, no, no... she'd taken too long, he'd got to it first. But... he hadn't taken it. Or was he just showing her now to taunt her with it?
"I believe this is yours," he said, raising an eyebrow.
Like waking fully from a dream, reason snapped back. She moved forward, expecting him to snatch it away again at any moment. But then her fingers touched fabric, and she was able to clutch the material to her chest.
Now that she was beside him, his fingers once again came up to stroke her cheek. The contact was surprisingly gentle, and her eyes slipped shut before she could stop them.
"I thought you'd take it," she said, her tone rather defensive as she hugged the uniform.
"Why?" he asked, a note of genuine amusement in his voice. "But you seem to have overcome your disdain for the dress."
Choosing not to respond, she placed the uniform on the bed behind her. Fulton released her chin and stood. His fingers curled around hers, tugging her after him.
"I want to show you something," he said invitingly. "It's what I went to get. Just for you."
Warily, she followed. When he smiled, it could either mean something good, or something very bad. Some of the things he smiled about definitely weren't intended to please her.
Between the kitchen and the bedroom was a mostly-unfurnished rumpus room. There was one large wooden TV cabinet in place, which had previously been empty. Nikki walked in, and froze.
A minute passed. She licked her lips, leaning forward as she gazed. "How?" she choked out eventually.
His hand rested lightly on her shoulder. "Paid someone," he grinned. "I set it up while you were sleeping." There was a note of something similar to pride in his voice. He had done something to make her happy, and was pleased with himself because of it. She didn't notice, or care.
With slow, suspicious steps, she moved closer. Her reflection glimmered in the glass, her own hopeful eyes staring back at her. She could see him behind her, smug grin displayed in reverse. It was suddenly hard to breathe; her throat and chest were tight, and her eyes prickled. But this time, she wasn't upset, or in pain.
The tank was massive; as long as half a car. She dropped to her knees, carefully rested one hand against the glass, and noted the perfect water temperature.
"I told you I'd get him," Fulton said. She continued her examination. No coral, which was good. Instead, a bubble-tip anemone sat snugly at the back, surrounded by fake leaves and sea plants. As she watched, the tips of the anemone wobbled and a dark orange fish darted out. She studied the thick vertical stripe behind his head, the darkness mid-body, the fanned lower fins.
"Lance," she breathed. Night after night, meal after meal she had gazed at this fish. If a single smudge of colour had been wrong, she would have known. He suddenly turned, darted back into his anemone – and she caught a glimpse of a scar on his left size. The tears began to slide down her cheeks. A miniscule reminder of the day his tank had been broken; the day before she'd been snatched away.
A small tub of fish food sat nearby, and she carefully sprinkled a few flakes on the surface. Lance wandered up, nibbled a few, then returned to his anemone. She breathed in, deeply. He was healthy, and not hungry. He had been well looked after over the past two weeks.
Josh had bought her a fish... Fulton had transported that fish hundreds, possibly thousands of kilometres because she asked for it. Of course, it had been Fulton who had taken her away from Lance in the first place; but there were so many threads in the story, she didn't want to consider them right now.
All that mattered right now was that there was Lance and her... and Fulton.
She turned, looked back at him. Her smile widened just slightly at the expression on his face; he was genuinely pleased that he had done something good.
"Thankyou," she whispered. "Thankyou... so much."
He moved forward, gesturing with one hand. She rose, and stepped towards him. As he pulled her into a hug, she let her body relax. It didn't just need affection – it refused to go without.
Now it all made sense. She had worried he would destroy her uniform, her last link to her old life... but he really couldn't care less about it. It was a weak link, totally overshadowed by the arrival of the clownfish.
She had won the battle; she could keep the uniform. Instead of fighting her for it, he had literally given her the win – and had thus made the victory absolutely worthless. Strangely enough, she didn't care. She had gained something far more precious.
Well, she would still let herself call it a win. His arms tightened around her and, still smiling in the direction of the fish tank, she rested her head against his chest. She was well and truly losing the war.