Thunder rolled low and late the first night she shared his bed, but the storm didn't wake her and she slept soundly. It was, in fact, the best night of sleep she'd gotten in months.
Oliver wrapped his lithe body around hers, cradling her as though she were something precious, and began to whisper in her ear. He told her what his mother had done, and then what he had done, and eventually what Lana had done. It may have been hard to listen at first but as he quickly became aroused the stiff member between his legs kept her alert with its persistent pressure.
Marilyn was now certain that he was Bloody Face but subtle clues in his articulately-told tale said the evidence was probably long gone, the horrible mask of human flesh burned in an act of caution after Lana's escape. She had suspected this, and she had expected an overwhelming surge of terror when the suspicion was all but confirmed, yet she felt nothing more than a queer numbness. Oh, was all her mind seemed to say. I see.
Then he began to speak of Marilyn herself. The doctor told her how she was special, how she was perfect, how she'd been hiding right under his nose all along. He ran his hands over her breasts, his erection growing harder still as her nipples responded to the feathery touches of his fingers.
He told her she was beautiful, like his mother.
When they finished making love Oliver fell into a deep, soundless slumber; she was certain she'd lay awake all night, distracted terribly by the lack of a heavy iron chain on her ankle, but the warmth of a body near hers was something she'd nearly forgotten. Marilyn allowed herself to fit into the gentle curve of his side and before she knew it sleep was upon her like a thick blanket.
She drifted off telling her frantic escape instincts that she was fine, that this wasn't the time, that she hadn't lost yet.
The next morning's dawn was grey when Marilyn opened her eyes to find the doctor staring fixedly down at her, his expression dark and unreadable.
"Hello," she said quietly.
"You stayed," he said, voice flat. "There was nothing keeping you here but you stayed."
Marilyn pressed her palm to the firm muscles of his torso, intent on changing that strange faraway look on his face. She tangled her fingers through his chest hair in a way she knew he liked.
"I did," she murmured. The crease between his brows deepened.
"I'm a very dangerous man," Thredson told her simply.
"I know," she found herself saying.
He stared at her in silence for a long moment.
At last the doctor gently placed the pads of his long, thick fingers to the base of her neck. He began stroking, slowly, almost absentmindedly, as his grip started to close around her throat.
"Oliver," she whispered, a kind of dimwitted terror seeping through her, but his grasp never tightened; he simply held her there.
"Tell me what we're going to do to her," he said in a strange husky voice, and he slipped his free hand beneath the sheets. His fingers found the warm space between her legs almost instantly.
Marilyn's breath escaped her in a shuddery rush as he teased the folds of her sex with those skilled fingers, the same fingers that had no doubt tortured and killed those women, those poor women, but oh god how good his fingers felt.
"Oliver," she said again, and whined quietly when he circled the juices of her arousal around the sensitive bundle of nerves he seemed to know so well.
"Tell me," Oliver growled, "tell me what we're going to do to Lana. You and I." The touch of his fingertips on her neck coupled with the teasing between her thighs left her breathless and dizzy; she had to ground herself to recall the promise she'd made the night before. We'll take care of her. She'd said it, he hadn't asked her to, but she'd said it. Why?
Marilyn tried to remember what had made the other woman her enemy, even if only briefly, and why she'd made such a promise. Her thoughts broke apart and scattered when the doctor inserted two thick fingers slowly inside her aching core.
"We'll take care of her," she whimpered, and the smile that split his lips was that of a wolf with a lamb in its jaws. Oliver turned her face to the side, away from his, then lowered his mouth to her exposed throat.
"How?" He ran the tip of his tongue up the curve of her neck and Marilyn felt her back arch of its own accord. His fingers began pumping in a slow torturous rhythm, a sinful heartbeat between her legs. She fought to catch her breath but oh god what he was doing to her.
"We'll... stop her," she said, interrupting herself with a moan when he began kissing the space just below her jawline. The answer was clearly not enough for him and Thredson slowed his ministrations further.
"How?" Oliver repeated, and Marilyn let loose a frustrated little cry; his fingers were moving so slowly, it was sweet torture but she needed more. She bucked her hips against him but the doctor kept his steady pace.
