by Lana Sky
“Keep your phone close, Ms. Thorne. When I’m ready for you, I’ll call. Adiós.”
The elevator doors slide neatly shut, closing him off. And suddenly my chest deflates as I exhale the breath I wasn’t even aware of holding.
Damien can go to hell. One where he’s forced to have all his senses to better contemplate his eternal suffering.
When I return to my room, I sample his coffee out of spite and almost spit it right back out. Damn. It’s perfect, made exactly to my daily preference.
Too exact. Almost as if he’s stood over my shoulder and watched me brew it for the past ten years, tweaking my habit to an art form. I take only one more sip before I toss the rest down the sink. Then I cross to my painting and observe it in the growing daylight despite how time stubbornly marches on. I’m late again. Or I would be if I were to go into the office.
Even the thought of returning now makes goosebumps prickle on the back of my neck. Not entirely because of what happened—but because of what hasn’t.
No one’s called reporting a break-in.
No police have asked about my attack.
The fact that someone could invade a public building in one of the busiest cities in the world without so much as a video popping up on social media is…
Chilling. Only Simon could pull it off—or someone far worse.
Rather than speculate, I call the building and confirm that Gus is alive and well at least.
“He had to leave early last night,” the security supervisor explains. “Bad Chinese food.”
Unease gnaws at my nerves as I linger in my apartment, sensing the flickering shadows from the corner of my eye. Every noise from the hall has me jumping, and my mind races with possibilities. Simon? Or Damien?
Which monster would I prefer? That’s the true question and I hate that I can’t answer it. My thoughts are too jagged to untangle.
In the hopes of finding some semblance of peace, I shed my rumpled clothing and climb into the shower of the guest bathroom, where everything is pristine and unbroken. God, I hate the woman watching me from the mirror. It’s angled so that I have a clear view of myself, even while underneath the spray. Pale. Thin. Wide-eyed and haunted.
My right shoulder is bruised around the cut, which looks much worse when viewed from a distance. My lower lip is bitten, and even Damien couldn’t clean up the worst of the vomit.
I’m disgusting, more grotesque than one of Sampson’s paintings. All I need is a bed of blood-red roses to complete the aesthetic.
For now, my only accessory is the white towel I wrap around myself as I return to my bedroom and eye my closet critically. Every single item repels me. There’s too much black. Too much tailored perfection. I spot a crumpled mass of wrapping paper and ribbon in the wastebasket near the foot of my bed and stiffen. How long has it been since I’ve worn that shade of purple?
My wardrobe doesn’t contain the color at all. Maybe not since that day, all those years ago when I was dressed from head to toe in the shade. The best clothing Goodwill and Walmart could supply.
I wince. Bitter nostalgia strikes like an invisible fist to my stomach. I inhale raggedly and find something else to focus on. Like Damien. I left his sketch of me in the living room.
Still dripping wet and wearing only my towel, I head toward it. I’ll rip it up this time and toss it into the trash, where it belongs.
Wait. My footsteps falter near the mouth of the hall before I even register my nostrils flaring. A faint, almost floral taint. Cologne? His scent announces his presence without my having to see him there, sitting on my couch, his posture imposingly erect.
“W-what are you doing here?” I mean to sound indignant. Not curious.
“Good evening.” Damien inclines his head without facing me directly, almost as if he’s riveted by the view from my window.
It’s already late in the day. Indigo twilight washes over the horizon as a storm rages on. Thunder rumbles ominously. Lightning flashes. Funny. I didn’t notice either until now.
“You weren’t near your phone.” His low tone perfectly mimics the muffled sounds of the storm.
He’s wearing black again, the hypocrite—a suit tailored to perfection, crowned by a blood-red tie. Rather than the white cane, a real one made of carved wood leans against his knee. The handle of it is silver, shaped into the visage of a roaring lion.
“I wasn’t?” I ask innocently. “I’ve been busy today.”
“You haven’t left this apartment.” He sounds too damn sure of that, as if daring me to make the next leap in logic.
