AN: So sorry for the delay! Life has been a little crazy as of late, and we couldn't write much. Anyway, do enoy and we'd love to read your reviews!
Chapter 11
"Oversight"
"Move! Pick up your feet and go!"
It was hard enough to get her back to her room whilst carrying the duvet and sheets; the last thing Thomas needed was for her to disobey his direct command and just stop where they were! He was done with her for the night (for the next several nights, he thought with glee, feeling his nether regions twitch at the memory of what he'd just done to her), and the last thing he wanted was to have to drop the soiled bed-linens on his clean floor while he had to punish her for not doing as she was told!
Besides, blood left worse stains, and if he had to smack her across the face again, he might end up doing it so hurriedly that it would break her nose, or split her lip. He could just make her clean it up herself, but he'd rather avoid the stain altogether if he could.
Hence him giving her another hard wrench by her shoulders, hearing her ankles scrape across the carpet as they dragged through his basement's family room, and the whimper of pain that she gave in response to what would probably end up a burn.
Thomas very nearly rolled his eyes. If the bitch would just do as he told her, none of it would have to be this way!
"That's what you get for not picking up your feet!" he screamed, digging his fingers into her shoulder and shoving her towards the fireplace – in the direction of the room he'd spent so much time planning and working on, just for her. "Get inside!"
She practically flew over there then, Thomas thought to himself with a slight hint of amusement. It reminded him of old, slapstick comedy movies where people would run into walls or crash through doors all the time, only she ended up right in front of the door that led through to the door to her room.
It was, he supposed, lucky that she didn't hit her head on the mantlepiece. Again, it prevented blood stains on his pristine carpet, and it kept her face pretty.
The last thing he'd be able to stand having around the place was a damaged female that was ugly to look at. It would ruin everything!
But this one...once she'd learned her place and knew better, she was going to be perfect. Inside and out. It wasn't going out of his way to intervene if she needed a little bit of correcting on the way, though.
And he was enjoying himself as he was doing it, for the most part. But there were certain...situations, like the one he now found himself in, that still aggravated him.
After the original high and mirth of watching the correction happen had worn off, of course. As a matter of fact, the excitement worn off, right then. He had just realised that he was going to have to pick her up from the floor again.
Even though she was perfectly capable of walking!
"God, you really are one big, stupid bitch, aren't you?" he practically growled, picking her up by her nightgown's neckline and briefly dragging her away from the fireplace.
He then pulled the hidden door open and roughly shoved Claire and the bedsheets into the small cubbyhole, so artfully hidden behind the imposing structure. He still got a rush of adrenaline and felt an immense sense of pride whenever he thought about or stopped to appreciate the result of his hard work – he'd outdone himself, considering he wasn't an architect.
He'd always been crafty and had had an almost innate talent for building things, but this hidden chamber, with its installed sink and toilet, was his masterpiece. It had taken him over a year of careful planning and another six months of hard work, but it had been worth it. He'd envisioned the cellar as his own little kingdom, within which he was to keep the woman that he wanted.
He'd keep her there until she was ready – he would turn this diamond in the rough into the most wonderful jewel the world had ever seen. He couldn't wait to parade her around and be the envy of all the men in the world! But for that to happen he needed patience… patience, and time. She, like a fragile flower, needed tending and strict discipline. As it so happened, botany was another of his many interests, and one of the basic things every self-respecting gardener should know, was that pants, when they begin to lean sideways, need correcting in order to grow properly. And Claire was in dire need of correcting, as it so happened.
He would mould her into the perfect wife, eventually, and the two of them would be happy.
With that thought in mind, he got down on all fours and crawled into the hidden chamber, right after Claire, who, much to his annoyance, had curled up in a ball against the wall closest to the entrance to her room. Instead of using her fucking brain and getting into it, like any other normal person would have done, she was wasting his time by acting like a spoiled brat!
"Get moving, you whore!" he howled as he got to his feet, "I don't have all day long, bitch!"
He gave her a strong kick in the side then, to stress just how displeased he was with her.
She cried out in pain at that, but he ignored it. It was the only way she'd learn that no one was going to come running every time she had a problem of any kind. He certainly wasn't – she was there to service his needs, not the other way around. Besides, she'd practically earned it by not doing as she was told.
