by E. S. Carter
With measured words, held back at the edges of his teeth, he finally answers my question.
“My mother, and the man I rescued you from finished her handy work.”
The beat of my heart repeatedly skips before settling on a manic race. I expected him to say it happened in a fight. I was not prepared for him to admit to once being owned very much as I was.
“That’s why you were there that day? For retribution?”
“Yes and if I could kill that fucker again, I’d make sure to enjoy every long hour of every long day. I’d torture him until he begged for death and even then, I wouldn’t give it to him.”
I think back, allowing my mind to skim quickly over my recollection of that time.
That man had owned me for only a short period when Grim came and saved me. A fortnight, maybe more. I’d been repeatedly used in ways I’ve purged from my memories. I’d been refused the basics to survive, and when my body was able, I drank from the putrid toilet water in my dark cell with occasional scraps of mouldy bread thrown at my feet. The day Grim carried me from there was the day I’d decided to give up. I’d cried tears of shame to Damaris, telling her I was sorry for not wanting to live but that I was tired and wanted to be with her. When that man took me into his playroom for the final time, I was ready. Ready for it all to end.
I heard the door opening even above vulgar grunts that man expelled from his lips, the sound even louder than the slap of his thighs against the tender skin of my backside.
He’d cut me that day more than all previous times. Old scars itched as they scabbed over and new incisions burned when he and his men took turns urinating over my open wounds. When they’d strapped me to that bench, and he’d ordered them to leave, a malicious catch in his breath as he barely contained his excitement, I knew. No matter what I’d already decided, today was out of my control. The fact I’d already given up was a kind of mercy.
Then he’d brutally shoved something inside me so deep and so hard, I came close to passing out. But he didn’t stop there. With one part of me filled and bleeding, he’d roughly opened my back hole with his thumbs and forced himself in to the hilt. The tear of my perineum shocked me back to consciousness, my entire lower body on fire as if I was getting torn in two. And that’s how Grim found me.
Bleeding, torn, used, and closer to the death I craved, but Grim brought me back. I remember overhearing the doctor who cared for me when I first arrived at the lodge describing my injuries to a nurse. I heard him detailing the removal of a twelve-inch wooden baton from inside me, the hundreds of internal and external stitches to my vagina and anus, the strong antibiotics I was intravenously fed because sepsis was a concern due to my many weeping sores.
Grim saw me that way, beyond broken, and a brutalised shell of flesh and bones, yet he didn’t let me go. He held me to him, protected me, and gave me freedom.
I come back to the present and realise if anyone deserves my truth, it’s Grim.
“I was born blind, or at least I don’t remember being any other way. My sister, Damaris, protected me. She kept my weakness a secret to ensure my survival and I… adapted, quickly learning how to mask it.”
My fingers are still on his face, my other hand having joined in at some point but he’s yet to have touched me, and I’m grateful for that, mostly. Touch is an intimate awareness, whereas, with your other senses, like hearing or smell, you’re a step removed from the connection, with touch you’re a part of it. Touch has a memory; the feeling of being touched and the remembrance of the sensation. It is our first language before sight or sound. We all came from our mother’s wombs and experienced touch before anything else. It can soothe, it can heal, it can comfort, it can create, and it can strengthen. It can also inflict pain and terrorise, but one thing touch never does is lie.
He leans in closer, like a dog begging to get petted or a child seeking comfort, wanting more of my hands, more of my touch, and I willingly give it to him. I move both hands around his jaw, my pinky fingers touching the shells of both his ears, my thumbs caressing the corners of his mouth, and he sighs, his head dropping further to his chest, his whole body relaxing into the simple act.
From afar we likely look like lovers having an intimate moment, when, in reality, we are two broken people learning to accept the other in the only way we know how.
“I found the river because of you,” I admit quietly, and his head jerks up to watch me as I confess.
“How? I wasn’t even there. I’d been away for weeks?”