“Oh? And how would you know that?” I clutch my towel so tightly that my knuckles whiten. Things came back to me while I was in the shower. Memories I shied away from exploring in full, each one far too vivid to be from a nightmare. “Because you’ve been following me, haven’t you? You knew what kind of wine I’d gotten. No one knows that—”
“I know everything about you,” he says amid another foreboding strike of lightning. “Like the fact that you haven’t expressed an interest in art a day in your life. That you manipulate lives for a living. That you and your father are one and the same.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He shifts in my direction and, God…I can feel his gaze piercing through me when it shouldn’t.
“It means, if you want to play this game, I’ll let you. To use your turn of phrase, let’s get this over with.” He lifts something clenched in his fist. A pen? No, it’s too wide. Another flash of lightning illuminates the liquid inside and the long, thin tip encased in a plastic lid. A syringe. “I’ll let you get a taste of what it’s like to be truly helpless.”
As if I don’t already know how that feels. The storm building in intensity around us only compounds that fact. God, I just pray I won’t panic, not around him. “Get out.”
“Sí. As you wish.” He rises to his feet, reaching for his cane. “Burn whatever information of mine Carla gave you. And you can keep the damn painting. I won’t contact you again—”
“How long have you been watching me?” I blurt.
A denial should be his first instinct. Not a rich bark of laughter that resonates through my core, deeper than another roar of thunder. Strange. I should be having flashbacks about now. Vomit-inducing memories. Damien shouldn’t be the one anchor tethering me to the present.
“Do you really want to know?”
“I… Do you stalk all of your potential subjects?” I counter.
“As I told you before, you are not a subject. They all concealed something worth learning.”
Apparently, I don’t.
“So, how does the injection work?” My throat goes dry as I eye the syringe still tucked into his free hand. The liquid catches what little light there is, giving off a faint shimmer. “You said it lasts for an hour.”
“Typically. But one may perceive even a minute of being immobilized as an eternity.”
He’s not even being clever with the threats anymore. They spring from him like knives, conveying the one thing he seems hesitant to say directly. You can’t handle this.
“So why do it?” I ask. “Someone doesn’t have to be frozen for you to touch them.”
He laughs again and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
“If you have to ask, then you don’t really understand my art as you claim to, sí?”
His words have me eyeing my painting again. Oh. As implied, the answer is in plain sight. There was no physical reason for his method. No, his motives are purely psychological. Every stroke captured the model’s desperation. Her fear.
“Shouldn’t you do this in your studio?” I ask. He doesn’t have a briefcase with him, or canvas, or any other supplies.
“No,” he says, his face illuminated by another flash of lightning. Thunder crashes, and the light in the room grows dimmer, swallowed by roving storm clouds.
I stiffen, ready for the fear. Visions of the forest. Simon. Anything but him.
Damien
won’t be banished so easily. He remains, tilting his syringe for my benefit. “This is merely for you to get a taste of just what you’re requesting. I don’t tailor my methods for anyone.”
“And I’m not asking you to.” Though why is that, exactly? I couldn’t say.
My toes curl into the carpet as if to hinder every slow, careful step I take toward him. I stop just beyond his reach. If he comes for me, I can react. Or so I tell myself. “How do I know you won’t kill me?”
“You don’t.” His voice falls flat.
“Fine, then.” I tilt my chin and desperately try to combat the tremor in my voice. “What if you rape me while I’m like this?”
“Oh, but it wouldn’t be rape, would it? In case you’ve forgotten my terms, you submit to me for however long you’re under the drug’s influence.”
He sounds too damn smug. As if he’s well aware of my pounding heartbeat. He wants to scare me—and he has.
“So…I’d have to trust you,” I say, much more for my benefit than to score a reaction from him. But that word. It makes his upper lip pull back from his teeth.
“You’d submit.”
“And everyone does this?” I shouldn’t sound so hollow. So calm. Not when I can barely coax any air to go into my lungs.