It seemed like he had to do everything himself around the place!
He had to drop the bedsheets instead of hanging onto them that time (she'd be punished for that later, whether there was dirt on them or not), and with a groan that he knew would tell her how much she'd be in for it even more if she didn't at least start trying to make an effort (like every other person on the fucking planet), he went and opened the door himself. He slid the ladder down until he heard it fall neatly and firmly into place on the floor below, too.
"Get downstairs, you stupid slut!" he shouted, close to her face so that she knew he meant it. "If you don't pick up your fucking feet and move, I'll throw you down there!"
He would, too. She was easy to lift at this stage, and he thought that a few broken bones might teach her a lesson about behaving.
But, he didn't have to. The bitch was finally doing something right and starting to move – at a crawl which could make a ninety-year-old grandmother look fast, but it was movement, nonetheless.
It was hastened along by another loud yell from him, and soon enough he was also on the ladder, certain to be close enough behind her to kick at her and threaten to stomp on her fingers if she stopped moving.
She was smart enough not to stop. If he'd felt like paying her a compliment (something he rarely did, because the thought of a humble wife who kept demurely to herself was far more attractive than one with an ego or the idea that she could be greater than she was), he would've told her that she was smart to keep going. But that would've been it, and then he would've kept her in her place again by reminding her that he would still always be smarter.
He was lord and master here, in this place. She could use the brainpower she had to figure that out, and then learn to live by it.
She'd feel much happier, once it had sunk in. The corrections wouldn't have to happen so often.
But for now, they were vital.
"Get away from the ladder," he snarled, shoving her away in the direction of the table. He didn't care if she crashed into it or not, it would be another lesson that she could learn – moving away as quickly as possible. "Fucking move!"
At last, she was finally back where she needed to be. Until the next time came, obviously. He could get back upstairs and get on with everything else he had to do.
Everything that she'd made him late for!
"You'd better not try anything like that again, bitch," he warned her. "You'll pay for every second that you made me waste, dragging your stupid, disgusting ass back down here!"
She really would pay for it. And if she did it again, then the corrections would be worse the next time. It would go on, until she learned what was right and what was wrong.
He marched over to her to begin the first of this round of corrections. She was backed against the table and still moving like a snail, so she didn't duck out of the way in time, like she might have tried before.
His hand closed around her throat as soon as he was close enough. It wasn't tight enough to cut off all her air, but enough so that she'd gasp and plead for it after a short while.
"Are you going to waste my time again?" he asked.
Already missing her oxygen and sounding like she wasn't breathing right, she shook her head in return. She seemed desperate – her eyes were wide and he could tell that her body was struggling to do anything it could to get more air in...
She'd get more, in good time. But she hadn't yet given a verbal answer, like he was looking for. When she had, then he'd think of letting her breathe.
He'd even give her a clue as to what she had to do to get back her denied privilege.
He shook her frail body, tightening his grip on her neck, "Speak when you're spoken to, bitch!"
She let out a louder choking noise, through which she eventually spluttered an answer, "I…won't...waste…your…time…again!"
He considered her for a few seconds – ten or so at the most – before he agreed to believe that she meant it and released her, allowing her back the oxygen only he got to decide that she deserved.
"You'd better not," he spat, turning away from her and heading back up the ladder. He simply didn't care that she'd collapsed to her knees and was coughing loudly – she was being overdramatic, that was all. He hadn't choked her that hard.
Once at the top, he grabbed the bedsheets and threw them down to her.
"You're just as filthy as these, so you might as well have them," he said. "I'm done with you for now. See you tomorrow."
He then pulled the ladder back up and slammed the door shut behind him.
It banged satisfyingly behind him, making him smile at the auditory reminder of his power over her. Usually, after taking her, he felt somewhat…unhinged. Like he'd momentarily lost the reins of power in the frenzy of driving into her over and over again.
It wasn't a feeling he particularly liked, and as such he needed to keep some distance between him and his bitch for a little while. It helped him go back to a level state of mind, so he could deal with her accordingly. Let the red mist dissolve, so to speak.
