Free Rampant by Gemma James Page A

about my state of mind like my brother’s phone calls did. It didn’t ask if I remembered anything. But it also didn’t tell me shit. That damn cage in the cellar might, if I could only force my brain to cooperate.
    I swayed for an instant and did a double take at the bottle. Who knew vodka could go down so well. As I stumbled a path to the cellar door, I kicked myself for turning to alcohol. Booze only numbed the problem temporarily, and it turned smart people into fucked up stupid people. I pulled the door open and took an unsteady jaunt down the stairs, then came to a stop in front of the evidence I wanted so badly to deny.
    Maybe you should take a peek in the cellar.
    Jax’s words from last week echoed through the space between my ears. I stared at the cage, my mind trapped inside, a prisoner to the unknown as I willed it to impart the things my brain refused to remember.
    When Jax told me about my eight-year prison sentence, I’d had a difficult time believing him. When he’d told me about Alex’s accusation, that had been even harder to accept. But the bigger part of myself, the part that was still stuck in the past by eight years, was horrified by what he claimed I’d done. To Alex.
    I still remembered her as this too-tempting not-so-innocent girl that liked to play with my head. Alex and her jade come-hither gaze that never failed to burrow beneath my skin like a first degree burn. Constantly flirting, teasing, driving me fucked up crazy.
    It might have been nothing more than a schoolgirl’s crush, but underneath the flirting, I sensed she’d cared about me. I had no idea why. I was a ticking time bomb with too much pent up anger. Fighting was the only thing that gave me relief. If I psychoanalyzed myself long enough, I’d probably find an insecure little boy with abandonment issues. Just another statistic who’s mommy left when he was too young. And the deviant sexual appetite…well fuck, I was shot to hell once I added that into the mix. If I was this fucked up now…back then…shit this was confusing, then how badly had eight years of prison messed me up?
    I glared at the cage, but it continued to engage me in a silent standoff. I lifted the vodka and took another swig. Maybe the alcohol would facilitate my traitorous psyche. Those bars would tell me the secrets they held, tell me how I could have turned into the kind of man who would kidnap a woman and lock her inside.
    Not just any woman. Alex…who still hadn’t emerged. If I’d let her go, as Jax speculated, then where was she? Had I tortured her so badly that she’d put a bullet in me and left me for dead? Was she hiding somewhere, terrified I’d find her and bring her back to the island?
    And finally, it clicked. The island, water…fuck. I really had tormented her.
    “Tell me why I did it,” I said, raising a hand menacingly, finger pointing in accusation at the prison. I tipped the bottle back and chugged. Jax said I’d wanted revenge. I didn’t buy it. If I’d truly wanted retribution or comeuppance, there were other ways. I could have dug until I proved my innocence. I could have unleashed public humiliation on her.
    Or maybe I’d been guilty all along.
    I might not remember taking and locking her inside that homemade prison, but deep down I knew why I’d done it. I’d taken her because I’d wanted to. My hand fell, no longer accusing metal and concrete of unspoken sins, and drifted to the front of my tented boxers.
    Closing my eyes, I imagined her helpless behind those bars, her arms pulled above her head tightly, painfully, feet arching as she tried to balance on her toes. Creamy, round breasts, perfect nipples erect, waiting to be punished. Her mouth spread wide with a gag, and my belt secure around her throat. Tight and inescapable.
    Her body, her will, her freedom, trapped to my every whim.
    I’d force her legs apart, rub my cock between them, taunting, taking power and leaving her with none, all the while pulling her head