Page 48 of Bronson

When I release him, his gaze is soft. He gives me one long look. “Ready?”

Bronson

Don’t expose her. She can’t handle it. She’ll run.

You almost went crazy when she left. And that was only for a few hours.

Imagine if you lost her… for good.

Ignoring the voice of doubt shouting in my mind, I think instead of the sweet taste of her pussy. How her velvety lips felt pressed up against my mouth. The way she came with that quiet shudder. The way she kissed me afterwards, like she wanted every bit of me to be hers.

I press my thumb on the keypad. (Why we still call it that is beyond me—we switched from keys to fingerprint and voice recognition years ago.)

The familiar metallic clang sounds as the gears kicks in. The gate slowly slides open.

Paige’s eyes widen.

I take her hand in mine. Tiny. Trembling.

“Come.”

We enter the Village.

A completely hidden, right in the middle of it all, civilization.

Entirely surrounded by a gray stone wall, it’s the size of a full city block. Behind the backs of the windowless buildings that surround it are dozens of black gates, identical to the one Paige and I have just come through.

The businesses and shops that form the square are all owned by Bachmans.

All with their own secret closet in the back of an office, a storeroom, a cloak closet.

They all have blocked exits, accessible only to our family. The gates are wide enough for our cars and each car is programmed with a sensor that automatically opens the gate, like our thumbprint. Which leads to a second gate. Which leads to our Village.

Streetlights light the square. There are a few people milling about. Couples holding hands. Couples kissing in the moonlight. People eating late dinners of bread and fruit and cheese. Drinking wine at bistro tables.

It looks like a completely ordinary evening in a small town.

Only it’s anything but.

“I had no idea this existed,” she gasps.

“No one does. With the exception of the Bachmans. And those we trust, with our lives.” I give her hand a squeeze. “We go through an extensive amount of psychological training—learning who we can bring in and who we cannot. I’m an exceptional judge of character.” A pang rips through my heart as I say, “I’ve only chosen wrong, once. And it ended with a life lost.”

Her big brown eyes widen.

Hand in hand we stroll to the center of the square. Her head turns from side to side, taking it all in. The homes are tall, beautiful row homes, three stories apiece. Seven homes to a street. Seven streets.

They homes are identical in their structure. Each one is made individual by the paint color, gardening and landscaping on the outside.

Within, décor varies greatly, but the footprint is exactly the same. First floor, laundry and kitchen. On the second floor, to the left is the living room, with a beautiful white marble fireplace. To the right, a large office.

The entire third floor is a master bedroom.

There are windows in all of the rooms, both on the western and eastern side of the homes. They are large windows, open to the back garden as well as the street. We may be a secret to the world, but amongst ourselves there are no secrets.

“How long has this all been here?” she asks.

“Bachmans began buying up the land in the late eighteen hundreds. Once the entire block had been procured, they slowly built the businesses on the streets, forming an empty square behind them. The backs of the buildings were all built with no windows on the backside, and the secret doors in the back, for preparation of the Village. Once that was all in place, they were ready to build homes. The rows of homes were built in early nineteen hundred. Each one has a kitchen and laundry on the main floor, living room and office on the second, and master bedroom on the third.”