Her head was throbbing. Her head was throbbing, and she couldn’t move. Her legs were in shackles—honest-to-god shackles—and her hands were cuffed above her head. And, perhaps strangest of all, she was on a bed.
Okay, so maybe being chained up was the strangest part of the scenario, but she knew for a fact that her bedroom had no chains. At least no chains that could be easily attached to her mattress.
And even if she did have chains that could be easily attached to her mattress, there was no explanation on this earth that could ease her discomfort at being shackled to a bed, her legs spread wide apart, and a headache the size of Lake Tahoe. Well, at least she was clothed. Being clothed and chained to a bed was infinitely better than naked and chained to a bed.
Her mind began to run its replay, and she suddenly remembered the furious growl of a blond vampire and the wall he’d slammed her into. Buffy’s eyes flew open and she twisted with a gasp, though the movement did little more than strain her already sore muscles. Spike. Spike had been watching her in the library. He’d watched her while doing something. And he’d managed to capture her by, well, running her into a wall, of all things cartoonish.
She’d known that a vampire was near. Hell, that was what her tinglies were for. She’d known that she wasn’t alone for several minutes before she decided to stop, because it had felt like Angel. Or rather, the presence had been familiar to her, and that only happened with Angel; therefore, she deduced that it had to be Angel, else it would have felt like something else. And even if she’d been slightly disappointed that her ex had lapsed back into his lurking-in-the-shadows routine, she could understand if he felt it was necessary. After all, things had been rather difficult and strained between them since he came back from Hell. He didn’t know how to act, and she didn’t know how he should act, so they’d kept their distance. Only…not really.
It was all so very awkward.
Not as strange, though, as confusing Spike’s vibes for Angel’s. Did that mean that she didn’t know Angel’s vibes anymore? Or did it mean that vamp vibes weren’t vamp-specific? She didn’t know; she just wouldn’t trust those vibes again.
Because right now? This wasn’t working out for her. She was shackled to an unfamiliar bed—really shackled. The chains attached to the cuffs around her ankles were stretched so tight that she couldn’t move her legs at all. The links around her wrists, while granting a little more wiggle room, were similarly too strong to break.
She was being held by a captor who knew slayers, and was familiar with slayer strength. She was being held by Spike.
But then again, she already knew that.
Why am I even alive?
The last time she’d seen Spike, he’d been carting an unconscious Drusilla out of the mansion. He’d left her to Angelus, despite their arrangement. Granted, that hadn’t really surprised her all that much. She’d figured, making the deal, that he’d bail the second that Dru was no longer a factor—once he saw a way to grab her and make a run for it.
He’d told her that night that he’d never return. Only now he had returned. He’d very much returned. He’d returned, knocked her out, slayer-napped her, and had her tied to a bed. Yeah, he’d returned. And judging by the drunken clashes coming from the other room, Buffy guessed that Dru was currently marketed as an accessory sold separately.
As her headache began to wane, the incoherent ramblings coming from the other room started crystallizing into actual words.
Though really, that didn’t make the situation any better.
“Right brilliant bit of thinkin’ you did back there,” he muttered. She didn’t need to be looking at him to know he was pacing. “So, mate. You got yourself a slayer.” He paused, and when she thought he might be peeking in at her, she slammed her eyes closed. While she had no idea what his plans were, something told Buffy that it would be best to feign sleep as long as possible.
He was silent for a long time. She felt his eyes on her, but she couldn’t be sure if she was imagining things or if he was actually doing the staring thing. However, judging by how close his voice was when he spoke next, she figured she hit closer to the mark with the second guess.
Spike swallowed hard, and her blood raced. “Right,” he said. “Right. You got yourself a slayer.”
Then she heard something that sounded suspiciously like a zipper being lowered, followed by a long, guttural moan.
Oh God.
He wasn’t…
“Slayer…” he whimpered, then gasped. His labored breaths became pants. His whimpers became mewls, and it hit her just seconds before he reached completion where she’d heard that sound before.
Earlier tonight. In the library.
Oh God. He’d been doing that while she worked out? Spike had…oh God.