What he needed was a nice cup of chamomile tea and one of those store-bought chocolate chip muffin he kept in the pantry for emergencies. Being well into middle age, he made an effort to keep himself fit by eating clean and working out in his private gym. And his effort certainly had paid off – his doctor had recently told him he had the health of someone half his age! Again, his obsession with his health had initially stemmed from his desire to be man enough for Claire, and he'd stuck to his new clean habits once he'd come to his senses and realised that it was Claire who had to be shaped into a worthy wife for himself.
He felt better than he'd felt in years, and as such he had no desire to put a stop to his healthy lifestyle.
He had a light spring in his step as he went back upstairs, and he took in a breath of the fresh, clean air as he headed along the corridor to the kitchen. He prided himself on the fact that he kept his place so clean, too - it felt like it was clearing for his lungs, and it only added to him feeling in peak condition.
He had money, looks, good health...yes, he truly was perfect. And he'd soon have a wife that matched.
He soon arrived at his destination and got the water boiling for his tea, before opening the box of muffins. He couldn't wait until the day he didn't have to get up for it, though - Claire would bring him both, made just the way he liked them (they wouldn't have store-bought once she'd become a housewife who knew how to bake), and then she'd kneel at his feet silently until he needed something else from her.
That was a good picture. The right picture. The picture of a man ruling his castle, with a subservient woman attending to his every need. It was what he wanted, and it was what he deserved.
And no real man would disagree with him on any of that.
But, until Claire had learned to know her place, he was willing to put up with doing it all by himself. He made a good cup, and the store's muffins were acceptable quality.
He took his cup in one hand and a plate with a muffin in the other, and went to seat himself in the living room.
When the bitch was ready, he'd have her practically diving to put a coaster under his cup, but for the time being, there was already one in place for him on the coffee table. He placed his drink down to cool to the right temperature, and carefully unpeeled the paper casing on his muffin. He was careful not to let a single crumb drop on the chair or the floor, and he lifted it to his mouth to take a bite...
Only for a loud knock at the door to interrupt him just before it touched his lips.
Who the hell could that be? He never had guests or visitors, unless his parents or siblings came over, and they always called first...
There was another annoyingly loud knock, and Thomas sighed in frustration before settling his muffin carefully down on the table and going to answer it.
He'd just have to go back to it in a moment, when he'd sent whoever was at the door away.
He got to the front door and opened it, to be met by the sight of a tall, grey-haired woman with a stern expression.
Detective...Lane. He remembered her from the first time around; it seemed that she was living up to her threat of returning.
"Mr Jones," she said curtly.
Thomas almost spat at her by way of reply. Actually, had they been alone, without an army of brainless, steroid-filled oafs, he would have beaten the crap out of her. That's what women who contradicted him (or any man, for that matter) deserved. A good thrashing.
But, as it was, she had a gun. And a badge. He had to tread with care or he may very well end up locked up in a cell, and his secret would be discovered. He couldn't allow these idiots to interrupt his wife's formative process! Not when he was so close to having the woman he deserved.
"Detective Lane," he said politely, and glanced at his wristwatch – he never took it off, not even to sleep, "To what do I owe this pleasure? It's a rather unusual time to come knocking at someone's door."
"Well, perhaps, but as it is, this is also an…abnormal time to be awake, Mr Jones," replied the detective, "But as it so happens, I have a search warrant to check your home, Mr Jones."
As she spoke, she reached into her pocket and retrieved the court's writ, which she then proceeded to hand over to a clearly shocked Thomas Jones.
"And I promise you, we'll tear it apart, if we need to," she added, smiling brightly.
Thomas felt the rage returning at her words and he openly started to glare at the warrant. The familiar heat descending over him was always a warning sign that it was about to start, but he had to keep it – mostly – under control that time.
He couldn't simply tear up the paper that the bitch from New York's finest had given him, no matter how much he wanted to. It would...raise questions, at best.
At worst, it would most definitely get him arrested, and then the whole thing would be ruined!
He wasn't going to let that happen. He'd done so much hard work to get this far, he wasn't about to let it all be taken away again by some cow with a badge!
Legally, she had to come in. He (annoyingly) couldn't stop that. But that didn't mean that he had to be particularly polite or civil about it. All bets for that would be off, as soon as she stepped through his door.
"Oh, I'm sure you will," he replied, nearly through his teeth. "You cops always find an excuse."
