I am just writing fan-fiction as something fun to do in my spare time. I am making no profit out of this.

Thank you so much for your kind responses and interest in the story. I really do appreciate it, all your opinions. They are most welcome and I enjoy reading them. :)

Also, I hope you know I don't condone kidnapping in anyway whatsoever, and my heart goes out to the victims that have endured this in their lifetime.

I understand that a story like this isn't everyone's cup of tea (everyone is different) so I don't expect every single person to like the story or even want to read it. I respect everyone's opinion and am thankful, really, and amazed by whatever response I get.

CHAPTER FOUR

When I hear that key being inserted into the lock again about ten or so minutes later, I rush towards the bed, sitting down with my back facing the door so I won't have to endure seeing him again when he comes in.

I don't want to so much as even have to look at him right now, because it makes me feel overwhelmed with different emotions when I do. Anger, despair. I'm afraid that if I do let myself look at him again, it'll only just spur me on to do something terribly violent to him. I have never thought I could be capable of ever doing violent things to somebody, but with him, I think I may very well have the power to do it. He's that frustrating to me.

The door creaks open and then... nothing. It's impossible to know what he is doing behind me, but I'm determined not to look in his direction. If he wants to keep me locked in here, then I refuse to show him any sort of respect, because he clearly isn't showing me it in exchange. Why should I respect him when he doesn't even respect my request to be freed out of this miserable room?

Even from where I sit on the mattress, facing the wall stubbornly while fiddling with my fingers in my lap with the blankets strewn halfway across my knees, I can sense and feel him staring at me. If he likes looking at me that much, then why doesn't he take a fucking picture or something?

"I'm sorry," I think I hear him mumble, and its then I can't help glancing behind my shoulder. I just need to be sure that he isn't close to me, that he won't try touching me. I find him standing a fair distance away by the open door. One hand disappears into his jacket, then he pulls out that striped grey business tie again. "Just please..." It's like a desperate whine as he pants shallowly, "Please don't hate me."

I deliberately turn to look at the wall again, focusing on a faint smear on the eggshell-colored paint. I don't bother saying anything in response. He should feel sorry and while I think hate is going a bit too far, I do feel I hate him in some way. What? Should I pretend otherwise and try to ease his mind just for the sake of making him feel better?

"There just wasn't any other way. I didn't know what else to do."

I have to press my lips together to stop myself from giving in to the temptation of shouting back at him, my eyes stinging with more tears.

"Like I just said, I'm... sorry. Sorry that I yelled at you a couple of minutes ago. I know I seem... unkind and cruel, but its the only way. I don't want to hurt you and I am not going to, I swear to you. I just want to get to know you and for you to get to know me, that's all."

I can't do it. I can't keep quiet anymore. "And I told you," I say shakily. "I told you that if you wanted to get to know me... all you would have to do is ask like anyone else would. You wouldn't have had to do all of this in trying to keep me locked up in here. We could have went out and spent time together if that's what you had wanted that badly from me?"

When I finally shift on the mattress to glance back at him, he looks down at his hands hastily while he fiddles with the tie he used to bind my hands together with while escorting me to the bathroom.

He's back to not wanting to meet my eyes again. I see the way his fingers tremble as he starts making a knot in the tie, like its absorbing all of his concentration. I know he is just truly afraid to see the fear and desperation in my eyes again like he had while I had pleaded for him to let me go.

"I had Taylor pick up some clothes for you. They're in the dresser near you." Oh, great. He's even bothered to supply me clothes for my stay. It's as though he believes if he goes out of his way to buy me things like clothes, I'll start to warm up to being here."I'm sure they are the right size, because I checked the tag on your dress when I carried you up here. But if they aren't to your liking then I can get Taylor to exchange them for something else you'll like more instead."

"Taylor?" I repeat nervously. Is he not doing this alone? He has others doing this with him? "Who's he? Your accomplice?"

