Decker

by Summers, Eden

  I raise my brows. “You might regret that wager one day.”

  “I won’t. I don’t have the slightest doubt.”

  “Give it time. Earlier you were certain your uncle and father weren’t involved either.”

  She lowers her attention to the wooden slats of the porch. “That’s different. Layla is too kindhearted to even imagine doing something like this. And Cole…”

  “And Cole what?” I sneer. “Is he kindhearted, too? Have you forgotten he tried to strangle you the first night we met?”

  Her gaze darts to mine, her mouth parting on a confession that doesn’t breach her lips.

  “Go on, say it,” I taunt. “Weave me another bedtime story.”

  She sighs, her shoulders slumping with the deep exhale. “Cole never tried to strangle me.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then what would you call it?”

  “A ritual. An act.” She keeps clinging to the cuffs of her cardigan, pulling on them like a lifeline. “Whenever someone new comes to work for my family, Cole and I put on a show to pretend we have a temperamental relationship—a weak spot that could be manipulated. It’s an easy way to flush out those trying to tear us apart. But the truth is the opposite.”

  I frown, reliving that night in my mind. She’d been scared. Cole had been in a rage.

  It was all for show.

  Fuckers.

  “He tells me everything, Sebastian. He has since our mother died. I know how you came to work for us. I know about the hits my brother has ordered and why. I know where our money comes from and how it’s laundered. I know everything.”

  I throw back my beer and take a long pull, emptying the can. “So, you act like a docile puppet when you’re really a coldhearted bitch. No surprise there.”

  Her jaw tenses. “That’s not entirely true. I’m not a good person, I’ve never claimed to be, but I’m not guilty of what you’re accusing me of. I need you to stop judging me through your anger and listen for a minute.”

  “I don’t need to do shit.” I crush the can in my fist. “Are you forgetting this is personal for me? I know what your family does. Quit trying to talk your way out of the facts.”

  “I’m not. You say you have all the proof you need on my father and uncle. And I believe you.” She winces. “But you need to let me plead my case for me and my siblings. Let me prove Cole isn’t involved. I think if you understand he’s not capable of this, you’ll realize Layla and I are innocent, too.”

  I throw the can toward the door and scowl at her, impatient.

  “Please.” She chews on her lower lip. There’s no seduction in the expression. Only feigned desperation. Pretend fear. “I was six when I was first sexually assaulted by someone I trusted.”

  “Jesus Christ.” The diversion back to this conversation is enough to make my tired head spin. “I swear to God, Keira, I’ll lose my shit if I have to listen to more of your lies.”

  Her throat works over a heavy swallow but she holds my gaze, determined. “I didn’t know what was happening at first. My parents were in the kitchen. Cole was on the floor watching television right in front of me, while I sat side-by-side on the sofa with an attacker I’d grown to admire.”

  “Stop it,” I mutter. “You’re wasting your breath.”

  “He started complementing me,” she continues as if I didn’t speak. “Whispering right in my ear about how I was such a pretty little girl as his index finger ran in circles on my thigh, just below the hem of my skirt.”

  She’s doing it again, trying to delude me with her sob stories.

  It won’t work.

  I can’t let it.

  I clench my hands into fists, hating how her lies hypnotize me even though I know the truth.

  “I can still remember how it felt.” She lowers her attention to her feet. “The lone finger that changed to a full splayed palm which worked its way beneath my clothes. When he reached the crotch of my underwear he smiled and chuckled an apology, pretending the intimate touch had been an accident.”

  I run a hand over my face and clench my teeth to maintain control. How the fuck does she do it? How can she spin her web of fiction like it’s the truth?

  “He did it in plain sight. Mere feet from Cole. I could hear my parents talking clearly in the next room. It made me think he mustn’t be doing anything wrong if he wasn’t trying to hide it.”

  “Nice story,” I mutter. “You done yet?”

  She lifts her gaze to mine, but the annoyance I anticipate isn’t in her expression. Her forehead is etched in pain. Her eyes are glassy and filled with exhaustion.