"Well, clearly it was good enough an excuse for the judge," replied the detective, "Now, move aside and let us through."
Lane didn't wait for his reply – she simply pushed past him and gestured for her men to swarm into Thomas' home. There was a lot of work to do, and they simply couldn't waste time – not when Miss Babcock's life depended on them finding her before it was too late.
"Alright everybody, divide by teams!" ordered Lane, "I will be overseeing your work!"
A collective "Yes ma'am!" came from the rest of the officers as they spread out, carrying with them all sort of artefacts and contraptions to fastidiously rake his entire home. They were completely oblivious to (or perhaps they simply didn't care) the fact that their dirty boots and countless cases and equipment were scratching his expensive hardwood flooring!
What was wrong with these animals?!
They simply didn't have any sense of decency! It would take him forever to get the grooves they were digging into his floors repaired, and the dirt would have to be cleaned as soon as they were gone otherwise it would stain permanently!
If he didn't know that for sure, he'd leave it to teach Claire how a proper wife would do it. But he didn't want to take that risk – he'd just have to find some other way to do that.
He'd probably drop some old food or something in her room. Something that would make a huge mess that she'd have to clean up.
And she would clean it up, if she knew what was good for her.
The thought eased him, but it wasn't enough to dispel his ire as the Neanderthals in uniform continued to tramp their way through his home and pick their way not-so-delicately through his things.
If he didn't also think it would attract the wrong kind of attention from them, Thomas thought he could scream.
Especially when one of them made their way into his kitchen. His pristine kitchen...
There was a sense of helplessness to the whole situation – usually, when it came to power dynamics, he was the one on top. He was the one that dictated what could and couldn't be done, but presently he was stuck in a rather uncomfortable position. In a submissive position.
And the detective's smug smile was only making it worse. She hadn't left with her men, and she was sticking him with an infuriatingly arrogant look. This was a woman who clearly had to be put in her place, and had they been on their own, he would have beaten the crap out of her, until she understood she was to be demure and obedient.
"Anything you'd like to say, Mr Jones?" she said, clasping her hands together, "Make our job easier, perhaps?"
Thomas narrowed his eyes at Lane – if there was something he detested in a woman, it was for them to be condescending or contemptuous. His hand was itching to fly out and make an impact against her cheek, but he forced himself to stay calm.
She was after that – she wanted to rile him up. He wouldn't cave. He couldn't cave. Otherwise she'd have won.
"Fuck you," he said instead, "You'll find nothing."
Lane's nostril's flared and her eyes shone dangerously – just like Thomas, Lane was aching to smash the bastard's face in until he confessed to where he was keeping Miss Babcock, but they both had to keep up some semblance of civility. The cat wasn't out of the bag. Not yet.
"We'll see about that," replied Lane threateningly.
With that, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the room, towards…the basement's entrance?!
She couldn't go down there. What if she checked the fireplace?! She'd find the entrance to Claire's room in no time if she took that chance, and it would all be over!
He had to do something. Something that would throw her off the scent – he couldn't stop the bitch from going down there because he'd never stop that squad of brainless oafs from holding him down whilst their oh-so noble leader checked every square inch of the place!
But he could direct her attention where he wanted it to go.
So, he hurried after her, careful not to cause the same damage to his own place that his uninvited houseguests had, intending to just catch up and take over.
"Detective Lane! Wait!"
The bitch opened the door to the basement and started down the stairs without apparently hearing him. She probably did, Thomas thought; she was just pretending not to.
Not that it mattered. The top of the stairs gave him the perfect vantage point – he could spot the perfect place to direct Lane's attention from there.
And he thought he'd just found the perfect one.
He didn't stop Lane from descending the stairs, taking in everything as she went. He knew she had to look at everything at least once.
Not too closely, but just enough that she felt no need for a second visit.
Most of the place looked like a standard home entertainment room - like a den that he could come into and relax whenever he wanted. And, when Claire was closer to being perfect and could actually behave herself, then she'd be allowed to sit out there with him.
She wouldn't be allowed to touch anything unless she had to clean it, bring it to him, or if it was something he wanted her to do for him, but still. That was the way things would be.
As long as Lane didn't mess it all up by sniffing around in the wrong place, instead of where he had just decided that she should go instead.
