"You did very well today."

Buffy's voice was soft, almost gentle, as her hands pushed Spike firmly back against the stone wall of the basement room that had been his prison for the past two weeks -- and would be his prison from now on, he remembered again with a sense of despair...no matter how nice she had tried to make it look on the surface.

Buffy had spent the day before the Scoobie meeting rearranging the basement, bringing in Spike's old furniture from his crypt, his chair, bed, and television, and just generally setting up the room so that it would look as if someone actually lived there, rather than the dungeon of horrors it had become recently.

After all, she had explained, she knew very well that she couldn't keep Dawn out of the basement *all* the time; that would certainly make the younger girl suspicious. And there was always the chance that one of the other Scoobies might occasionally have cause to be in the basement, and it simply wouldn't do to have them find any evidence of the events of the past two weeks.

Oh, the evidence was still there, though carefully hidden. The implements of torture she seemed to take such pleasure in using on his vulnerable body were hidden away in the closet, along with the extra set of shackles she had often attached to the posts of his bed.

And as for the rings bolted into the wall in several places, hanging from the ceiling in another, with chains still attached to them -- items Spike had vaguely hoped might at least prompt questions about their purpose -- Buffy had managed to gain the perfect explanation for their presence.

There was always the chance, she had conceded to her friends' point during the argument, that Spike's chip might eventually break down. For that reason, whenever she was not with him and he was in the house, she had agreed to her friends' demands that Spike be restrained -- chained up.

She had the *permission* of her friends to keep him a prisoner.

Only Dawn might object to that, and Buffy had already made it very clear to him what would happen -- to him *and* to Dawn -- should he dare to attempt to confide in the younger girl about the darkest of their secrets.

Spike was far too familiar with the horrors of Buffy's wrath to willingly incur it, now that he was so fully under her control -- and the threat of harm to her little sister merely sealed the deal.

There was no way that he would place Dawn in the path of Buffy's rage.

If it meant going through the endless stress and fear and humiliation of that meeting at the Magic Box that afternoon, again and again, he would do whatever it took to be sure that Dawn was safe; though even when he did his best to do what Buffy told him, there was still the other fear, in the back of his mind -- that he might accidentally give something away, fail in the task she had given him, and bring her fury down on himself, and anyone else who happened to learn her secrets through his failure.

However, at the moment, he was relieved to see that Buffy seemed to be relatively pleased with him.

"I don't think anyone caught on at all," Buffy went on softly, a satisfied smile on her face as her hands slowly worked the buttons of his shirt. "You did so good...I just might reward you tonight, Baby..."

Spike tried not to flinch when her warm hands glided under the soft material, running slowly down his chest, and then back up again, pushing him forcefully back against the wall as her mouth fell on his hungrily. He fought his natural reaction to push her away, keeping his hands carefully down at his sides, as he did his best to return the kiss, his mouth trembling and tentative against hers.

When she drew back, she smiled into his eyes as she pushed his shirt down off his shoulders, pulling him away from the wall enough to allow it to fall to the floor behind him -- revealing the dark mottled pattern of bruises and other marks that covered his abused torso, from her previous attentions.

Those marks spoke as plainly as the magical mark still concealed by his jeans -- he was hers.

As if her thoughts followed his own, Buffy reached down to trace the mark by memory through the denim that covered it, her other hand dragging down the zipper of his jeans as she murmured softly, "Who do you belong to, Spike?"

"Y-you," he whispered automatically, his eyes closed and his face turned away in shame that he could not conceal.

"That's right," she replied, her voice so mild and calm that when she suddenly jerked his jeans down around his knees, and gripped his limp member painfully, it caught him completely off guard.

He let out a yelp of pain and startled fear, his hands scrabbling at the stone behind him in an attempt to hold onto something -- *anything* to keep him from the natural defensive reactions that were quickly becoming only a distant memory. He knew better than to even think of fighting back at this point.

"I saw you talking to her, Spike," Buffy informed him, her tone not changed as she jerked him forward slightly by her cruel hand at his groin. "I know you wanted to tell her our secrets. You wanted to tell her everything -- didn't you?"

