Protector: City of Sin

by Jenny Lynn

  Time passed both rapidly and slowly. I had been deprived of light, and fresh air. I felt along the perimeter of the box, trying to give myself something tangible to focus on, my fingers examining every inch - for what, I didn't know. There were cracks, faults, a few holes that were likely blocked up above, not that anyone would hear me if I screamed.

  I needed to preserve the precious air I had, buried deep in the basement of a psychopath's mansion. Or should I scream? Take deep, panicked breaths until I passed out from a lack of oxygen? Was it better to die slowly, or to get it over with?

  I lay there, bound and immobile, thinking back on my life and the choices I had made. The hand I had been dealt. There was so much pain, so much had been stolen from me. Maybe it was better to fade away, for my body to turn to bone in a place where no one would ever find me. Where Beckett would eventually forget me and move on.

  Beckett. In my darkest moments, my mind always drifted to him. To his intense eyes, like staring into an impending storm, dangerous and thrilling. He could make me feel both safe and as if I was standing on the edge of a cliff, his touch electric.

  There was something unique between us, a bond built on shared loss. His broken parts craved the rough edges of my own deep-rooted damage. If I lived a thousand lifetimes, I would never find what we had. But then again, I'd never have to. I only had this lifetime, and my time was running out.

  I started to cry again, my heart breaking, yearning for Beckett so fiercely I felt like every cell in my body was being torn apart. Time lost all meaning, I drifted in and out of consciousness.

  The walls around me would seem to vanish, then reappear. My grip on reality, my last hope that I could stay strong through being kidnapped by criminals and sold to a monster, slipped away and I spiralled deeper.

  "Ella."

  I opened my eyes, but couldn't see. The hard surface beneath me was soft, and when I sat up my head didn't slam into wood - just open air. I was confused.

  "Ella, what's wrong?"

  I reached beside me, the voice familiar. I touched the contours of his arms, his firm chest, the angles of his face. I knew that face.

  "Beckett?"

  He pulled me into his arms and my head was spinning, trying to piece together what had happened between my last memory and now. How was this possible?

  "I don't understand-"

  Beckett kissed my forehead tenderly, holding me tight, my body pressed against his possessively.

  "You've gone through a significant trauma, Ella," he stroked my hair. I thought my heart would burst from the comfort of that familiar, intimate gesture. "You're going to be confused for some time, you’ll experience gaps in your memory. Some things you might never remember fully. Go back to sleep, you need your rest."

  I pressed my lips against his and he froze a moment, then he mercifully gave in to my silent plea. He rolled me onto my back, his lips covering mine, his tongue slipping inside, tasting me. I trailed my hands down his chest, over his taut abdomen, down towards the waistband of his boxer briefs. He groaned as I pulled them down, his heavy cock was already rigid.

  "Make me forget," I pleaded. “Please. I need to forget.”

  "You're mine," his voice in my ear, confident and possessive. "You'll never belong to anyone but me Ella, never again."

  Pulling my underwear to the side he slid into me, I gasped at that familiar tug. Holding onto his shoulders I arched my back, urging him deeper, claiming me intimately inch by inch. Wrapping my legs around his hips he rocked against me, sliding in and out, pinning me beneath his muscular body.

  "Say it, Ella," his voice ragged and demanding. "Say you belong to me."

  Only Beckett could demand submission from me. He had a beast in his, but it was a beast I could tame. A monster that I was willing to give into its darkest urges.

  "Say it," his voice was low a growl now, nearly feral with an intense need.

  "I'm yours," I gasped, holding onto him as he picked up speed. Holding onto him to ground myself in something real, holding onto something I could tether my sanity to. "I'm yours Beckett, now and forever."

  I felt my aching body unravel, having desperately needed this relief and catharsis. My ears were ringing, my skin misted with sweat as I struggled to catch my breath.

  Bending down, Beckett's lips crashed against mine, his hips chasing his own release with powerful thrusts that moved my body roughly underneath him. I was lost without him, his desperate desire showed me just how lost he had been without me, too.

  Moving his face to the small of my neck he moaned. I held him close as his movements lost their coordination and slowed, then stopped entirely.

  Beckett dropped to his side, still inside me, wrapping me in his arms tightly - as if he worried I'd float away from him like a balloon caught in the wind if he dared let go.

  "I love you," I sighed, my small body pressed against his. His chest, firm against my back. When he didn't answer I repeated myself, a bit louder this time.

  "I love you."

  Silence. I jolted as I realized he wasn't moving, his skin cold. Panicked, I sat up to turn over, but could barely move. I didn't understand, where had he gone? Where was I? I didn't understand-

  I screamed then, screamed for what felt like hours. Days, maybe, banging my limbs against the hard surfaces that surrounded me. A bird struggling, flapping its wings against the confines of a shoe box, the urge to be set free, more powerful than the damage being caused to its frail body. Was the box moving? Was it me? My imagination? Was I already dead and trapped in some purgatory?