He says nothing, letting me piece the answer together on my own. I’m not sure how long we stand there in silence before he finally taps the tip of his cane against the floor. “Goodnight, Ms. Thorne—”
“So we’ll do it here, then?” I inch toward the couch. That strip of expensive leather and padding has never seemed so menacing. Damien’s presence can turn everyday objects into new and unusual weapons of torture. I’ve walked this path a million times and never felt this sharp, aching thrill. “Or the bed?”
But I’m already sitting down, painfully aware of him behind me. He has yet to move away from the door. Maybe he won’t. A sharp hiss is my only warning that once again I’ve foiled his expectations. For good or bad?
I’ll worry about the answer later.
Minutes trickle by. Far too long. I’m freezing, still wearing only my towel. I should change. I start to rise and nearly jump out of my skin as a sharp thud shatters the silence, too close to be thunder.
“Sit,” Damien commands.
From the corner of my eye, I see him lift his cane, the source of the sound. My legs fold like lawn chairs, depositing me right back down.
“S-should I get dressed?” I ask him.
“No.” Slow, steady footsteps bring him to me.
I sense him, even before his hand settles over the back of the couch, searching. He swipes along the rim until he reaches my shoulder. With deliberate familiarity, he circles his fingers around the ridge of muscle and bone.
“It will be an intramuscular injection,” he says. Warning me? “There will be some initial discomfort. Then numbness. You’ll be able to breathe, but speaking will be difficult and I recommend against it. Do you have any medication allergies?”
I shake my head.
“Fine, then.” He sounds resigned, more to his choice than my own. “Sit still. After this, I’ll accept no change of heart. Do you agree to my terms?”
I should mull over the question, creating a dramatic silence worthy of the coward he thinks me to be. Mainly, I should cower and shiver beneath his touch. Not glisten with sweat I know he can feel.
“I agree,” I say, copying his formal language. “I agree to your terms—” My voice ends in a hiss. Unseen, he must have injected me, right into the muscle of my upper arm.
“Discomfort” was an understatement. Burning fire consumes the muscle and spreads. I can feel it trickling into my bloodstream. My fingertips sear. My legs. My chest.
“It will take at least ten minutes for the full effect,” Damien explains.
I hear a noise that sounds like his cane being propped against the back of the couch. Knuckles cracking next. Fabric rustling. His coat being shed, I realize as he circles around to face me.
He cocks his head, listening. I’m starting to recognize how he compensates for the loss of his vision—he’s attentive. Calculating.
“S-should I lie down?” My voice comes out a scarce whisper, though I doubt the drug has taken effect this quickly. The sight of him has its own paralyzing effect. He’s here, enforcing his presence in a way even Simon never has. I taste his flavor on my tongue and I’m not sure whether to spit him out or…
“It’s up to you,” he says, reinforcing his indifference to this entire situation. Poor man. I’ve confounded him—even though he’s the one who broke into my home and put the choice before me in the first place.
My arm is starting to throb, so I decide to lie flat on my back with the site of the injection toward the open end of the couch. I’ve barely settled against the leather when I catch his frown.
“Remove the towel.”
I can’t silence my gasp. “H-how did you know?” Ignoring the fact that I mentioned getting dressed, I could be wearing pajamas for all he knew. No. Towel is far too specific. Just how long has he been here?
“You were in the shower,” he says, only extending my curiosity. “You then went into the bedroom, but you didn’t enter your closet. I didn’t hear hangers being moved. Or drawers being opened. You take at least ten minutes to dress normally, but you were out in three.”
He recited such a methodical list for a reason. To inflict the most terror. And he has.
My eyes go to the door. I can still move my limbs. Long enough to get help? I brace one foot against the floor, preparing to stand.
“How long have you been watching me? How? Do you always come into my house while I’m—”
“You should conserve your energy, Ms. Thorne. We’re already at two minutes.”
“Then admit it,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “How long have you been stalking me?”
“I think a better question is: Who else might be watching you, Juliana Thorne?”