"No," Spike insisted, shaking his head desperately. "No, please, Buffy..."

"If you *dare* lie to me," she snarled, gripping his hair and jerking his head back, forcing him to face her as her hand tightened on his body, "Spike, I swear I'll..."

"*Yes*!" he gasped out the admission, tears of pain and humiliation streaming from his eyes. "Yes, I did -- I wanted to -- but I didn't -- I didn't, Buffy, please...please don't..." he sobbed helplessly.

Immediately her hand softened, falling lower to stroke soothingly up and down his leg, her hand in his hair gentling as well as she said, "There -- that wasn't so hard, was it? All I ask is that you be honest with me, Spike."

That was *not* all she asked, he thought resentfully. She wasn't happy unless she had *everything* -- all of him.

And she *did* have it.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, swallowing reflexively as her body shifted in closer to his, her hands going to his hips in a possessively affectionate gesture. "I'm sorry, Buffy..."

"It's all right," she assured him gently, and as she pulled him closer to her, one hand rising to press his head down toward her shoulder, he felt his shame deepen at the sense of gratitude he felt for the slight tenderness she was showing him, however false. "It's okay -- because you didn't tell her. I know. I would know if you had, Spike. You know that."

He nodded against her shoulder, no longer trying to hold back his tears, tears for emotions that he could no longer distinguish, one from the other.

Her lips brushed against his ear as one hand ran soothingly through his hair, the other resting low on his back. "And besides," she went on, her voice just over a whisper. "You don't want her to try to get involved. You don't want me to hurt her. Do you, Spike?"

He shook his head emphatically, a tremor of fear going through him, and he tried to pull away, to look at her as he made his plea -- but she held him in place as she went on in that same soft, lulling tone of voice.

"I won't -- as long as you keep your mouth shut. And I know you will, Sweetheart." She paused, waiting for him to relax slightly again, though his entire body was always filled with tension these days, no matter how hard he tried to relax. "As for the others," she went on finally, "you heard them today. I told them you were raped -- abused -- humiliated -- and they didn't. Care."

Though her tone was soft, there was a cruelty there that made him flinch slightly at the words, swallowing back his own bitter shame with a sob.

"You mean nothing to them, Spike," she continued in a nearly hypnotic whisper. "They *hate* you. It doesn't bother them in the least to see you suffering. *I'm* the one that matters to them, Spike. Me. I'm the Slayer -- and when it all comes down to it, they'll do what I say. Think what I want them to think. You know that as well as I do."

She was silent, waiting for a response, and he nodded against her shoulder again, feeling his heart breaking under the weight of the despair her words were birthing within him anew.

"I'm the only one that should matter to *you*, too, Spike," she reminded him, a slightly warning note to her voice. "I say what happens to you. Your entire existence is *mine*. All you need to concern yourself with is making. Me. Happy. This is your life, now, Spike. You are mine -- and *no one* is going to help you. Do you understand that?"

She drew back then, her coldly glittering eyes boring into his until he dropped his gaze, nodding submissively as he whispered, "Y-yes, Buffy."

"Good," she smiled warmly as her hand stroked down the side of his face, and he flinched at the contact. Her voice took on a voice of soft command as she stepped back away from him and ordered quietly, "Now get on your knees."

***********************************

"We have to help him."

Dawn frowned up at the pacing blonde witch from her seat on the couch, confusion in her dark eyes. Tara had refused to tell her what was urgent, why it was so important that she go back with her to her apartment before returning hope to spend time with Spike, until they were in the privacy of Tara's own living room -- and as far as Dawn was concerned, Tara *still* wasn't making much sense.

"Tara," she protested, shaking her head, "he's fine. We were wrong. Didn't you hear what Buffy...?"

"I heard what she said," Tara interrupted, her voice trembling with anger, though it was obvious that it was not aimed in Dawn's direction. "I think she was lying."