  I despise her beauty. I hate her duplicity. Most of all, I loathe the way she makes me want to believe her.

  “He did it often, Sebastian. And I was too young to understand the severity of his actions. Whenever he came around, he’d hug me tighter than anyone else. He’d pay me more attention than Layla or Cole.”

  Her gaze trails off, disappearing in memory. “We’d always play chasies, and when he caught me it was usually with a splayed hand across my chest or my ass. I guess I always knew he was doing something wrong, but he was kind to me. He made me feel beautiful and bought me expensive gifts. As a little girl, I guess my greed for shiny new toys outweighed the discomfort.”

  “Just like your dad buys for the women he sells to the highest bidder.”

  She cringes. “Yeah. I guess you’re right. And I was brainwashed in the same way. But then the casual touches turned into something more. His appetite increased the older I got, and I didn’t know how to make—”

  “Keira,” I warn, needing her to stop before I give in. “You’re not going to fool me with this. I’m never going to believe you.”

  I spin my own lies in the hopes she’ll quit this vicious cycle. My hands itch to comfort her.

  Her—a cunning, heartless bitch.

  She shrugs, her face filled with resignation. “When I was twelve, my dad threw a party at our house. All the adults were drinking and talking loud. I could hear them from my room upstairs because us kids had been forbidden to join the fun.” Her chin trembles. “That night he came into my room and laid beside me. I could smell the alcohol on his breath as he touched himself…right there…on my bed…while I pretended to sleep.”

  “Stop,” my voice fractures.

  Her eyes glaze with unshed tears. “No. Not until you believe me.”

  I scoff. “Don’t hold your breath.”

  She wraps one arm around her middle, hugging herself. “Like I told you, I was fourteen when he raped me. I could never lie about that. Cole is the one who saved me by storming into my room and dragging a grown man off me. My brother never left my side. He stayed with me while I cried, his own tears mingling with mine as everyone continued to party downstairs.”

  “Yet there’s no police report,” I accuse. “I’ve dug deep enough into your life I’ve practically given you an enema. And not once have I found evidence of this.”

  “I couldn’t report it.”

  “Of course not,” I snap. “God forbid you ever have one piece of proof to backup your bullshit.”

  Her eyes harden, her spite finally coming out to play. “I couldn’t report it because—”

  “Shut it, Keira.” I shove to my feet, ready to go inside just so I can get away from her.

  “I couldn’t report it—”

  “I said shut the fuck up.” I descend upon her in five fierce steps to grasp her upper arm.

  Her hand raises in defense, or at least I think it does, until I catch the glint of silver as it sails toward my neck. The blade pierces my skin, the bite of pain barely felt over my rising fury.

  Fuck. Me.

  She’s done it again.

  She’s fucking played me.

  Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

  I deserve to have my throat slashed. If I get out of this, I swear to God I’ll do it myself for being so fucking stupid.

  “How fast can you move, Sebastian?” she hisses. “Can you disarm me before I slice through
your carotid? Because like you’ve mentioned before, there’s nobody here to save you. There’s no phone. No devices. No people. You’ll bleed out before I reach the main road.”

  Her gaze flickers between my eyes, frantic even though I estimate she’s got more than a fifty-fifty chance of doing exactly what she’s threatened.

  “Slice deep,” I snarl, “because if the cut isn’t fatal, what I inflict on you will be.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not doing this to hurt you. I’m doing it to earn your trust.”

  She sucks in a deep breath and retreats, the kitchen knife clattering to the floor as she raises her hands in surrender.

  My heart beats in an erratic pulse, waiting for the punchline to her joke.

  “I couldn’t report the rape because my attacker would never have gone to prison, no matter what I said.” She articulates the words slowly. Succinctly. “Just like you said, criminal charges don’t stick to men like my uncle.”

  My muscles pull taut, every inch of my skin crawling. “Richard?”