I choose my words carefully, because, even to my ears, what I’m about to say seems fantastical.
“I dreamt it. I saw it over and over again in my head during my recovery.”
“That makes no sense, I don’t understand,” he replies, disbelief thick in his words.
“It happens to me sometimes, always with Damaris, occasionally with others, and often with you. When I touch someone, their sight becomes mine. Not immediately or even with any direction, but in dreams I will see things, places, people, who mean something to them. The river means something to you. You gave me that memory when you held me and took me to Hunter Lodge and every night afterwards, I dreamed of you there.”
“Did you see me in your dreams,” he asks his tone hesitant, almost shy.
“No,” I answer honestly. “I only see what you see in dreams, and you aren’t there with me. In my dreams, it’s as if I am you.”
His shoulders drop with relief, and the movement brings his stubbled head closer to my fingertips, so I work my hands over his ears and up to his crown.
He thinks he’s hideous to me, that if I could see him, he would repulse me. What he doesn’t realise is that I don’t need my dreams to see him, I see him clearer than anything I’ve ever seen in my life.
“But I see you now, in fact, I’ve seen you from that very first day.” A blush creeps up my neck to my cheeks with what I’m about to admit, and I take a deep breath before letting it all out. “And what I see is more beautiful than the river you shared with me in my dreams.”
Grim
All I could think about was her hands on me, and it was messing with my fucking head. That and her telling me that I was beautiful. Yeah, me, fucking beautiful. The man who gave her the gift of a bloody kitchen utensil and one with more scars on the inside than out. Cal wasn’t just blind she was deluded and has some kind of hero worship complex going on.
I wasn’t a hero, nor was I to be worshipped, but fuck if I didn’t like her hands on my face.
When had I ever been touched without feeling pain, without needing pain? Never.
Yet, when she touches me, I feel almost… human.
It’s a good thing Luke made me leave her behind at the cottage for our first meeting with James, because as much as I was starting to crave her presence, I knew I wanted her far away from whatever shit was about to go down. I still wasn’t sold on James-fucking-Cooper-slash-Renshaw. This fucker sounded too good to be true, and if life had shown me anything worth noting, it was that nobody was as noble as he was making himself out to be, nobody. And that, my friends has me sweating like a gorilla’s nut-sack in the middle of a jungle heat wave, and when I feel like this, the only way to expel all that nervous energy is violence.
“You and your pretty little trophy were looking quite cosy out in the field this morning,” Luke states, feigning disinterest from the front passenger seat of the BMW we’re travelling in towards Paris, his focus on the many files in his hands.
“None of your fucking business,” I bite out, my knee bouncing in the back seat, my fists clenching and releasing at my thighs, my fingers itching for my knife.
“You fucked her yet? Showed her how hard to bite so you can shoot your load down her throat or are you saving that for the honeymoon?”
“Shut your fucking mouth,” I snarl, leaning closer to the back of his seat, my hand finding Missy’s sheath.
The bloke driving the car, another nameless killer, snorts finding the whole exchange funny. S
tupid fucker.
I whip Missy from her sheath faster than he takes his next breath and plunge her through his seat, grazing his flesh with her serrated edge and pinning him to the chair by the fabric of his jacket. A centimetre closer and she would have his arm pinned to the seat, not just his clothes.
The car swerves to the right with his shock, his reflexes tugging his limb away from further injury but only serving to tear through his jacket sleeve until his arm is pulled free.
“What’s so funny, cocksucker?” I sneer into the side of his face, my big body wedged between the front seats. “Think because I’m in the back I’d ignore you fucking chortling?”
“Grim, calm down and bottle that shit up. I’ll find you someone to kill later,” Luke speaks, having not once looked up from his files. Not even me near stabbing the person driving the car is enough to rattle his composure. He’s used to my outbursts. The stupid cunt driving is obviously not.