Dawn's eyes widened with surprise. "Tara -- why would she make up something so horrible? And -- do you really think that Spike would just sit there and let her tell such a humiliating lie about him? Don't you think he would have said something? Spike's not so much good with the whole keeping quiet thing."

"Unless she made him."

Dawn blinked, surprised -- and unsettled by those words. She swallowed back a sick lump that had formed in her throat, searching Tara's face with troubled eyes as she asked hesitantly, "Tara -- you don't really think that Buffy'd go that far, do you? To make up some big elaborate lie and tell it to all of her friends? To *me*? And -- and *why* would she do it? You know? It just -- doesn't make sense."

"Abuse doesn't make sense, Dawnie," Tara said, her voice slightly sharper than she meant it to be. "It's all about control -- and power -- and if Buffy's gotten a taste of that control, with Spike -- you might be surprised the lengths she'd go to to keep it."

"But -- Spike didn't seem like he was faking," Dawn observed after a moment's thought, her eyes focused on the wall as she remembered the scene. "He seemed like he'd really been -- been hurt. I -- I took his hand under the table, and he -- he totally broke down, Tara. Crying. Not just crying -- *sobbing*. That's so not Spike, Tara. Not unless something like that really did happen to him."

Tara said nothing, just looked up to meet the girl's eyes, an anguished expression in her own that said silently the things she could not bring herself to say aloud -- not to Dawnie.

Dawn's face went pale as understanding came over her, and she shook her head in denial. "Tara -- no. Buffy would never..."

"She already has. More than once," Tara finally *did* find the words, when faced with Dawn's flat denial. She knew that there was only one way to convince her of what Buffy was capable of, and that was with the truth of what she knew she had already done. "Spike told me," she added for emphasis, holding the younger girl's gaze.

Dawn stared at her with rising horror, still shaking her head in denial. "No -- not Buffy," she whispered. "Tara -- you're making this up. She wouldn't..."

"She did."

Dawn flinched at the simple words, as if at a blow, still staring at the older girl. "So -- so you think -- what?" she asked, her voice trembling with an almost hysterical note to it. "You think Buffy -- *raped* him, and then made up that story -- to cover it up? Or what?"

"To cover it up," Tara nodded, "and to explain why he's staying in the basement." She looked back up at Dawn, her eyes serious and concerned. "He was so scared, Dawnie. I talked to him, after you walked away -- and Dawn, he's hiding something...and whatever it is, he's scared to death. Of *Buffy*. She's hurt him before, Dawnie, a lot. That much I've known for a long time. You -- you weren't there those nights -- when she hurt him so bad he couldn't even walk. She *broke* his legs, Dawn. He was *terrified* of her, way before -- this. And he still is."

Dawn was silent, tears welling in her eyes as she found herself faced with a painful truth she did not want to believe.

After a moment, Tara continued, "I think she found out he was running away the night he was going to leave -- and she stopped him. I think she's kept him a prisoner somewhere -- most likely in your basement -- since then. And I think today was just part of a big fake-out to make us all accept it, so she can just keep on doing whatever she wants to do to him."

She waited again, allowing those words to sink in, before she added softly but firmly, "And we have to stop her."

Dawn was quiet, thinking it through, her jaw set with determination, though her eyes were full and flowing over with tears.

"We have to know," she said finally. "One way or the other. I have to -- to find out if it's true or not."

Tara wanted to retort that she *knew* it was true, but wisely held her tongue. This was the sort of thing Dawn would have to see for herself to fully believe.

"Do you think -- do you think he'd tell me?" Dawn's voice was uncertain, tentative.

"No," Tara replied without hesitation. "He wouldn't want to get you involved, Dawnie. Neither he or Buffy is gonna say anything to give anything away. You're pretty much just gonna have to -- to catch them in the act."

Dawn frowned, troubled. "Okay -- but how? And -- if Buffy's really as dangerous as you think she is -- isn't that kind of -- well, dangerous?"

Tara shook her head, a slow smile beginning on her lips, as an idea began to take shape in her head. "Not with this idea I just got. Okay -- here's what I'm thinking..."