With each month that went by the things that had happened in the basement seemed to blend further into faded half-forgotten memory. Finding the evidence her tormentor was truly gone and watching Ari bury it had offered her a kind of closure. The nightmares never returned. And Holly never returned.
The two of them had settled into a strange sort of kinky domesticity punctuated by the occasional foursome with Kane and Saskia. And the occasional appearance from Marcus who kept a respectful distance from Claire.
As it turned out, Kane knew all about art restoration. He was teaching her. Once she could do the work properly, he had the connections to get her freelance restoration projects. She was so excited to be able to do the work she'd always wanted to do. Ari had already set up a workroom for her in the art wing of the house.
Now it was Thanksgiving. Claire sat in the passenger side of Ari's car in the circular driveway of her parents' estate. He came around and opened the door for her. He offered a hand to help steady her in the high-heeled boots she wore. When she stood, her black wool skirt slid back down over the tops of the knee-high boots.
“What do you call me inside?” Ari asked.
“Ari,” she repeated for the thousandth time. He'd made her call him by his nickname the entire long drive to Thanksgiving dinner. And she was still afraid she'd slip and call him Master.
“Trust me, even if I slipped up, nobody would notice. These are the most self-absorbed people you will ever meet.”
“What are your parents’ names again?” Ari asked. He looked like he was actually nervous about meeting them.
“Wendi and Charles.”
She hadn't really wanted to go to Thanksgiving dinner. Claire hadn't spoken to her mother since New Year's when she'd begged out of the party, with the fake flu. But they would notice if she didn't show up for the holidays, and unless Ari wanted her to be listed as a missing person, she had to show up at some point.
At first she hadn't thought he would risk taking her. After all, she could get help, escape him. But he no longer seemed concerned by this possibility.
It was so strange holding hands with him like some normal couple—the kind of people who picked out blenders and bath towels together. He didn't let go of her hand when he rang the bell. They stood on the porch under the massive columns, freezing their asses off while they waited for someone to hear the door.
“Oh fuck it, let's just go in,” Claire said. It was way too cold already to just be Thanksgiving. She pushed the door open and pulled Ari inside.
“Do they know I'm coming?” he asked.
“No, M-” she caught herself.
Ari bent down to her ear and whispered. “If you say that word while we're at your parents' house, you will receive the most dire punishment you've ever received when we get home. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes.” She had to fight the clawing need to say that word. It just didn't feel right not giving him a title. It felt like everything she said was somehow incomplete without it now.
“Good girl,” he said, leaning in and nipping her throat with his teeth. He grabbed her ass just as her mother walked into the entry way.
“Claire, you look fabulous! Have you lost weight? And that necklace is stunning! It's so chic and sophisticated. You should wear that all the time.” Wendi pulled her close for air kisses then released her to look at Ari.
Claire's fingertips strayed absently over the gold collar at her throat. Her mother would lose all composure if she knew what the jewelry meant. But at least Wendi could get her wish. Claire would be following her advice to wear it all the time.
Wendi gave Ari a very obvious once over. “And who is this tall drink of viking re-enactment?”
Ari actually blushed at that.
“This is Ari,” Claire said.
“Please tell me it's serious,” her mother said as if she were imagining mini vikings running around the house at Christmas.
“Oh, it's very serious,” Ari said. “I'm not sure there is a way it could be more serious.”
The butler appeared then to unobtrusively take their coats. Then Wendi led them to the dining room, apologizing that they were too late for cocktails.
“Charles!” Wendi said when they reached the dining room. “Claire brought a man to Thanksgiving! I can't remember the last time Claire brought a man to Thanksgiving! Can you?”
Her father rose from his seat and came around the table to where Claire and Ari stood. The two men shook hands in that perfunctory firm way men do. “And what do you do?” he asked Ari straight away.
“I'm an architect,” he said.
“Oh? Would I know any of your work?”
“The new library downtown? The Opera house restoration? There were a lot of new design elements that went into it. I also did the bank on Third and Main.”
Her father looked impressed. “That's quite a resume. We were at a charity gala at the new library two months ago and were remarking on the exquisite architecture.”
Claire noticed Roman when he came into the room. She hadn't expected to see him at Thanksgiving; it was usually just family. She excused herself to go say hi while Charles and Ari discussed building design. That might go on for a while.
Roman gave her a big hug when she reached him. “Missed you at New Year's.”
“I know. I came down with the flu,” she said. There was no sense in introducing a different lie, especially when her mother might have told him why she'd said she wasn't coming.
“I would have brought a date if I thought you were bringing one. When your mother invited me it seemed like it might be a set-up.”
Claire laughed. “And yet you still showed up.”
He winked. “Well I couldn't let you die an old lady with cats.”
“Thanks. Love you too.”
“Is he being good to you?” Roman asked, not hiding his open staring at Ari.
“Yes,” she said. She was only just now realizing that perhaps Roman had a bit of a thing for her. She never would have guessed. She'd always just thought they were friends. He was a very nice guy and very handsome, but she had no doubt he was into sweet and normal romantic sex. If he knew the things she needed, he'd run the other direction.
“So is it serious?” Roman asked.
“Very,” she said.
“And you're happy?”
She smiled. “Very.”
