#implied training

She cleared her throat, tossing curls over her shoulder. Her eyes were cold and steady; she knew what she wanted and knew how to gain it. It sent a shiver through his skin, despite the cool room around them. "Beg on your knees, Em."

He cursed as his body began to respond. He sank to his knees, a hand stuck to the wall just behind him. Not the door, not even close. All of the training he thought he had successfully suppressed bloomed back to horrifying life within him. He swallowed hard, seeing before him the careful trap that had been laid for him.

And suddenly she was on him. Looming over him, all that chill radiating from her and freezing him to his very core. Her hand gripped his jaw tightly. Her nails sunk into his skin, a blunt echo of his past life. He swallowed tightly, fear gripping him in a way it had not for close to four years.

"Beg me to let you leave," Rhiannon hissed.

"Please." Emmett hated himself for giving in.

"That's a good boy." She squeezed farther, an insidious light bursting behind her eyes. "Beg for me, Em. I want to hear you beg for your little boy, your pretty wife. I want to hear you beg for mercy." Her hand trailed from his jaw to his neck, squeezing even tighter and she herself sunk into a crouch. She forced his head back against the wall. "I can keep you here, Emmett. I could keep you here forever. You'd never see her again, never have another show..."

"N-no, please."

"Never see that new baby of yours." Rhiannon grinned, vicious and sharp. "I should have thought of that, way back when. Stupid me, focused only on getting parts and staying relevant. If I had just gotten you to knock me up, you could still be just mine."

Emmett's breath came hard and fast, panicked and stilted. He couldn't get a good breath around her palm and fingers; his lungs were working too fast to let much in anyway. He blinked, tears prickling already. Begging was beneath him; it wasn't him anymore.

But it is, a voice in his head taunted.

And it was right.

He was on his knees, at her orders, even after so much separation. After an escape and a renewed life, he would still collapse under her orders. Her silvered tongue, wrapping around his bones, trapping him there for as long as she liked.

He thought of Faye, of August napping in his arms, of the nursery mural he had yet to finish. Still graphite sketch marks on the walls, not a speck of color yet. His body went heavy and limp with the sadness. He wanted to see them again, wanted to hold them again.

The only way out was through, and Emmett did not want to.

There was no other option.

"P-Please, miss." The words flowed out of him with embarrassing ease. His face flushed hot with shame, cooled only by the tears now spilling down them. "Please. Please let me go home, miss."

Rhiannon's grin widened. She was pleased. "You get to go when I say, Emmy."

His heart sunk. "Miss-."

"Oh your back, Emmett." She snapped in the air. "Kit, get over here. You're going to help me with our guest."

The last he had seen of her, his hands filled with cleaning products, she’d been dressed in only a sheer robe. The colorful record sleeve was clutched in her manicured fingers, her curls bouncing as she turned on bare toes and flatly hummed the tune. She had smiled flirtatiously, a mischievous glint in her brown eyes.

She called them her “playtime clothes” starting a few weeks ago. Wore them for hours around the house, draping herself over the furniture in all sorts of odd ways.

His nose curled. 

And when the sky is starless...

The scent of bleach burning in his nose was more appealing than “playtime clothes,” what he knew playtime clothes meant.

He knew what he was trained for, what she had requested he be. That hadn’t changed over the last two full years since he’d opened his eyes to her reddish brown curls and curious smile. Two years of the same, a basic routine of cooking, cleaning, laundry, dishes, rehearsing lines from his spot on the floor. Two years of Rhiannon’s voice giving orders from all corners of the house, taking phone calls for auditions and call backs. Two years of her calling him Em and Emmy and patting him on the head.

He was fairly sure he was older than her. By how much, he wasn’t sure. He knew he wouldn’t ever be sure. He was older the eighteen, he knew that much by heart. 

Just like she memorized scripts and advertisement copy, he had things memorized. Just like filters and headshots and apps on her phone took up space in her brain, he had things that would never leave his.

He was older than eighteen. He was called Emmett or 200166. He was a domestic with specified culinary training. He knew positions in arms and legs, stain removing techniques in his fingers. 

He knew certain sentences would fly from his lips without them registering in his head. He knew her favorite foods, her favorite perfume for each season, her favorite shows.

He knew her hand wasn’t supposed to drift across his chest while he dusted. He knew she wasn’t supposed to press him into the counter as he washed dishes. He knew he didn’t like the feeling of her teeth on his neck, her fingers in his hair, her nails scratching at the rise of his hipbones.

He winced, a head ache coming on. 

She rules her life like a bird in flight.

He knew these were bad thoughts.

He blamed the harsh chemicals, but knew it was the training. Another thing shoved into his head without his quite knowing how.

Her parents had arrived for a visit a month ago, taking her by surprise. She might have forgotten, they might have just stopped by with no notice. Emmett didn’t know and he wasn’t allowed to care. One minute he had been cleaning the tile backsplash with a little brush, head tilted so he could wedge himself under the upper cabinets; the next, he was standing upright with Rhiannon pressed to his side.

She had told her parents he was one of her dates, one that had stuck around and moved in. She steered the conversation around itself, creating whirl-pooling circles so the old couple never managed to ask questions to Emmett.

It had increased with frequency since that weekend.

She touched him more now, in ways that made his skin prickle and crawl. She ordered him to touch her in ways he knew he shouldn’t. His body obeyed her like he was supposed to, all the training flooding his nerves and limbs at once. Obey the owner, no matter what. His head knew it wasn’t really what he had been trained for, knew that this was what the romantics were for.

Would you stay if she promised you heaven?

He paused his scrubbing, pinching the bridge of his nose. Bleach filled his senses.

She was trying to turn him into one of those. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach. The idea made his lip curl. Didn’t she go on all those dates for a reason? Didn’t she make him iron and steam and zip up all those little dresses for a reason?

He could hear her singing now, carrying closer and closer to the open bathroom door. He rolled his shoulders and shifted his weight on his knees. If he was working, she’d leave him alone. If he was working, she’d move on. If he was cleaning, she would get bored and go back to her phone, her silly photos, work on her latest audition.

“Em? You still working?”

Will you ever win?

He paused, sitting up and glancing over his shoulder. “Yes, miss. Do you need something?”

Rhiannon was leaning against the doorframe. Her curls hung long and loose over her shoulders, the robe slipping open at the front. It looked like she had applied more lip gloss, her front teeth biting delicately into a shiny bottom lip. “I always need something, Em. You know that.”

“What can I do?” He dropped the sponge in the base of the tub, flexing his fingers against the dried-out feeling of his skin.

“Come here,” she replied, motioning with a single finger in the air. “I want to show you something I just bought.”

He didn’t have a choice. His body started moving before he knew, raising him to full height and walking towards her. He wanted to wash his hands, get the chemicals off his skin. He wanted to stall as long as he could. The headache still sitting low in his skull told him that was a bad thought. All he could do was keep his eyes on hers as she grasped his hand, tugging him towards the front room. 

Her robe fell all the way open, swinging with her hair.

The song was still playing.