All she had to do was get near it. She was heading in the right direction as it was, and in his head he was practicing his panicked voice that would definitely throw her off.
It had worked with his parents, whenever he'd wanted them to be on his side for anything. He knew he still had the knack for it, even if he hadn't had much use for it in between then and now.
He got to the basement just as Lane was sliding a gloved finger over the fireplace's mantelpiece. He had to lure her away from there, but do so in a way that didn't raise any suspicions. This detective bitch was far too close to the mark, and he was not going to allow all his hard work to go to waste just because one entitled whore didn't know to keep her big nose out from other people's business.
"Not one speck of dust," commented Lane, rubbing her thumb and index finger together. "Your house is impeccable, Mr Jones, isn't it?"
Thomas didn't answer, he knew he had the right to remain silent. Deep inside, he was frothing with indignation – these people had no right to be in his home, going over his things, and looking for a bitch that was his and his alone. But he was smarter than they were, he was a thousand steps ahead of them, and he would outsmart them, even with all their fancy equipment.
And the first stage of his diversion had already begun.
"Hiding something, perhaps?" Lane insisted, keeping an eagle eye on him – she'd noticed he was slowly inching closer to a locked door just behind the pool table.
The door he intended her to look at, getting her away from the area that could potentially lead him right into the path of a bunch of thugs who'd insist that somehow he was the one in the wrong. He was never the one in the wrong - he was the god among mortals, finally earning his place, and that kind of man was never wrong about anything!
Nobody ever got the better of him, and nobody ever would, either. Any talk of jail from them, and he'd find something to turn that away.
It wasn't going to happen. And even thought that all relied on how good Lane truly was, doing the investigation stuff, Thomas had to agree that he was smarter, still.
She must have spotted the door from his rather sudden, quick movements of his eyes and decided it was worth investigating.
He was going to play that up for everything that it was worth.
"I...try to keep it that way," he replied, trying to sound nervous. "I have...very specific notions about hygiene, cleanliness, keeping things neat..."
Not that he thought Lane was listening at that point. She'd practically taken off in a run towards the door he'd picked out for this!
"Detective Lane, no!" he cried out as she went past.
He was just adding a little bit of panic to his tone, to hammer home a false sense of being right in her. Thomas knew that she wasn't going to find a thing when she flung open the door...
To the dirty, old, unused room that might've been for a washing machine and dryer at one time but now served as the place that Thomas' clutter went to die. There were some boxes of things scattered about the floor, but most if the room was occupied by dust and cobwebs.
A contrast to how he liked his space? Absolutely. But it was more useful like this right at that moment.
And it was far funnier, seeing the confused and angry look on the bitch's face, than any other use that little room could have.
He let his amusement show, when he smirked as she looked at him.
"I did try to tell you," he told her, mockingly innocent. "I absolutely hate seeing it so dirty, it's an embarrassment for people to see..."
The look of absolute ire on the detective's face that immediately followed his words, was absolutely priceless. So was the moment when she slammed the door shut in a pathetic attempt at trying to either appear threatening (that was a laugh!) or vent her frustration at his clever scheme.
He'd clearly won this round, hadn't he? Again, he'd shown his superiori–
He never got to finish his sentence. He was taken by surprise when Lane slammed him against the wall.
"What the Hell are you playing at, Jones?!" snapped Lane, her face mere inches away from Thomas'. "Do you think bullshitting me is going to get you anywhere?! I know you have her! And I promise you, when I find that girl, I'll make you pay for every miserable second you kept her away from her family and friends."
Thomas had been threatened before – his biological dad had made a hobby out of it – but never in his life had he been threatened by a woman. On the few times he'd had arguments and minor fights with female girlfriends, he'd never felt threatened or like he'd have to watch his back. But now… now it was different.
He wasn't afraid of her, not in the least, but there was a real threat in her. One wrong move – on little slip, and everything would be over. They'd take Claire away and he'd be set to jail. It infuriated him. This bitch was getting to big for her boots, and he was not going to let her try and intimidate him. Not in his house.
"Those are big words, for such a pathetic little slut," he spat, pushing her away (but taking care not to hurt her, in spite of himself – he didn't want to be taken into custody, even if the bitch deserved a thrashing), "You have nothing on me!"