  My flailing eventually yielded results, to my surprise, as I felt the lid budge. I hit it again and it bumped up a crack. Another shove, my body weak but determined, and it lifted.

  I blinked, shielding my eyes from the light. Instinctively I shrunk back, not sure where I was, what was real, or what was a delusion from my broken mind. My eyes darted, trying to make sense of it. Of anything.

  "There, there," cooed a voice that sent a shiver through me. "How was your little time out?"

  My eyes finally adjusted enough that I could make out Charles' face examining me. When he reached forward to brush a piece of hair from my cheek, my body twitched in fear.

  I was damp, sweaty, my hair matted, my lips chapped. I licked at them, suddenly desperately thirsty. He read my body language well, offered me a glass of water, cool and fresh with beads of condensation collected on the outside. I snatched it from his hand and drank it greedily, sweet relief soothed my throat that was on fire. He unbound my legs while I finished the entire glass.

  "Follow me," he said, as he offered me his outstretched hand. After the briefest moment, I took it. Nothing could be worse than the box.

  We walked up the stairs, down a hallway, into my room. I felt relief surge through me at the sight; a soft bed, a window, carpet under my feet, clean clothes laid out on the bed. In the bathroom, there was a steaming bath waiting for me. I looked at him and he touched the water.

  "It's nice and warm, go ahead Ella. Get in."

  I stripped from my dirty and tattered dress, stepped into the deep tub, and sighed as the water lapped at my skin. It was the most comforting thing I had experienced since my ordeal started. I tilted my head back, my eyes closed, the smell of jasmine bath oil wrapped around me like a daydream.

  "Now, Ella," Charles sighed. "I want you to know, I didn't enjoy that any more than you did."

  When I turned my head to look at him, he gave a wicked smile.

  "Okay, fine. Maybe I enjoyed it just a little." He laughed, his face softened a bit when he laughed, and I surprised myself by laughing a bit too.

  "The fact remains, there are rules, and I need you to follow them for your own safety, Ella. If you can do that for me, if you can obey me without question, I won’t need to punish you. If your life was complicated before, it's so much simpler now. We can be happy, do you understand?"

  I nodded. He seemed pleased.

  "That's a good girl," he stroked my hair. "I need y
ou to wash up and get dressed for me, I've laid something out for you. I'll be waiting downstairs."

  When he left me, I felt a wave of gratitude. I was grateful for the privacy to bathe myself, grateful to be out of the box, grateful to be alive. If this was the only life I was allowed to live now, maybe it needed to be enough for me?

  If I tried to escape again, I'd fail - and I'd be punished again in some horrible way that would be worse than death. Charles had made that point abundantly clear. Sometimes we were bound by ropes, by chains, or locked doors. Other times we're held captive mentally, and no matter what you try, you can't outrun a broken mind.

  I washed my body, my hair, my face that was streaky with dried salt from my tears. The fresh towel I wrapped around myself felt ridiculously decadent in the moment - even though it was similar to the thick, high quality towels I'd used all the time when I stayed with Beckett.

  That's the curious thing about luxury; you grow accustomed to it so quickly, and you can forget it just as fast under the right circumstances. After the torture I'd endured, this simple pleasure felt brand new again.

  I made use of what was in the bathroom vanity; I dried my hair, spread cream on my face and body, applied a bit of makeup. When I was finished, I headed into the bedroom, then I swapped my towel for the underwear and silver dress he had left out for me.

  Stepping into the delicate silver Louboutins, I fastened the ankle straps. I had barely moved my legs in a while, they were shaky - I still had no clue how long I had been in the box. I didn't want to know.

  When I left the room, I wondered what Charles wanted from me tonight. Drinks in the lounge again? Were we headed out - now that he knew I wouldn't run? Maybe dinner?

  I desperately hoped there would be food; I was starving. When was the last time I even ate? Breakfast? My mind was so foggy, nothing made sense anymore. Even after I eventually recovered from the shock of the box, a part of me understood things might never make sense again.

  Down the hallway, I descended the staircase of my luxurious prison, my body doing as it was told but my mind still locked away in that dark stale coffin. When I noticed Charles around the corner waiting for me, I stopped in front of him without saying a word. I felt dead inside. Numb.

  “Ah, there you are,” his voice was a sigh as he looked me over.

  The more damaged I was, the more I seemed to appeal to him. He was sick, I was broken - we were both wretched examples of humanity. Charles handed me a glass of champagne. I didn’t want to drink it on an empty stomach, but I didn’t refuse. I knew better. Drinks with the devil tonight, it seemed.

