Tears of frustration streamed down her cheeks.
Mace’s mouth curved in a bright smile.
“Now, now, darlin’. No struggling. A gal could get hurt that way.”
He slapped her face. Her head jerked up, sideways, then flopped. Her hair swung around her shoulders. Giving a little cry, she gasped, ready to give him a mouthful.
Thinking better of it, she clamped her lips tight.
No use goading him. I could wind up dead.
Gonna wind up dead anyhow.
“Hey, sugar,” he whispered. “Didn’t y’care for that?”
No reply.
Catching the defiance in her eyes, he whacked her again. With the back of his hand.
Seems like Uncle Mace is having himself a rare old time.
Stay with it, Deana
He wants you to crack. Break up. Plead for mercy. Okay. Like he’ll wait forever. No way is the shit gonna see I’m scared…
He studied her face; saw the tears, her clenched jaw. The defiance still there.
His smirk broke out again.
“That’s a good li’l gal. Uncle Mace don’t like gals who get flighty…”
She wriggled her feet.
The twine sliced into her calves and ankles.
She pulled a face. Struggling only worsened the pain.
Mace is one sick fuck, she fumed inwardly, but he sure knows how to tie a person up.
In desperation, she stared at her legs: pale, puffy, crisscrossed with twine. “Dear God, Mace,” she gasped. “This hurts—I’m gonna get gangrene if you don’t untie me.”
Suddenly, the full realization of what Mace could do hammered home. The damage… the pain he could inflict.
She began to shake.
“Scared, honey?”
Her lips stayed shut. She shot him a sour look.
“No reply, huh? Maybe you’d care for another crack?”
The next one rocked her jaw.
Harder this time.
Starting up the pain where Nelson had slugged her two weeks ago.
“Uuugghh…,” she gasped, shaking her head. She felt a gush of blood spurt and rise inside her mouth, but her top teeth seemed to be embedded in her lower lip. She eased them free. Blood flowed out and down her chin.
Do this one more time, the fucker’s gonna break my neck.
Cringing with pain, her hand flew to her jaw. Her lips felt slick and rubbery. She scowled, clenched her teeth, and muttered, “Up yours, shit-face.”
His brows lifted slightly.
“Let’s pretend I didn’t hear that, sugar…”
She glared at him. But he seemed distant, as if his mind was on other things. It was.
Tilting his head, he looked at her, admiring his handiwork. The swollen eyes, bruised mouth, cut lips, the trickle of blood sliding down her chin…
Then, reaching forward, he slipped her blouse off one shoulder.
Not satisfied with that, he pulled it down some more, until her breast peeked out.
Deana cringed. Went taut. Goose bumps squirmed all over her body.
Gently, Mace fingered her breast, tracing swirls around it, touching up the hard dark nipple.
Her stomach shriveled. She pulled away from him, scarcely breathing.
His eyes held hers for a moment.
Daring her to move…
She lurched forward, thinking about screaming, throwing herself at him, clawing at his face, blinding him with her nails…
Then he was stepping away, like an artist assessing his masterpiece.
Deana gave up. She went still.
Now for the final touch…
That long black hair.
His hands came at her, reaching out, holding the dark shiny strands between his fingers… savoring the silky feel. Then he fussed around, arranging it over her shoulders.
“Mmmm—huh!” He seemed pleased with the effect. Humming under his breath, he took a little time poking around in the holdall. He brought out the Nikon and several unopened reels of film.
No need for Polaroids today. The light’s okay.
Everything should go according to plan.
He was about to create another Mace Harrison masterpiece. A surge of satisfaction, anticipation, welled up inside him. It felt good and warm.
Lifting his eyes skyward, he gave a cynical smile.
“This one’s for you, Daddy,” he whispered.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Mace bunched his lips in a fake kiss.
“Smile for the birdie, sweetheart,” he murmured, putting the camera to his eye. Moving back slightly, he extended the lens and adjusted it, twisting it around between finger and thumb.
He wanted all of Deana in the frame. First off, standing against the cabin wall. It’d be the perfect foil for her pale, bruised body. Plus the fact there’d be no giveaway clues…
Just Deana and the shitty ol’ pinewood wall.
Deana: tears coursing down her cheeks, jaw hanging loose, bloodied lips all swollen… eyes dark, frightened, pleading…
He aimed to cover every angle.
Left side…
“Stay still, sugar.”
Front.
Then the right side…
“I’m comin’ in now…”
He zoomed in. Getting one or two head shots in close-up.
Engrossed in his work, Mace clicked away for fifteen minutes or so, changing the film when necessary.
That done, he replaced the camera in the holdall.
Deana blurted a gasp of relief. She slid down the wall, feeling the floor cold and damp beneath her buttocks. She felt wrecked. Salt tears welled, spilling down her cheeks, nipping at her cut lips.
Eyes on Mace the whole time.
Watching him warily, like a mouse in the thrall of a cat.
Mace beamed, showing his rows of straight white teeth. “How ’bout breakfast?” he said, zipping up the holdall. “I’m starvin’!”
Over at the food box, he brought out a sandwich. “Here,” he said, peeling down the wrapper. “Take a bite.”
Deana couldn’t stop the rush of blood rising to her head.
“Get some therapy, Mace,” she spat through thick, puffy lips. “Think I’m gonna do exactly what you want? Go fuck yourself. You’re a goddamn sicko and you know it! When they find me, you’re gonna fuckin’ pay for what you’ve done!”
Mace shrugged his shoulders, set himself astride the hardback chair, bit off a chunk of bread. He began to eat, grinning around his food, crumbs flying from his mouth.
He pointed the sandwich at her.
“You don’t wanna eat, then don’t eat. And I ain’t gonna kill you. Yet. Things to do first. But you’ll regret not eatin’, sugar. Could be days ’fore I decide to…”
She trembled, holding on to her voice, keeping it low and level trying to form the words without showing how much he’d hurt her. It wasn’t easy.
“Before you decide to do what?”
“You’ll see, sugar. You’ll see!”
Done with his sandwich, he bent down and picked up the blanket. Opening it out, he threw it over her head, held it tight over her shoulders.
Deana spluttered, screamed.
Kept on screaming and struggling.
Pulling her close, calming her down, Mace was amused. He huffed out a short laugh. “May as well stop that, honey. There’s no one around to ride to your rescue—least of all that prick of a boyfriend a’ yours. Whassisname? Warren? Huh! Warren cocksucker Beatty?”
Mace was in jovial mood; he chuckled to himself, like he had just made the joke of the year. Still holding Deana tight.