“I suggest you find fewer things funny around me in the future,” I spit into the driver’s face before tearing Missy from the seat and sitting back. I’m annoyed with myself that the only damage I’d caused was to the upholstery.
“If you’re done getting that out of your system, you might want to check out these,” Luke says calmly, passing me some papers from over his shoulder.
“These are schematics of?” I ask as I thumb through the blueprints. Whatever this building is, it’s a fortress and as big as a castle.
“The Kingdom,” Luke states plainly. “James sent them over to us during the night. Both Alexiou and Kyrillos live on site.”
I scan the papers once more and begin to read through the accompanying notes. James has given us everything we need on a silver platter. Information on security measures, the number of guards, weapons on site and the volume of slaves held there at any one time. This job is bigger than the team we have in place. Luke and his men are good, add me into the mix, and we are unbeatable, but the numbers on these sheets are treble what we were expecting to face. Plus there is the small issue of the other two Kings.
“What about Artur Fedorov and Ford Kennedy. If we leave anyone alive, The Kingdom will continue, and it will go further underground.”
Luke turns slightly. His eyes flick over the damage I caused to the driver’s seat and the shredded sleeve of his team member’s jacket. Then a small smile fills his mouth, enough to show me a glimpse of his white teeth, before he says, “Fedorov will be in attendance there this weekend and let’s just say, with regards to Kennedy, that James has a present for you. A peace offering if you will.”
His eyes land on mine and in them I see a glimpse of the monster beneath. I may be a scary bastard, but Luke’s true-self is a whole other level of fucked-up.
I digest all this information during the remainder of the journey, my knee still bouncing with pent up energy, but my hands remain relaxed on my thighs. Silence accompanies us the rest of the way allowing plans to form in my head. Blood-red plans filled with the screams of the dying.
When we pull up outside a large warehouse in the middle of a rundown industrial estate, those plans have formed into something fully fleshed and ready to be set loose. I’m antsy and in need of release. Not even having my favourite trophy back around my neck and resting against the skin of my chest is soothing my Devil. He needs more than the memory of old vengeance; he needs the warmth of blood splatter on his face and the scent of fear in his lungs. Only then will he be sated enough to stop scratching at my skin demanding to be set free.
The rumbling of roller doors opening gains my attention, and off to the side of the increasingly widening gap I see a man. First his shoes, then his long, black covered legs, until eventually his face is revealed.
James awaits us with a relaxed stance and easy-going smile. He even seems a little eager, but unlike me, he has learned to mask his emotions or at least temper them a little.
“Luke, Henry,” he addresses us with a small nod when we both step from the vehicle. His use of my given name gaining a snarl from me and unusually bright smile from Luke which only pisses me off further.
“Come in, I have someone I’d like you to meet, and then we can get down to business.” He motions us into the building with a sweep of his hand, and although Luke strides through the open door without a care, I hold back, my eyes searching every shadow looking for a trap. The area we step into is vast and empty, and the doors begin to roll shut behind us, separating us from the driver and our vehicle. I wait for an ambush that never happens, leaving only Luke and me inside with James. When the door seals shut, James speaks. He divides his attention between the two of us, and while I’m still wary, Luke seems to hang off his every word. If James were female, I’d swear Luke would be dragging him into his basement. But then again, Luke doesn’t flirt or fawn, the women in his basement are selected because they know what he wants from them and not because he’s charmed the knickers off them beforehand. So, watching him enraptured by James is setting off alarms on top of the sirens already shrieking a warning in my brain.
“I thought we’d begin with my gift to you, Henry,” James says as he motions to a door on our right expecting me to lead the way. When I remain rooted to the spot, my legs wide, my arms braced in an attack position he chuckles ruefully, “Okay, I guess I should have expected you’d be the hardest one to win over.” He strides towards the door, pulling it wide and flicking a switch just inside the room. Muffled grunts escape from within, and my interest is peaked, my Devil cocking his head and licking his lips in anticipation, but I remain immobile.