  He placed his hand at the small of my back, guiding me to another part of the house. I forced my body not to recoil from his touch and let him steer me. We came to a tall set of heavy black doors when he stopped and he lowered his head to look directly into my eyes.

  “I expect you to be on your best behavior tonight for our guests, is that understood?”

  “Guests?” I asked, my voice shaking. Was I about to be passed around to his equally sadistic friends? What fresh hell was about to be inflicted on me now - hadn’t I already endured enough?

  He smiled at me. “Yes, Ella, I do have a social life. And I hope you’ll be a part of it. Come with me now.”

  He pushed open the heavy doors and I walked into a large room, the air hazy with cigar smoke, a number of men milling about in conversation, and a few other young women who looked as vacant and miserable as I did. The conversations dissolved into hushed whispers as heads turned my way. Charles smiled, delighting in the entrance and the hungry, approving way a few of the other men were looking at me. I felt like a statue, a painting, a delicate crystal vase - something admired but far from human, just an object to be appraised solely for its beauty. I looked down at my feet.

  “Gentlemen, thank you for excusing me a moment. I’m sure you’ll agree my new companion makes a welcome addition to our little gathering.”

  Taking my hand, Charles pulled me into the room. I followed him like a puppet on a string. When I finally summoned the courage to look up I tried to hide my emotions; my revulsion of these people, my hatred, my despair. This was a world where feelings came to die a slow, painful death. Then I saw him. I was convinced I was losing it, my mind playing tricks on me in the dimly lit room, smoke and candles giving everything a soft glow. But when his eyes met mine, there was no doubt. We stared at each other, but it brought me no joy to see him here - it shattered my heart to pieces.

  Beckett.

  He was here. He came for me - again - which could only mean one thing.

  He was going to die.

  We both were.

  Epilogue

  Beckett

  Our lives are made up of a series of moments; we tend to think of it as linear, one thing spilling into the other seamlessly. If that was true, then why do we feel the weight of some memories more than others? They don’t just stand out in our minds, they define us. They change us, who we fundamentally are as people. The tragic death of loved ones, your first kiss, the birth of a child, a severe injury, falling in love.

  I had always been told that a man is more than the sum of his parts - it’s a lie. All we are is a sum of what happens to us, and what type of person we choose to be because of it. All I am is the sum of the pain criminals have inflicted on me, on the people I love, and the vengeance I have taken in turn. I have killed, shattered bones, broken countless laws. I regret nothing, and if that makes me a monster, I can live with that.

  But I can’t live without her.

  Standing in an unfamiliar room, in a criminal’s domain, I had tried to prepare myself for a moment that I knew would be one of those defining ones. I saw it coming, but it still hit me full force. I saw the bruises on her delicate skin, the hollow look in her soft eyes, the expression of hopelessness on her face. My Ella was a fighter. Whatever this asshole had done to her, the fight was gone. She didn’t even smile when she saw me here; if anything, she looked even more tragic.

  I didn’t notice I was walking towards her until I felt a tight grip on my arm holding me back. Shane looked me dead in the eyes and shook his head slightly. Not yet, his expression warned me. It’s not time yet.

  I shook him off me, turned back to face her direction. There would be no perfect moment, there was never a perfect moment. Take her, the dark parts of me whispered. Kill everyone in this room, spray the walls with the blood of anyone who stands between you and what’s yours. Do it Beckett, DO IT.

  Ella James. You rescued me, you’ve given me a life worth living.

  Now it’s time for me to repay the immense debt I owe you.

  Tonight, I will save you.

  Tonight, we save each other.

  Love Letter

  Dearest You;

  This is a different kind of love letter - my love letter to you, reader. I want to sincerely thank you for letting me take you on a journey, introducing you to characters and situations I hope left you with something special; a feeling, an escape... maybe even a fantasy.

  As a writer, I am immensely grateful that you chose to spend time with my book. You make art possible, and that is a powerful thing. I don't say this to flatter you - I want to empower you to keep supporting art, to help keep it alive and thriving.

  I hope that you'll go on to read my other books, if you haven't already, and if you would like to know about my next novel - there are many ways we can stay in touch to keep this magic going.

  If you are willing to share about my books, whether a kind review or telling people about my novels on social media, that would mean the world to me.

  Jenny Lynn

  The Story Continues…

  Beckett and Ella’s story continues in City of Sin, book three, Savior. When you’re walking the line between good and evil, light and dark, be careful not to lose your balance. Monsters lurk in the shadows. And they’re watching.

  Jenny Lynn

  About the Author

  Jenny Lynn is utterly, completely, head o
ver heels in love with romance. She is an award winning author of short stories, magazine articles, and novels - but coming up with complex and steamy love stories is what she enjoys best.

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