Author's note: Traumatised by being held hostage in the cafe siege, Chloe has chosen a new direction in her life. She gives up her steady boyfriend and stable job to seek out new thrills in risky encounters. Covalent has laid out his plans to make her disappear and Chloe finds herself spiraling deeper and deeper into his fantasy of total control.
The story contains themes of female submission, edge play and autassassinophilia. Discretion is advised: please check the story tags to see whether this a series you'll enjoy.]
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A CHANCE TO RUN
"We're running low on supplies," Covalent announces after breakfast, "I'm going to need to take a run into town. Want anything?"
I gesture at my bare body. "I'm good. What else could I possibly need?"
"I meant, food-wise. Any special requests?"
"No more pasta bake," I quip with a little smile.
"You complaining to the chef?"
"No."
"Good."
"I'd have to meet a chef first."
He grins at me. "And so what am I? Kitchen boy?"
"I wouldn't say that," I fire back, "Even kitchen boys have a repertoire of at least three dishes."
"Harsh."
I laugh. "Fair."
"Fine. Point noted. I'll work it out."
He's smiling at me, but then my expression clouds as a thought bubbles up in my head.
"How much you getting?"
"Huh?"
"Food. How many days?"
Slowly, his smile fades and I get an awful knot in my stomach at having ruined the moment.
"Enough," is all he says then he takes my face in his hands and gives me a kiss.
"I might be a few hours," he tells me, "Depends. I know the track better now."
He goes into the house and after a moment, he returns with the keys. I nod at him and he waves back, opening the screen door and barrelling down the wooden steps. I watch him disappear around the corner of the house and then faintly, I hear the engine start. Why did I say that? We were having fun.
I go out and around the house to watch him leave, the tyres kicking up a trail of dust in the parched earth. I stand there, watching him until he's out of sight, until even the dust has blown away, and I know I'm left on my own in the absolute middle of nowhere. I feel my skin prickling in the morning sun; it's going to be roasting hot today.
But the question still remains: how much food is he going to get? It occurs to me that he stocked up before he brought us out here. If we're running low on supplies, what does that mean? Perhaps he thought that he'd have finished with me by now, that by today he'd be packing up and going back to the real world. Covalent is meticulous and calculating. Getting caught short is not something that happens to him.
I walk back to the house, up the steps. Without him here, it feels so empty. I look down at the mattress on the decking, then out at the tree line and it occurs to me all at once that I could leave. A couple of hours would put me on the main road, able to flag down a ride. My pulse quickens as I realise I suddenly have an escape. I'm puzzled by the fact that he didn't think about this, or if he did, he didn't take steps to secure me. He could have tied me up, but maybe he didn't in case he got into an accident. Maybe he didn't want me thirsting to death on this verandah as he lay in a hospital bed.
Maybe he expects me to run, and even now, he's waiting down the track to recapture me, knowing it'll break my spirit.
Maybe he's trusting me not to run.
But, instead of running, another thought occurs to me as I stare at the front door. I've never been inside, but he's always been here, guarding me and now he's not here anymore. I know I shouldn't, and my palms itch as I reach out and turn the door handle. I push the door open, take a deep breath, and cross the threshold.
It feels weird, forbidden, the kind of thing that people do, not whatever it is he's turned me into. Being actually inside the house after accepting my role as an outside toy thrills and scares me.
It's bare inside, furnished with an old sofa, a kitchen table, the minimum. The floor is wood, but polished to a deep shine, battered and marked over the years by the comings and goings of the occupants. There's a small kitchen, and I wander in, opening cupboard doors and exploring. He's telling the truth about the food situation, which means something. He isn't telling me the truth about something else, but he also doesn't have to. He's in charge; I don't have the right to ask him any questions.
I take in the details of the room, my hands on my hips, feeling like a naughty kid for being somewhere I'm forbidden. I'm keenly aware of the silence, which is reassuring. But, all of this is raising more questions. I've been removed from the face of the earth by a man who, on the one hand, I'm beginning to understand intimately, but on the other, I know absolutely nothing about. I don't know his history, his job, even his real name.
I wander back out into the living room and see a little bag against the wall. I creep over to it, like it's unexploded ordinance, and crouch down. It's zipped up, and for a brief moment I consider the issue of leaving fingerprints. No, that's paranoia. I can do this and not leave a trace. He'll never know.
I unzip the bag, careful not to move it, and peer inside. I find his laptop and a few bits and pieces: a charger, a phone cable. The laptop calls out to me, and I slide it gently out of its confines. Flipping it open in my hands, I give it the once-over, like I'm looking for booby traps. My pulse is throbbing in my neck. All his secrets will be on here.
I set the laptop down on the kitchen table and power it up. There's no hard drive encryption password, no security prompt, just a picture of a valley covered in snow and a login prompt. I select the keypad login option and am presented with a prompt for four digits. That's ten thousand combinations, which would take weeks to brute force, but he's been sloppy. I already saw the first two digits, following his fingers on the keyboard as I stood behind him once, after asking him to look up the weather forecast. I couldn't see the last two, blocked by his shoulder, but that cuts the possibilities down to the keys one through to four. I smile to myself. Computers are my life; this is a walk in the park.
It only takes me seventeen attempts, and when the desktop screen reveals itself I let out a little squeal of delight. The first thing I click on is his email, and I begin to filter through his messages. I know that I shouldn't and that this is wrong, but each message solves another piece of the puzzle, gives me another clue to the man who holds my life in the palm of his hand. I can't stop myself, and I read everything.
By the time I'm done, I'm just staring at the screen, numb with shock. All my attention is focused on the screen, on the picture of a woman about my age. It's the only thing in my world.
His real name is Hayden Byre and he's a monster.
The door opens and I jump.
"You shouldn't have done that."
Covalent comes in, walking calmly up to me and reaching out. I quail, but his hand goes to the laptop, clicking it shut.
"Out."