Lane scoffed, "Oh, but I do! Not only did someone see Miss Babcock getting into your car, but I also know that you have a motive – we were told about the rejection, Jones. You know, that time you invited her out and she turned you down? Must have been pretty humiliating, huh?"
Lane's words were like a slap, and they pulled a very unpleasant memory to the forefront of his thoughts. The day his...failure...had happened.
He'd been so nervous, but he'd imagined that would lend a helping hand to the air of a kind, quiet man with a good sense of humour, who loved to have fun. And yet she'd still laughed in his face anyway. Gone off anyway, and he'd been forced to do all of this for her just to get her where she belonged.
And...he hadn't been alone in his humiliation...
That butler. The one that worked for Mr Sheffield...he'd been watching from the shadows like an assassin, waiting to strike at the perfect moment.
And he had, with one devastating quip.
"You know, I've seen some of the specimens she's dated in her time. How bad do you have to be that you don't make the cut?"
That stung Thomas, right up until the present moment. He didn't have to make any "cut"! It wasn't him who needed to change, it was her! She was the imperfect one who didn't deserve him, and–
And...wait a minute. Lane had said that they knew she'd shot him down...
The butler. They'd talked to the butler! He'd been the only person there to watch - really watch - and see what was going on!
Of course they'd talked to that bastard! He'd seen him around so much, he thought the guy might be a threat to Claire's affections! Not that that British slob had anything on him whatsoever...
Claire would pay for his mistake in talking to Lane later. But for now, he had to get this other slut and her gang of ogres out of his house.
He looked her dead in the eyes, "Good luck proving any of it."
In an almost defying move, Thomas plopped himself down on his enormous sofa, and without even looking at the detective (lest she think he cared about her presence), she reached for the remote and switched his sixty-five inches television on.
He wasn't in the mood for watching anything, really, but he wouldn't give this detective slut the satisfaction of knowing he was feeling the threat of police closing in around him. He still trusted his capacity to outsmart them all, but at the moment he just wanted to save face.
Save his pride.
It would be a long night, and he might as well be comfortable while the worst happened. Not to mention that his position on the sofa gave him a perfect view of the entrance to his hidden treasure. Should any of those brainless oafs get too close to the entrance, he'd see about distracting them. Somehow…
But Lane clearly wasn't done with him – she put herself in between him and the TV, steely eyes fixed on him. She leaned down, her face again only inches away from his, and pointed a warning finger at him.
"You'll be rotting in jail soon enough," she very nearly whispered, "That, I promise."
When he offered her no response (why should he waste his time when it was clear that the bitch needed a man around her twenty four hours a day to correct that attitude?), she huffed in disgust and went to check the rest of the room.
Thomas very nearly visibly stiffened when she did check the fireplace...
But the blind cow found nothing, and he held his tongue when he wanted to laugh out loud at that. For all her bragging and thrashing around like a wild animal, she was worse than useless - like a declawed, defanged bear pacing mindlessly in a cage!
At least, that was the impression she gave off for the rest of the search. All over the house, she was restless and frustrated, and the worse it got, the better Thomas felt.
And he had never felt as good about it as when he finally got to slam the door on them, knowing that they'd had their chance - Lane had had her chance - and found nothing.
Just like he'd said, he'd outsmarted them all.
But since that was over and done with now, Thomas thought it was time to go pay Claire a correctional visit.
She had to pay for her rejection all over again, and she'd get some extra for the butler butting in where he had no business.
All she'd wanted to do was disappear. But that obviously wasn't going to happen – it hadn't happened before, and it most likely wouldn't happen the next time, either – so she did the next best thing she could, which was wrapping up in the warm bedlinen she'd been provided with and gone to sleep.
Her mattress in the cell felt like a safe place, after Thomas had...used her. He never went near it, probably thinking it filthy, and she'd found that sleep was as close as she ever got to blocking out the pain she felt, inside and out.
Rest kept her mind alert, too. It kept her sharp if she had to react, and preserved what little health she had left.
It was the only good feeling she had left to her, drifting off to somewhere else...
Until she was awoken again by furious shouting that started her awake and her cell door slamming.
She snapped upright, bleary-eyed, "Huh...?"