Her face was burning. She knew she was weak in his hands, but she'd had no idea just how weak. This man was a probable murderer, at the very least a kidnapper, she'd had so many chances to escape him and yet here she was, naked in his bed with his fingers deep inside her most secret of places.
Marilyn tried to picture herself back at home and was dully surprised to find she couldn't.
As if sensing her distraction, the doctor gave her neck a less-than-gentle bite. She jerked against the hand still at her throat and tried to bring her runaway train of thought back on its tracks.
"Baby," she murmured, trying to buy herself some time. Oliver lifted his gaze to hers. His dark eyes were bright and shone with something that she couldn't quite name. Was it insanity?
Marilyn worried it might be.
"We need to get rid of her," he said in an odd low voice. His naked erection bumped her thigh as he continued to pump his thick deft fingers between her legs. Oliver bit his lip and tipped his head towards hers, struggling to remain composed, but he'd been aroused into some sort of predatory frenzy like a shark that smells blood. "You said so yourself."
Had she? Had she suggested they kill Lana? She couldn't remember, the days had blurred and the weed had made her sluggish, she was losing the sharp edge of her will and it was terrifying. She thought that at some point she'd been in control, firmly in control, and suddenly she was not.
"I did?" she whispered, but the doctor seemed to ignore the questioning tilt of her sentence; he let out a moan that sounded both relieved and full of lust. The grip around her neck grew alarmingly tight.
Marilyn felt a surge of her old self flow through her body like a wave of icewater in her veins. As worrisome spots began to appear in her vision she beat her fists against his chest, the practical sense of fight or flight finally kicking in.
Her blows fell against him like nothing, and he actually smiled down at her; it was as if her sudden rebellion was something that pleased him, an indication that she wasn't all his quite yet, but the look in his eyes told her she would be soon.
Thredson released her throat at last, then followed suit by pinning both her wrists to the bed. His right hand was slick with her arousal.
"We'll do it together," he huffed, spreading her legs with a quick movement of his knee. "It's only hard at first, I promise." Marilyn struggled weakly against his strong grip, alarmed by his words, but when the doctor entered her like a knife through warm butter she realized it was futile. She may hold some form of power over him but he held the reigns, it was because of him and the way his slender body moved against hers that she hadn't left last night, and she knew it, she knew it.
Oliver thrust his hips against hers, eyes closed in pleasure as he drove into her hot wet center again and again. She was shamefully aroused – if only her mother could see her now! – and Marilyn turned her face to the pillow, trying to convince herself that this was not defeat, it was not the end, but oh god what if it was?
"Say you'll do it," he gasped desperately, and when she didn't look at him the doctor pressed his forehead to her cheek, still bucking away at the space between her legs. "Say you'll kill her with me. Please."
She felt something building deep within her, but whether it was an emotion or an orgasm was unclear; Marilyn flexed her fingers uselessly and looked up at him, her captor, her lover, the man who lived next door.
She tried to imagine going back into the world without him.
"I'll do it," she whispered, and the moan that escaped his mouth was such a thankful broken sound that she moaned with him, feeling his body fall into a rhythm that would surely be her undoing.
"You'll do it?" he managed, his grip still tight around her wrists, his hips still thrusting away, his voice thick with lust or tears or both.
Marilyn pulled hard against him and he released her immediately. She grabbed around his neck like someone drowning, pulling him closer so she could smell him, and it was his smell that sent her over the edge.
Her sex convulsed and twitched around his pulsing member; this was all he needed, her groans in his ear and her hips meeting his effortlessly, and soon Oliver came too, pumping into her drenched core until they were both utterly spent.
He collapsed on top of her but remained inside, relishing the feel of her womanhood, and at last she met his gaze with hers.
She searched his face and a thought finally surfaced in her brain: what do you have to lose?
This was survival – if she refused, he would kill her.
And she didn't have to go through with it. She could escape before then.
Part of her doubted that very much but it was something left to hold on to when everything else had been ripped away.
And so Marilyn nodded.
"I'll help you kill her," she said, breathless, and then she could say no more because his mouth was on hers once again.