Roman sighed. “All right. Well, I'm bringing a date for the Christmas Eve party.”
Claire laughed.
There were about thirty people gathered for dinner along the very long dining room table. Aunts and uncles and cousins and nieces and nephews and her remaining set of grandparents.
“So,” Wendi said, when the dessert tray was rolled out, “How did you two meet?”
In truth Claire was surprised that neither her mother nor anyone else at the table had asked that question yet. The entire room was silent, each person waiting to hear how Claire had met this guy all the women were drooling over and the men seemed intimidated by.
“She kidnapped me and held me captive in a cell for three weeks, and we just hit it off. It was fate,” Ari said without missing a beat.
Claire just gawked at him. But he winked at her, obviously getting a kick out of telling the absolute truth of how they met to her family, knowing they wouldn't take it seriously.
The table erupted in laughter.
“Gorgeous and a sense of humor. Don't let this one get away,” her mother said.
As if she could. “I don't think you have to worry about that,” Claire said.
Dinner was more pleasant than she'd remembered dinner with her family ever being. When the holiday ordeal was over, Ari helped her back into his car. As they pulled out of the driveway, she looked out the window, watching her parent's estate become smaller until it finally disappeared from view.
She sighed and looked back at Ari. He watched the road but took her hand in one of his, his thumb stroking the back of her hand as they drove on in silence.
Three hundred and twenty-three days. That was the amount of time since Ari had taken her. And somehow in that long span, instead of breaking her, he'd put her back together. The last thought on Claire's mind was escape.
I hope you enjoyed THE DARK ARTS! If you’re new to my work, you can find all my books and an up-to-date reading order here: https://kittythomas.com/reading-order-for-new-readers/
Or you can move into the companion series, The Pleasure House. The first book in the series is called Guilty Pleasures:
GUILTY PLEASURES:
She was a bored housewife until she was taken and trained for the pleasure of the highest bidder.
Vivian Delaney leads a life of privilege, but behind closed doors she feels isolated and trapped in a gilded cage. Unable to achieve sexual pleasure with her husband, she finds herself in the capable hands of Anton, a massage therapist intent on awakening her to her full sexual potential. By any means necessary.
One-Click GUILTY PLEASURES here: Guilty Pleasures
TEASER SCENE:
Five minutes of tension passed before the door clicked open. Vivian lay there with her eyes shut, trying to relax. It was just a massage. Millions of women did this every day. And even liked it, if all the raving at the country club was any indication.
“You're my next appointment?” A male Eastern European accent—possibly Russian—greeted her ears. She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut. Couldn't she get a female for anything?
She considered requesting a woman, but then she got a look at him.
Wavy, jet black hair fell over the best cheekbones she'd ever seen up close and in person on a man. The definition of his chest was visible through a white t-shirt. He had strong, well-defined arms, and large, yet elegant hands, like those of a concert pianist. She could see how those hands could be equally at home playing flesh draped over a massage table.
Her eyes traveled slowly back to his face. It was expectant. Waiting for something. Oh, yeah. An answer to his question.
“Y-yes,” she managed to stammer.
“Very good. My name is Anton. I'll be taking care of you today.”
The way he said it seemed like both a sinful promise and a sinister threat, causing Vivian's heart to start doing erratic things in her chest. He moved closer, and she tensed.
“Relax, my dear. Dr. Smith was correct. You are quite a closed-budded flower. We will open you.” He made it sound so sexual and wrong. A warmth fluttered in her center and spread outward.
Her voice came out breathy, “You spoke to Dr. Smith?”
“Just a few moments ago. While you were getting ready for me.”
She turned her head away so she could stop looking at him with helpless longing. She'd experienced testosterone overload today. Too many men near her in situations that were far too sexual for her comfort.
“You are Vivian, yes?” he said as he selected a body oil from a cart near the table. He was the king of the rhetorical question.
“Yes.”
The slick oil made a sound as it coated his hands. He pulled back the towel to reveal her bare back. “Lovely,” he murmured.
Vivian wasn't sure if he was admiring her skin, or if he was referring to her name. Before she could decide which, and whether or not it was appropriate, his hands were on her body, and she forgot how to think in full sentences. The strong, gentle kneading along her back caused her to, inch-by-inch, loosen and open to him and the pleasurable sensations he delivered to her.
He was silent as he worked out the tension around her shoulders, and then her upper back and neck. Her arms and hands came next. Everything slowly began to unclench, starting with the muscle group he was rubbing and spreading outward as she let herself relax. Her body felt loose, liquid, suspended in a tranquil bubble of calming sensations.
Anton worked on her like this for about fifteen minutes, and then his hands began to slide lower, pushing aside the terrycloth until the towel was bunched around her thighs.
“Really, Vivian. Underwear? I'm disappointed.”
She reached behind her frantically for the towel to cover herself. Now there was no question he'd crossed the boundary. Wasn't a massage therapist supposed to protect their client's modesty and comfort?
He gripped her wrist hard, not so hard to damage her, but hard enough to make her gasp in surprise at the rough contact and the menace behind it.
“Are you going to be a good girl and put your hands back where you had them?”
One-Click GUILTY PLEASURES now: Guilty Pleasures