| Subject: Chapt 217 - Part 2 (16 and above) |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Monday, November 21, 07:04:07am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark (203 > )" on Monday, October 03, 07:35:40am
Extra warning: This is probably the scene you think it is. It has bad language, violence, and very nasty situations. I'm rating it 16 and above.
Dreams in the Dark (217/?)
by Katherine Gilbert
It was October 31st--and the house had never seemed so empty before. All the way home, she had felt odd about coming back on her own, worried about the sense of fearful isolation which had been growing inside her. But it was too late now; she was here. The door opened cautiously. And, whatever she might be about to face, she would have to face it on her own.
Nikita shook her head, as she came in the front door, forcing herself to close it behind her--reminding herself of the truth. It was silly of her to worry. She had had a note from Michael, had been told by he himself that she should go on home without him--filming running typically late; a smile broke through her worry. He had just known that she was tired, had understood that she wouldn't be needed any more that night. There was no reason for her to stay around, simply to watch him act.
She was telling herself this again, was trying to find some comfort, as she made her way into the living room, sitting down on the sofa. In fact, she wasn't certain why she was so anxious, saw no immediate reason to be. This was her house too. It was inevitable that, someday, she would be alone in it, if only for a little while. It was time that she grew comfortable enough with her new life to understand this truth.
It was almost possible to convince herself of this idea--but her fears were strangely tenacious, never quite letting her go. It all went back to the attack which one day awaited them, to the terror they could never get past. But it seemed unlikely that tonight was a particular time to worry, nothing at all unusual happening today. Filming was going at its usual pace, the movie wrapping up quite slowly on its own. Wardrobe had had her in for her usual change or two--their masters never quite satisfied with her look. And Michael had been his typical, loving self, even his note so tender; she sighed deeply, as she lay back into the cushions, remembering once again. She hadn't had such messages from him since they had stopped exchanging letters--probably at least a year ago; it was hard to remember exactly. It was nice to have some tangible sign of his concern left to treasure.
Her brow wrinkled, as she worried over this last thought--its fatalistic sound--but tried to shift off her fears; she reached for her handbag, pulling out the note to look over it once more. It was just that they had had to be so careful not to leave any evidence of their love for so long, had been forced to be so cautious; the smile grew. It was nice to be able to just enjoy each other once again.
She was sure that her fears centered somewhere on this last truth--and the fact that he was not yet with her tonight. He would be, of course, probably within a few hours; an inner warmth spread. And then they could show their love to each other in their typical, adoring way.
She was just getting up, starting to make her way into her bedroom, as this thought sank in, almost thankful to him for this time to herself. She hadn't been getting much sleep lately, could probably use a little head-start. Once her husband got home, all memory of such restful activities would cease; she sighed happily. But that was the part of the day she always looked forward to the most.
She was making her way slowly down the hall, tired but happy--all deeper fears of an attack long gone. After all, their separation tonight had been her husband's idea--their enemies undoubtedly ignorant of it until the final moment; the fact settled her completely. Whatever could honestly be said about Madeline, she wasn't a hasty woman. She would never decide her plans so quickly as this.
These were the comforts the actress was giving herself, as she made her way toward the bedroom--certain that she was safe, for now. Even as she almost heard noises in the room in front of her, she shrugged them off--fate never so predictable. The chances of this one night--the only one she had ever come home on her own--being the one they had so long feared had to be several thousand to one. She just wasn't gambler enough to believe in such long odds.
It was as she turned on the light in the room that she came to understand her foolishness, however--her inexperience tripping her up yet again. Her hand was frozen on the light switch, her eyes riveted in horror to the bed--and the man who sat on it; she didn't even have a chance to stumble out the question of who he was, before he spoke. "So you're my famous sister?" He snorted rudely, his gaze pawing along her form. "Dad must have better taste in sluts than I thought."
She was about to turn, to run--for all the good it might do her--her mind spinning quickly through her options. He wasn't holding a gun on her yet, and she might be able to make it to the front door before he caught her, could get into the outside world. If she could just start screaming loudly enough out there, it might stir up enough attention to make her attacker run. Even if she didn't have enough faith in her guards to believe that all of them would help her, it might at least delay the inevitable--and then she could be certain that she was never alone again.