I flinch at the insinuation. He knows of the wine, but is he aware of who sent it and why? Does he know about Simon?
“As for why, it’s simple: Because I can. I’ve had a window into your life you couldn’t realize in your nightmares.”
My fingers clutch the couch on either side of me, readying for the moment I decide to run. Which is exactly what he wants me to do. He’s goading me on purpose. Scaring me. I should damn well take the hint. I shouldn’t question.
“If I’m so uninteresting to you, then why waste your precious time and resources following my boring, predictable life?”
He frowns. “I’ll tell you why: Heyworth Thorne.”
“My father?”
“Sí. Don’t sound so surprised, Juliana. I’m sure you’ve gotten enough reminders this week alone as to why someone might have a grudge against your father. Why I might…”
Ah. A not-so-subtle insinuation that he’s spied on me in my office as well. “So you know about the messages I’ve gotten. Friends of yours?”
He chuckles. “I prefer to send more…direct messages, Ms. Thorne.” His fingers flex at his sides, drawing my attention. I see a sudden image of him hunched over a sheet of paper, channeling his rage into vivid sketches.
“What do you have against my father?” I’m merely stalling now.
I’m not as naïve as Mr. Villa appears to think, and the recent news coverage merely exposed an open secret: Daddy isn’t as perfect as he pretends to be. Neither is his judgment.
“Did he convict you of too many traffic violations or something?”
“Too many traffic violations…” He laughs again, more deeply than before. The sound serves as a chilling foil to another crack of thunder, louder than all those before it. “You should really read a newspaper article, Ms. Thorne. It’s right there in black and white.”
Ah, but wasn’t he the one who spelled it out for me? I’m sheltered. Innocent. A fucking pathetic coward. Daddy has his own demons to deal with, and I’ve been more than willing to let him battle them alone.
“Enlighten me, then,” I demand. Forming the words takes more effort than it should. The clock on the wall reveals why. Seven minutes.
“No.” He crosses to me like a snake, sensing out my position through motion and sound. His hand reaches out, his fingers searching until they find my chin. “I’ll let you think about it, Juliana.” He tilts my head back and my limp muscles are no match. I can’t even raise a finger against him. “I’ll let you play with every dark scenario that might flit around that simple mind of yours. You worried that I might kill you. Rape you. But do you know what I really want to do to you?” He leans in close, his breath hot on my skin.
My throat refuses to form words. Even a gasp. All I can do is stare.
“I’m going to let you sit here in the fucking dark. Alone.” He drags his thumb in a cruel imitation of a caress as terror locks me in a vise-grip. “Do you know the real reason why I stayed with you last night? You begged me to. Nothing terrifies you more than silence. The darkness. The emptiness…”
He’s lying. I cling to that hope, even as the repressed memories from last night flutter to the surface. Thrashing on sweat-soaked sheets, seeing Simon in the shadows. Grasping someone’s hand so tightly that I could sense the bones and ridges that made up their fingers. Touching skin so soft that I could tear it. Croaking a single word over and over. Stay. Stay. Stay. Stay.
My eyes blink rapidly—the only physical act I have control over.
“Enjoy your night, Ms. Thorne.” He steps back, silhouetted by the storm raging behind him, and moves beyond my line of sight.
“D-don’t…” I have to shove the word off my tongue, my chest heaving with the effort.
He’ll leave anyway. I wait for the sound of the door slamming shut. For the silence that’s become the soundtrack of my adult life.
I wait.
And he lingers, lurking just beyond the reach of my peripheral vision. Air trickles in and out of paper-thin lungs. The clock tells me why; it’s beyond ten minutes. My muscles and nerves have become deaf to any command my brain issues. I can’t even turn my head. Only my ears aid in sensing just where he is. Paces from the couch. Maybe in that exact spot where the carpet turns to the tile of the kitchen. From there, and with his height, he’ll have the perfect view of me. Sprawled upright, trapped beneath the towel. Without my fingers to support it, the terrycloth rides dangerously low. And yet…