“Buffy,” he moaned. “Oh fucking…sweet slayer…”
Oh. My. God.
There wasn’t an inch of skin that wasn’t red with shame. So he’d kidnapped her to do evil, dirty things to her? Well, that was certainly surprising. While Spike had always appeared to be many things, a sexual pervert wasn’t one of them. Then again, that might explain why he was masturbating and not touching her inappropriately. Not thrusting his icky Spike-shaped male parts into her practically virginal body. Not doing things that she’d have to stake him for. Because, really, kidnapping her and masturbating while she was chained to the bed was reason enough.
“Bleeding fuck,” he sighed, tugging his zipper back up. Then he was close—oh God so close—and she was certain that either her breathing or her heartbeat or a combination of the two was going to give her away.
It didn’t, though. At least he didn’t mention it if it did.
“So now I got me a slayer,” he said softly, his tone slightly giddy. “Question is…” He trailed a cold finger down the side of her neck, then over a breast, stopping to circle her nipple. “What do I do with her?”
She knew that tone. Her father often used it when he was either coming off or going on a bender. So she’d been kidnapped by a drunken slayer-killer who thought enough of her to masturbate as she lay unconscious, chained to his bed. Today was so not her day.
“Should kill you.” Spike lowered his face to her throat and bit lightly at her skin with blunt teeth. Buffy inhaled sharply, fighting every instinctual nerve in her body to keep from thrashing and bucking. It wouldn’t do her any good. Not now. No, Spike definitely had the upper hand.
Very definitely.
Well, two upper hands. Both of which were suddenly very interested in her boobs.
I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming. I’m gonna wake up and be in my room. And Spike…oh my God, I’m being groped by Spike.
His breathing had suddenly turned ragged. He was licking at her throat, his hands palming her breasts as his thumbs stroked her nipples through her thin camisole. There was something incredibly raw about an overly amorous Spike. And she had to wonder, for a minute, if he wasn’t mistaking her for Drusilla.
Just as she had to wonder why she wasn’t more pissed off than she was.
Probably because you’re not convinced that this isn’t a dream.
“Fuck, but you’re pretty,” he purred, his tongue flickering over the Master’s bite mark. “My pretty little slayer.”
His own words seemed to snap him out of whatever spell he was in. The next thing she knew, Spike had torn himself from the bed and was pacing again. Or rather, it sounded like he was pacing again. She wasn’t brave enough to risk opening her eyes. Not just yet.
If she opened her eyes, two things would happen. One: Spike would see she was awake, and things would likely get much worse. Two: she would see that she was still as she had been, that she really was chained to a bed in the burned-out factory, and Spike really had been getting up close and personal with both her and her girl parts just a second ago. Those were two realities she would really like to put on hold as long as she possibly could.
“Sodding miserable chit!” he snarled. “Oughta jus’ kill you. Oughta rip your bloody heart out for what you’ve done to me!”
Right. Sense was being made there. It wasn’t like she’d ever done something as crazy as, oh say, this. Still, drunk Spike was better than sober Spike. Drunk Spike could make a mistake. Drunk Spike would make a mistake, and then this brief stint into nonreality would be over.
“Need…Christ, I gotta get outta here.”
Whoa…wait.
Leave? As in…leave? He was going to leave her here?
Buffy strained against her bindings. Yeah, those were really strong chains. Really strong.
And Spike was leaving? That was so not of the good.
It took a few minutes of silence to summon the courage to open her eyes.
The damn vampire had actually done it. He’d actually left her behind.
Buffy gasped loudly and made several futile attempts to sit up. She pulled at her restraints, attempted to kick her legs; tried anything that would loosen the grip. But no—some cognitive, rational part of Spike’s drunken, idiotic brain had thought to make sure that his bindings were tight enough to hold her.
She was trapped.
God, she was trapped. In the factory. And Spike was gone. He might get drunk enough to forget about her. Or worse, he might not.
He might not.
And then it happened. At last, it happened. The haze was over, and reality stepped in with a vengeance.
Buffy had finally woken up.
To be continued