Luke side eyes me. His mouth pressed into a thin line as he walks past me and straight into the other room. James remains outside patiently waiting for me to get with the programme, which only serves to irritate me further until he eventually gets the message and turns away, following Luke and disappearing into the dimly lit space.
“Grim, stop playing games and fucking get in here or I’ll use my gun and spoil all your fun,” Luke calls, boredom lacing his every word.
My hands twitch, my Devil roaring inside demanding to be set free. He smells the anger mixed with fear that pours through that open door, and before I know my feet have moved, I’m there, standing in the doorway, absorbing the sight in front of me.
Luke leans against the far wall, his eyes trained on James who is standing behind a man sat on a basic metal bar stool.
Okay, so he isn’t willingly sitting on the seat, he’s bound to it. His body is bent over at the waist, his torso is flush against his thighs with both his arms tightly strapped to his legs, which are in turn, strapped to the stool. The position is awkward, the stool unevenly balanced and the slightest movement would have him toppling. There is an incentive for him not to fall because the stool sits on a thick but narrow wooden plank that rests over a large container which is about three feet deep and filled with water. If the man were to move too much he’d likely wobble and fall, taking the stool with him where he’d inevitably drown.
Clever. Very fucking clever and I wonder how long James has had him teetering there.
I step up to the edge of the water-filled container, and the man’s gagged face moves a fraction to look at me. His eyes burn with anger, glaring at me with a promise filled with unveiled threats. I’m going to fucking kill you when I get down from here - Yeah, not likely mate. I smile, baring my teeth and feeling my scarred face pucker with the movement.
Ford Kennedy is gift wrapped in front of me, the only thing missing from making this the perfect present, is a big red bow.
“He’s all yours,” James smiles from behind Kennedy, earning a muffled snarl from the tied man. “Just let me tell you a little about Kennedy before you begin.” The bound man grunts more forcefully, his body moving with his muffled protestations and the stool wobbles a little on its four legs. His sounds stop but his glare remains fixed on me and I wink at him.
“Kennedy, here-” James continues, giving the tied man a pat on the arse as he introduces him and rocking the stool in t
he process, “-has been a King for around ten years. In that time, he’s personally slain upwards of two hundred boys, because consenting adult men don’t do it for him, only small boys without voices. Yes, that’s right. He cuts out their tongues before fucking them to death, literally.”
My hands curl, itching to drown the fucker. No, that would be too easy. I’ll skin the bastard first and then drown him.
“Oh, and he’s worth around one hundred and twenty-eight million, a hundred of that he earned from his Kingdom shares. So, not only is he a sick cunt, he’s a very rich, sick cunt. But the good thing is he’s already bequeathed his empire to me should he end up meeting his maker early and I’d like to tell him in front of witnesses, just how happy I am to be purchasing another vineyard with his generosity, this one in the south of France.”
James takes a step back, and then walks around the back of the container to stand against the wall next to Luke.
I lean forward and duck my head to get a good look at Kennedy Ford’s face before asking, “Wife, kids?”
Of course, Mr Ford can’t answer me but Luke happily supplies, “None. No loose ends to tie up that’s why James has offered him as an olive branch. Would you like us to stay while you play or should we leave you to it?”
Kennedy’s eyes lock on mine, and I’m sure if I removed his gag he’d have plenty to say, so I do just that, unsheathing a small blade from my tool belt and slicing a line in the thick tape that covers his mouth, exactly where his lips meet.
“I’ll give you the lot,” he spits out immediately. His dry mouth stumbles over the words. “You can take it all, every last cent if you kill that rat-fucking-turncoat over there and set me free.”
I straighten and turn my head to look at James who eyes me waiting to see how I’ll respond.
Slowly, I turn back to face Kennedy Ford, the man with a mouth made of tape. It’s a good look on him perfect for…
“Stick out your tongue,” I bark, earning me a flinch and a wobble of his stool.