Her dazed confusion was immediately met by a sharp slap across the face which sent her flying back onto the mattress, and soon Thomas' full, frightening weight was on her again, slapping and pounding and beating her with his fists wherever he saw fit.
C.C. screamed, trying to beg him to stop and hold her hands up in both defence and surrender at the same time, but he wasn't listening.
He didn't ever want to listen. Was it happening again?! Oh God, had he decided once tonight wasn't enough and had come back for more?!
As the attack progressed, it became evident that wasn't the case. He wasn't trying to hike up her nightgown, nor was he slipping any part of his slimy anatomy into her – no, he was caught in a violent frenzy. His goal, it seemed, was hurting her. He was subjecting her to what he'd dubbed "correction", which was his sick, twisted take on what could only be described as brutal beating.
Still, even now, during what was probably the worst beating she'd ever been given, he was clearly taking care not to punch her in the face. He'd always been fastidious about not hurting her facial features, especially her nose or mouth. It didn't come from any kind of worry or affection for her – it was, as always, something he did to ensure his desires were satisfied. And as he'd said before, the last thing he wanted or needed, was an ugly bitch to look at.
He would slap or choke, but never punch her face.
What her terrified mind simply couldn't grasp, however, was the reason behind the beating. Usually, after using her, he remained in a good mood for maybe a day or two. He wasn't kind, by any means – it was more like his cruelty was kept at bay for a little while, giving her a brief respite. Had his temper flared already? After all, she'd picked up on his displeasure at her not having moved fast enough for his liking when he'd returned her to the cellar after the…event. It didn't really seem likely. He'd "corrected" her before, hadn't he? Hell, he'd choked her for so long that she'd feared she'd pass out!
So, if he'd corrected her before, why was he hitting her now? What could she possibly have done to incur his wrath?!
"You. Fucking. Slut!" he screamed, each word punctuated by a swift punch to her stomach, "You. Brought. The. Fucking. Cops. Into. My. Fucking. House!"
C.C. cried out in pain – one of her ribs had just broken, she could tell. But through the pain, her mind managed to pick up on what he'd said.
And what he'd just said seemed too good to be true.
Yet, she'd heard the words coming out of his mouth – he'd said that the cops had been in the house.
There had been actual cops in the house!
They… they were looking for her! There was someone out there looking for her! And even… even if they had missed where she was being held, even if she was still trapped in Hell, she had the reassurance that the police suspected Thomas – they suspected him enough to have come to search his hous–
The thought was interrupted by Thomas' fist impacting against her chest again and the searing pain of yet another rib being broken; C.C. couldn't help the tears cascading down her cheeks.
"Don't cry, you whore!" Thomas screamed in her face, slapping her, "You brought this on yourself – you and that motherfucking butler! He should have kept his goddamn mouth shut!"
C.C. gasped in a breath, not even thinking about the pain of Thomas' continued beatings (punches and slaps, kicks aimed at her legs and hips), or his hurled abuse.
The butler. That could only mean one person...
Niles. Actual, real-world Niles. It sounded like he must have said something to the police - something that gave them enough reason to search Thomas' house! That was why the bastard had just done this...
Niles...he had to have cared, didn't he? He wouldn't have bothered helping with the investigation if he didn't!
He was out there, right that moment, wondering where she was and if she was alright...
And C.C. was trapped in there, not alright but not listening as Thomas continued hurling abuse at her, declaring that her meals were now forfeit until further notice. Her mind was elsewhere – wondering what the butler was doing, and how he was feeling...
If only she could talk to him for real, just for a few minutes...! It would be the best few minutes of her whole life, just to get to see him and to tell him that she was happy he was looking for her...
She was so busy thinking this, all the while trying not to cry, that she didn't really notice when, eventually, an exhausted Thomas retreated, spat on the floor next to her, and went back up the ladder, slamming the trap door shut behind him.
In the quiet and the dark once more, she lay on her mattress, battered and bruised worse than ever. She would have tried to turn on her bed, maybe try and get more comfortable but as it was she hurt too much to do anything else but lie there, taking in raggedy breaths and letting the tears fall.
But, in spite of the numbing pain she was in, she now had a new sense of hope in her heart. The police were out there and they were onto Thomas...
And the person who'd once been the least likely to offer any help, could now be the last person who'd give up on finding her.