"My accomplice?" He makes a loud exhalation through his mouth at my words. When he glances up at me, he's smiling through the mouth hole. I think its the first time I have actually seen him smile. His teeth are straight. "Of course not. No, Taylor's just my driver."

"Just your driver?"

"Yes, he's just my driver. Sometimes he does errands for me, other times he'll drive me places, hence me calling him my driver."

My mind races. Wouldn't this... Taylor guy think its strange that he sent him on an errand to purchase clothes for a woman? If Taylor hadn't seen him with a woman before then wouldn't he think its... suspicious? Oh God, please let him think its suspicious enough to come into this... house and investigate on who he is buying the clothes for.

"And does Taylor know you've done this?" I ask, trying to not let any of the hope I feel seep through in my tone. "About what you are doing to me in keeping me locked up in here, in this room? How you won't let me go?"

"Taylor just does, he doesn't... ask." I can see him smiling again as he pulls the knot loose from the tie with his fingers. "I've never actually had a girl here before so he probably suspects something. You're the only one that I have wanted enough to have back here in my house." He meets my gaze, something burning in his gray eyes. It's almost as though he expects me to feel humbled or flattered or something ridiculous like that. Who on earth would possibly feel flattered or humbled about being kept against their will like this? "Then again, I think I've been fantasizing about this since the very first moment I met you."

I'm the one that has to glance away, feeling paralyzed and ice-cold in terror at his words. I lift my knees up against my chest, wrapping my arms around them. I feel sick. Sick and ill, at his words. "So you've fantasized about this?" I repeat slowly. "This is what you fantasize about?" It's difficult not to raise my voice in disgust. "You fantasize about having me here like this? Making me cry and making me miserable because you're trapping me here? This is what truly gets you off?"

"Of course not. You're misconstruing my words."

"Am I?" I get out in disbelief. How can I be misconstruing them when he says he has been fantasizing about this? "But isn't that just what you just said? You fantasize about making me cry and keeping me locked away in here, depriving me of my freedom?"

"I didn't mean it quite that way," he argues back. "I just meant that I've wanted and dreamed of this, the chance for us to get to know each other like this. Not so much... everything else." When I throw a look at him, he has an arm raised, hand resting on the top of his balaclava, his other hand holding the tie clenched into a tight ball. He's panting loudly, like I've gotten him on the defensive side. "I wish you wouldn't cry and do what you did before, because... it makes me upset when you do. I had envisioned this to go a whole lot differently than how it seems to be going right now."

"And how did you expect me to react?" I ask through clenched teeth in irritation. "What? Am I supposed to act pleased that you are doing this to me? Am I supposed to get down on my knees and thank you? Express my gratitude for you doing this to me? Act all merry and happy?" He starts pacing back and forth, his head hung low. "Can you really blame me for responding like this? Look, I'm sorry that I'm obviously not reacting the way your fantasies played out inside your head of having me here, but I... I can't help it!"

He stills from pacing with his back to me, breathing strenuously as he lifts up the material on his black balaclava over the nape of his neck with his fingers, revealing his chin and the pale muscles of his throat. I think I see a faint pink, bumpy line under his chin. A scar maybe? Is that why he is so reluctant to show his face to me the way he is? Because of a scar or a facial disfigurement of some sort?

"Hot," he breathes quietly, turning to look in my direction again. I pretend I haven't noticed the scar, meeting his gaze again. I don't know if its a touchy subject for him or not- and God knows I don't want to risk getting him too angry- so I force myself to not mention it for the time being. "I wish I didn't have to wear this silly fucking thing. It makes my skin itch and the room feels more... hotter than it probably is."

"Then don't," I suggest readily with a shrug. "Don't bother wearing it then. It's not like I would care either way." I need to see who he is with a fiery passion. I really, really need to. I need to know who he is so that I can finally make that actual mental connection on where it is that we have met before and just what his possible motives could be. "And besides, you clearly aren't intending to let me go anytime soon. What difference would it make if I saw your face while you keep me here?"