  “Yes.” She inclines her head. “Richard.”

  She steps toward the back door and reaches for the knob. “I didn’t lie to you about the rape, and I wasn’t playing games when I broke down the night of the shooting. The only reason I told you my father died is because I wanted nothing more than to trust you. I had to prove to myself you were the guy I thought you were, especially when I was falling for you.”

  Jesus. She’s working me like a pro. “And now you know I’m not that guy.”

  “Now I know you’re a better person than the man I fell for.” Her gaze pleads with me. “But you still don’t believe me, do you?”

  I clench my jaw. Unable to open my mouth.

  I can’t let her know she’s reclaimed the upper hand.

  I won’t give her the satisfaction of knowing I’m hooked.

  “Okay. I get it.” She doesn’t break our gaze, just keeps staring, keeps wordlessly pleading. “And I guess it won’t make a difference if I tell you I’m responsible for putting Richard in hospital.”

  It takes all my strength not to jump at the information. She’s feeding me exactly what I want to hear, but I can’t let myself believe her.

  Fuck me, I just can’t.

  She pauses briefly, waiting for a reply I refuse to give. Then she pulls the door wide and disappears inside, leaving me alone to deal with my increased self-loathing.

  19

  Keira

  The house smells like the discarded contents of my stomach as I drag my feet inside.

  I don’t know what else to do other than reclaim the cleaning products from beneath the kitchen sink and start scrubbing the floor again. I crawl on hands and knees, polishing the tile when what I really need to do is scramble out of this torturous limbo.

  I don’t want to believe my father is capable of such destruction. I don’t want to, yet, deep down, I already know the truth.

  He’s a monster. Not merely a criminal, but the devil himself.

  In contrast, Sebastian has made himself into a vengeful angel. A hopeful savior.

  Righteous.

  Honorable.

  Perfect.

  And I betrayed him.

  I scrub the floor harder, cleaning the tile like I want to cleanse my soul. My arms burn from the tension. My fingers ache with my tight grip.

  Sebastian’s right. I’m guilty. Even if I didn’t participate. Even though I didn’t have a clue. These atrocities were done by my family. My own flesh. There’s no way I can free myself from blame.

  I sit back on my haunches, unsure how to right all the wrongs. I can’t fathom the pain I’ve caused with my ignorance.

  I should’ve known.

  Should’ve fucking known.

  I push to my feet and pack away the chemicals. Then I make myself a coffee and sit down at the dining table while I wait for the masked scent of bile to die a slow death.

  I sip from my mug, the liquid tasteless as I try to figure out my future when I have no control over the outcome. I’m still Sebastian’s prisoner, and I don’t think he has any plan to change the dynamic anytime soon. I also don’t have the will to run. Or the desire.

  What I want is for him to believe me. To finally trust me despite what I’m guilty of. But he doesn’t come back inside to face me. Not even once my coffee has turned cold and the forced solitude makes me hollow. He leaves me to battle my demons on my own, and I can’t help thinking about those that plague him.

  He pretended to be Hunter’s friend. His accomplice.

  He faked his way into my heart. My body.

  I guess I would’ve done the same.

  If Layla had been one of the women taken… If Stella…

  My lungs clench through torturous inhales. I can’t fall down that mine-filled rabbit hole. All I can concentrate on is knowing I would’ve deceived or destroyed anyone who stood in my way of revenge.

  But that doesn’t make me feel any better for being the one Sebastian wants to punish. I don’t like being his enemy. I want to go back to the place where he gave me kindness and protection.

  His lust and adoration.

  The fake fairytale.

  I sigh and push from the table to pour the remaining dregs of coffee down the sink. The pungent scent of bile follows me with each step, smothering my nostrils and taunting my gag reflex.

  This house needs fresh air. Lots of fresh air.

  I walk from the kitchen and into the hall, finding the first bedroom with its queen size bed and lone bedside table. I increase my pace across the room, thankful for the distraction as I unlock the window and push the glass panel high.