She would have acted on this plan had it not been for the form which quickly appeared behind her--pressing up against her in a way which nearly made her gag, long repressed memories of what Fanning had once tried to do to her scarring her again; his voice was no better. "Don't think about it, sweetheart. There's nowhere to go."
She had already whirled away from this terrible new visitor, even if she knew for a fact that Hillinger was right. She had now taken in the whole of the room--terribly changed from the site of pleasure and love that it was--and all exits seemed impossible. The gunman blocked the only door out; every window would require opening before she could get through it--giving the two men who threatened her more than enough time to catch up. Her only other immediate option was also mocked by her brother, as he stood up, walking toward her. "Don't try screaming. Those idiots outside would be easy enough to pick off." His laugh was coarse. "And it's not like the police give a shit."
This, she feared, was all too true, as both men came toward her, menacing her as one. Her heart beat so loudly it made thinking difficult, but she was ready to use any method to put them off--more time probably her only hope, at the moment, even if she had little idea of anything useful she could do with it. Her words seemed idiotic to her, but she was ready to take any chance she could get. "Michael will be home soon. He won't let you get away with this."
The gunman only snorted. "Like he'd have the guts to help you." He moved even closer, grinning in that horrible way of his. "Besides, Madeline's keeping him busy. He won't even know we're here, till we're done."
This thought nearly made Nikita's head spin, the entire situation about to overwhelm her with horror and despair; the words crawled out under her breath, without her even realizing they had gone--the truth nearly punching her in the stomach. "The note wasn't his." It seemed all too obvious now. Although the handwriting had seemed familiar, he had never sent her home alone before--probably never would; her eyes widened, as the thought went on--realizing that she had become too comfortable, far too lax in her precautions. But neither she nor her husband might ever have the chance to correct these decisions again.
The shock of this possibility swamped her for a second, before all her emotions turned--something of her childhood fortunately coming back to her. In some ways, she had gotten soft lately, over a year of life with Michael teaching her to trust someone else for her protection; her gaze now burned. But that wasn't the way she had ever been raised.
The look in her eyes had changed in a heartbeat, the steely power of her hatred focused fully on the gunman, as he came within a breath of her. "I'll kill you both, before I'll let you touch me." It had been the watchword of her entire youth--and she was damned if she was going to let either of these men destroy her in such a way now.
She was lucky, on some levels, both of her opponents far too confident to have her at gunpoint--yet. Hillinger just laughed at her words, reaching for her--never once in his life having believed anything a woman said. It was then she struck, grinding her heel into the top of his shoe, scratching for his eyes at the same moment. But, just when she was about to aim a knee at her brother's softer parts--uncertain as she was of hitting such a small target--ready to run like hell, Jamie grabbed her arm, twirling her violently away. It was only his hand that held the gunman back from attacking her further, as she hit the bed, bruising her leg badly in the process. She pulled herself into a sitting position, repressing the wince, only to glare at her brother, as he moved in front of the door--his eyes sizing her up in the terrible way they had both inherited from their father. But it was then that she realized that she might be luckier than she had thought.
Jamie's words went on, as she began to plan--as much as she was capable of, given the situation; she was only half-able to listen to him. "You think you can get away that easily?" He snorted, but her mind was firmly turned toward the piece of furniture which was now right beside her--the bedside table. "You're going to die tonight." He shrugged, as she thought about its contents. "Whatever Greg wants to do to you will seem mild in comparison."
This seemed unlikely but wasn't where her mind was focused--the plans forming again. The bedside table was where she and Michael kept the gun; her eyes narrowed in a way neither of these men understood. If she could just keep them talking, rather than reacting--if she could just distract them for long enough--she could . . .
The thought worked from there, only half-planned but fully fueled by desperation. If she could only delay them, she might be able to grab it, could hold them off. But for how long? Her eyes widened. And could she ever, actually pull the trigger?
This question had no immediate answer--certainly none she wanted to discover--but all options had already ceased. There had never been a clearer example for her of "kill or be killed"; her shudder was fortunately misunderstood by her captors. She simply had no choice anymore.
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