He sighs loudly, staring at me. "But that's the problem. I... I can't let you see my face."

"Why not? Too coward to show me who you really are?"

"It's not that." He pauses for a moment, pursing his lips in deliberation. It's like he can't find the right words. In the end, he lifts his arms in the air before smacking his fists against the side of his legs. "I just...I know you'll find me repulsive."

I find you repulsive already just by keeping me here and not letting me go, so what difference will it make? I want to say to him, but I don't. I didn't particularly like the way he had raised his voice to me before when I begged for him to release me so that we could go out for coffee and talk together. I don't want him doing it again; I don't want to push him too far this time.

"Because of your scars?" I whisper before I am able to stop myself. "That scar above your throat?" Without realizing I am even doing it, I stroke the bottom of my chin with my thumbnail absently. "Is that why you are mainly afraid to show your actual face to me? Because you're... frightened of how I will react over the scar?"

I don't even need to be able to see his entire face to know he is shocked by what I am saying. I can see it there, in his wide, unblinking eyes. I guess he was hoping I wouldn't be paying as much attention of him to notice it there. His mouth presses into a grave thin line through the mouth hole of the balaclava and I can tell he isn't pleased by me mentioning it when he yanks the material right down under his jacket in an overly defensive, insecure way. His hands are shaking as he goes the extra mile to fix his jacket collar up.

So he does have hang-ups about certain scars on him. It's why he won't show all of his face to me, because of his scars. He thinks I'll find him repulsive, yet scars aren't what would repulse me about him; It's his actions already and what he is doing to me now. Despite that, I can't help but wonder how he got them. How bad his scars are, how many of them he has. Did someone do that to him? Or was he in some type of... accident that caused them?

"No more questions of that right now, Anastasia. Aren't you going to drink your orange juice?" I can tell he is still disconcerted by my casual mentioning of his scars, because there's a look in his eyes. Something... far-away and distant. "After last night, you should definitely keep your hydration up. You must be thirsty."

His eyes flicker towards something across from me meaningfully, and I follow his gaze into the direction of where the glass of orange juice sits on the tray, along with the jug of chilled water. He's right; I haven't drank it yet, and I do feel thirsty, especially after all the crying and emotional stress he has put me through.

I don't realize how parched my mouth is until I swallow down saliva painfully. The juice- the brightness of it, the orange as bright as a sunset that I will probably never get to see ever again while being confined in this room by him- it teases me. It's tempting me, like it wants me to drink it down itself.

"Don't you like orange juice?" My captor asks softly, probably sensing my indecision. Then he grunts, like he has only just remembered something crucial. "Which reminds me, Anastasia... we'll have to go through everything later. What you like, what you don't like. What you'd want. All of that, so that I can ensure that you are comfortable here and that you are left wanting nothing. Does that sound reasonable to you?"

"I... I suppose so." I lick my lips, moistening them. "It would be wasted effort, though."

"Oh? And why's that?"

When I bring my eyes to him again, I see his eyes are squinted as he watches me, like I'm something that's such a mystery to him, something unusual and exotic. I can only just imagine how creepier it will be once he no longer wears that balaclava in front of me, and yet, his eyes are enough alone to do the trick in disturbing me.

"Because nothing you do or give me will ever make me feel comfortable about being stuck here like this," I say honestly. "No matter how nice you treat me or how... much you make sure I am never without, I cannot be comfortable here like this."

"Then what can I do to ensure that you are?" God, does he really even have to ask?

"Freedom," I point out firmly. "Let me go."

"No can do, Anastasia. Not until I get what I want, and then, we'll see about it."

He is so cryptic with not telling me in full detail of what he wants from me; it's driving me crazy. Some part of me wonders if he is doing it on purpose. "You said that you just want us to get to know each other. Is there... more that I'm missing?"