  The night breeze rushes through the gauze, filling my lungs with relief. I suck in a deep breath, only to have it rush back out at the sound of a slamming door.

  I swing around, on alert as heavy footfalls thunder through the house.

  “Keira,” Sebastian bellows.

  I hesitate. I’ve waited over an hour for him to come inside and face me. To see me. The real me.

  But the fury in his voice is a crystal clear indication he isn’t ready to see anything other than his cemented misconceptions.

  “Keira.”

  I remain still, tracing the sound of his pounding footsteps from the dining area to the hall. I can’t stand to speak to him like this. Not with raised voices and more drugging adrenaline.

  My chest squeezes as he skitters to a stop in the doorway, his eyes blazing, his chest heaving.

  He glances from me, to the open window, then back again. Judging. Convicting. “Trying to escape?”

  I slump my shoulders while he continues to cast me as the enemy, his narrowed gaze too vicious for me to hold. “I’m trying to get rid of the smell.” I turn my focus to the floor and drag my feet toward him, stopping before the doorway where he blocks my path. “Please move.”

  I ask for the one thing I don’t want—space.

  What I need is his proximity. I need him to face me. To face this. And, God, more than anything, I need him to believe me.

  But he steps to the side, breaking me with his cold dismissal.

  I can’t stand his continued hatred. His loathing. I’m not the person he thinks I am and I have to fight from the pull to slap some sense into him.

  Bitter resentment coils in my blood making my limbs throb as I squeeze by him and stalk further down the hall, to the next bedroom. I repeat my actions, making a beeline for the window and gripping the pane to thrust it high.

  “Quit it.” His menacing steps follow. “Leave them closed.”

  For the briefest second, I contemplate obeying him. It’s only a blip in time. A breath of acquiescence before my spine grows rigid and I take hold of my anger.

  I inch away from the window, leaving it open, then make toward him at his barricaded position at the door.

  This time he doesn’t move out of my way. He blocks my escape, his chest broad, his shoulders wide. “I said leave it closed.”

  “And I say we need
fresh air.” I hold his dark stare. “Or are you too scared you won’t catch me if I run?”

  He takes a predatory step in my direction, those chocolate eyes punishing through menacing slits.

  My pulse spikes. A breath hitches through my lips. I backtrack, my pulse pounding in my throat as I retreat from his animosity. The toxicity of his malice coils around me, making my heart fracture.

  “I’m not scared of anything,” he grates.

  I believe him.

  He’s not filled with fear. The emotion overtaking him is in stark contrast.

  There’s so much revulsion. A wealth of disgust and hostility. But up this close, there’s more. Pain ebbs off him. I can see it now. There are fissures of misery in those eyes. Tiny glimmers of agony and torment.

  Despite trying to hide it, his suffering matches my own.

  It’s like an awakening.

  Slowly, I come to understand how the sarcasm and humor has hidden the tortured man beneath. He’s pretended to be the joker, when his reality is shadowed by anguish.

  “I have no reason to run.” I take another retreating step toward the window.

  His jaw ticks as he stalks closer. “If you knew how I felt, you would.”

  “Then tell me.” My words fracture through parched lips. “Explain why I should be scared, because I’m not. You would never hurt me. Not physically, despite how you’re trying to emotionally tear me apart.”

  He stops, his shoulders stiffening as if my admission has inflicted a bone-deep wound. “You’ve got a short memory. It wasn’t long ago you thought I was going to kill you with a utility knife.”

  “That wasn’t you. You were mindless. I never—”

  “It was me,” he snaps. “The real me.”

  “So who is the man I spent the last forty-eight hours with? Who’s the guy I’ve known for months?”

  He releases a derisive scoff. “You mean the schmuck who eagerly lapped up your attention? That guy doesn’t exist.”

  He’s lying. I refuse to believe otherwise.

  I know fake people. I’ve been surrounded by them all my life. And the man from the safe house wasn’t one of those. He was caring and kind, despite his deceptions.