Deadly Captive by Bianca Sommerland

she had the air of someone sheltered, which explained Joe's hesitation. Not only was he much older than Mary, but there was no way to ignore the age difference as he did with me. With me, he could assume I could take as much as I could give. With Mary, he wasn't sure if she could take anything at all. She was not a child. Still, she needed the tender care of one.
    Cheeks streaked with tears, Mary looked at Joe when he traced his fingers along her jaw. She shook her head. Joe caught her chin in his hand, pulling her up to him, silencing her protest with a kiss.
    I felt like a sick voyeur, but I couldn't look away. Joe was good, and Mary didn't stand a chance with the full power of his seduction aimed her way. A loud moan left her as he deepened the kiss, and her fingers wrapped around his forearms, as she unconsciously clung to him, lost to sensation.
    Joe dived into the opening. Lifting her up without interrupting his gentle assault of her mouth, he carried her to the bed.
    I moved then and decided to distract myself with a hearty helping of whiskey, which I'd developed a taste for, and the delectable meal that was now growing cold.
    Seated at the table, my back to them, I tried to ignore the sounds they made.
    Scrapping the spoon noisily against the bowl, I tried not to hear the distinct sound of the sheets, or the bed springs. I focused on chewing, pretending not to hear the little gasps Mary was letting out. I phased out the whispers and the squeaking of the mattress.
    But I couldn't ignore the way my hand shook every time I brought the spoon to my mouth. Finally, I gave up. Setting down the spoon quietly, I grabbed the bottle of whiskey and went to the bathroom, careful not to slam the door.
    Gulping down as much as I could, without choking, I turned all my focus to finishing off the whiskey. One hand braced on the edge of the sink, I tried to remember the words in my dream that had seemed so easy to follow before. Emotion, balance . . . .
    I couldn't find either. Tilting the bottle back, I drained it to the last drop. My breath came hard and fast. A scream sounded from the room, a scream of pleasure. My grip tightened around the bottle, and, before I could stop myself, I smashed it against the sink. One sharp sob left me, only one. My strength returned in time to keep me from falling apart.
    At my broken sob, all went silent. I bowed my head and cursed as the broken end of the bottle cut into my palm. Letting it fall, I braced both hands on the edge of the sink. I could feel blood, wet and warm on the cool porcelain. I swore again and lifted my hands to see the bloody mess I'd made.
    I soon saw it for the blessing it was. Tearing two long strips from the bottom of my makeshift dress, I wrapped one around my hand, tucking the end under to keep it in place. Wetting the other cloth, I cleaned up the blood.
    The sink was shining by the time I finished. The only soap I had was the small, white bar we did all our washing with, but with enough scrubbing, it did the job. The toilet and the floor were also spotless. Once I'd wiped everything down, I picked up each and every shard of glass and wrapped it in the bloodstained cloth.
    Out of excuses for hiding in the bathroom, I knew it was time I go out and face them. We all had to find a way to deal, before they came and made what each of us was feeling now seem trivial.
    Opening the door slowly, I looked around. Joe was sitting at the table, his head in his hands, bent over. Just the sight of him sitting there, looking broken by what he'd been forced to do, made me want to assure him it all could be forgotten. I wanted to tell him it was okay, tell him that he'd done the right thing.
    Mary was on the bed, curled in a little ball, face pressed against her knees, blanket covering up to her chin like a frightened child. I wanted to tell her, too.
    I didn't get a chance to say a word to either of them.
    The door opened. Joe stood. Mary sat up. I stayed where I was. Cyrus stood in the