He hesitates for a moment, considering how to phrase it, it seems. "Partly. There... is more that I want. More than for us to get to know each other... more than anything else. I want you to know me and see me." His eyes drift down towards the left side of my chest, before he returns them to my eyes again. "What's... underneath the skin."

I bite my lip as I think that over for a second. What else could there be though unless... he wants my body? My stomach clenches and I feel on the verge of hyperventilating at the idea of that. Please, not my body. Please, not sexual stuff with me. I don't think I could ever give him that.

I decide I don't want to think about it anymore. If I shut it out as best as I am able to for at least awhile- that possibility- then I don't have to feel so much right now.

"Can I have a clock?" I ask quietly. It seems a reasonable enough demand. "I would like to have a clock so that I could at least see what the time is."

I can tell he is sickly pleased by my request when he nods once while tightening his lips in order to suppress a smile from showing. "I think that's allowable, Anastasia. Yes, you can have a clock to see what time it is."

I hesitate, because I think I already know it would be no good in trying for it. But then I decide that I really have nothing left to lose anymore. "And fresh air? An hour a day, I get to go outside into the fresh air and not stay confined in this horrible room." I can tell he doesn't feel too enthusiastic about that idea, so I say quickly, "I have a feeling I'll feel claustrophobic in this room. And who knows what I'll do if I get too claustrophobic?" I know I'm playing with fire here. Being manipulative even, but I don't give a shit. This is my life he is tampering with here. "I won't ever consider this my home then, if you deny me this one right. Never."

He sighs loudly through his nostrils, glancing away for a moment. And it all boils down to this one moment...

"All right," he agrees reluctantly after what feels like an eternity, Though I don't want to get my hopes up too much, my heart soars in relief. "I'll give you an hour and a half a day. I have a balcony. You can sit out there, but... I may need to ball gag you?"

Ball gag me? What the fuck?

"As a precaution, of course," he explains hastily, perhaps seeing the terror in my eyes. "If you're outside, I can't risk anyone overhearing you if you scream for help."

"I won't scream," I promise, though I don't know if I can actually keep that promise. "I won't. I'll just be happy to be outside, feeling the sun and the fresh air on my skin. I won't do anything, I swear."

I might very well just throw myself off the balcony when you aren't looking if it gets too intolerable, but that's it...

"Very well. But if you do end up breaking your promises, I won't let you out there again." As if he feels we have made some good progress for now, he licks his lips, satisfaction glistening in his eyes. "Now drink your orange juice or the water. I can't have you dehydrated, Anastasia."

Though we've made some headway, I can't help tucking my knees in tighter when he starts to approach the bed without warning. He stops abruptly, showing me his hands again. "I won't hurt you like I said," he assures me, and I can tell he means it. Shoving the tie back in his pocket, he reaches down, grabbing the orange juice. "I want you to drink this for me."

I am very thirsty, so I might as well, shouldn't I?

I accept it from him, trying not to show how uneasy it makes me when his fingers brush against mine. Licking my lips again, I press the rim of the glass against them, about to drink. That's when I look up and notice he is watching me peculiarly.

Oh, shit! He's poisoned it! Put some sedative in it! How could I get so compliant?

I drop the glass back onto the drawer, hardly caring that the contents slop and spill over onto the tray.

"What is it?" he asks me, sounding strangely breathless in confusion. "So you don't like orange juice?"

"I... I don't want it," I protest weakly. "I don't want it if you've slipped something in there. You must have. I... I can see it in your eyes."

"What?" He seems puzzled, staring at the glass. Then he looks back at me, and I think I see the recognition dawn into his eyes. He takes the glass, only he doesn't offer it to me again. He swallows a few mouthfuls down quickly before putting it back on the drawer. "I haven't put anything into it. See? Wouldn't something have happened to me just then if I had?"

I still don't know whether to trust him. I won't.

HOPE THIS ONE WAS OKAY?

I will attempt to update every third day or a week, at the most. I just have things I must do in between, such as average day to day life, like working and spending time with my family. I do hope you are enjoying the story despite the subject matter.