by Alexa Hart
“Fitz, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I begin, my forehead still rested against his as the apology tumbles from my lips. From the small fraction of his grimace that I can see at this angle, I can tell he’s dissatisfied. I continue, before he has a chance to interject. “I’ve been lying to you. Oh, God—I’ve lied to you about so much I’m so sorry.”
Pulling back, Fitz gazes into my eyes, his warm fingers brushing against my cheeks in a comforting way. There’s something in his eyes. Something knowing. I flash back to the day he interviewed me. I remember feeling worried; the way he looked at me. It just felt like he knew more than he was letting on.
“You knew that, didn’t you?” I ask the question even though I’m sure I already know the answer. I need to hear it, though.
“Yes, Emily.”
I gasp.
“I knew.”
Despite the terrifying intensity of the moment, my heart skips a beat at Fitz’s use of my real name. It sounds sweeter on his lips than it ever did on anyone else’s.
Sitting back against my heels, I resign myself to this moment. This impossibly vulnerable moment that I somehow knew was coming. I pull the useless glasses from my face the ones I’d slipped on in the bathroom this morning, snapping them right between the frames as I do, and I discard them on the ground beside me. Reaching up with practiced skill, I remove the brown colored contacts from my eyes with a single swipe each, blinking with the freedom.
“I’m not actually a brunette.” I quip, laughing despite the weight of the moment. Fitz snorts at me, a small smile ghosting over his full lips.
“I know.”
“I like the sound of my name on your lips.” I tell him, remembering the night in the garden, when he told me the same thing. Fitz must be remembering it too, because he responds in kind.
“I like the taste of your name on my lips.”
I smile, impossibly relieved at his reaction. Though I’m sure we have a long conversation ahead of us, he hasn’t yelled, or kicked me out, so that's a million times better than I expected.
Fitz brushes two fingers across my lips.
“Emily.” He says my name slowly, drawing it out like he’s trying to taste every syllable, and savoring the sweet flavor. “You were married?”
I nod at the heavy question.
“Can we move to the couch?” Fitz nods at me softly, gripping my upper arms and pulling us both up. We walk hand in hand to the worn leather couch on the far end of his bedroom. It isn’t until we’re both comfortably settled in, that I start speaking.
“We dated in high school,” I begin, taking a deep, steadying breath, preparing to tell this story for the first time ever. Fitz grips my hand, giving me a reassuring squeeze, patiently waiting for me to continue. “Our parents were friends from church. We practically grew up together. It was just sort of expected, that we’d get married, I guess. He always saw me as his, even when I wasn’t. When we first got together, things were normal, I guess. But they didn’t stay that way for long. He would get jealous… I wasn’t allowed to have any male friends, at first, then later any friends at all.”
I took a deep breath, suddenly missing Bonnie more than ever, before continuing.
“We got married right after graduation. I really shouldn’t have gone through with it. I couldn’t even imagine that there were other options. It was just sort of understood that that's what would happen. I would marry him, have his children, and then die, one day, I guess.”
Fitz noticeably flinched next to me, but when I glanced up at his eyes, he hadn’t waivered.
“It only got worse after that. I don't—I can’t, really…” my heart speeds up, trying to stave off the flashbacks as I tell the story. “He was always really jealous. When I got pregnant, he never truly believed it was his. He raged for weeks, drunk, interrogating me about who I’d been with. I hadn’t. Then one day, he came home from work angrier than usual…”
I trailed off. I couldn’t find the words to finish the story, and from the horror on Fitz’s face, he already knows how it ends. He beat me until I began to miscarry.
Fitz’s fist balls in his lap as his grip on me tightens, less comforting and more protective.
“I waited until he passed out from the alcohol, and I took the car and left, trying to make it to the hospital before it was too late, but it was raining, hard. And I was so upset. He began to call and, I don’t know. I got distracted for just a moment.”
Running his finger along the thin white scar that lines my torso, right where my seatbelt goes, Fitz nods in understanding.
“I woke up in the hospital, the doctors telling me that the bruises and miscarriage were from the accident. I fled in the middle of the night. I didn’t even bother to check out of the hospital. I stole some money from some woman’s purse in the waiting room, and I got on a bus straight to New York. I stayed in a hostel while working a minimum wage job, saving up for rent and school. I found a court clerk online, paid her in cash to forge a name change order for me. After that, Emily Elliot was dead, and I was Alex Bennet. Eventually I got back on my feet. I kept waiting for the day he’d show up at my door, ready to kill me once and for all. But it never came.” Until now. The silent words hang in the air between us like a guillotine, threatening to behead me.
“He won’t get to you. I won’t let him.” Fitz pulls me closer, reassuring me. I nuzzle into his warm chest, reveling at the hard feel of his muscles flexing and pulling with each of his movements. His hand rubs up and down my back, soothing the tension pent up in the muscles that line my spine. His words sounded so sure. And I want to believe them, I do. But I know Daniel. I know the lengths he will go to get what he wants. And now, he wants me; wants revenge for me leaving him.
“I don't know how he found me.” I tell Fitz, although the declaration comes out sounding more like I’m speaking to myself. Fitz noticeably tenses beneath me. I lift my head to gaze at him, but I am surprised at what I find. Guilt. Clear as day, his face is painted with untamed guilt.
“What?” I question him.
“It’s because of me. Of us. We were photographed.” Fitz reminds me. My body suddenly goes cold once more. Of course. How could I not have thought of that? The man at the snow lodge. Fitz said the picture would get around.
“Fitz, it isn’t because of you. You can’t control what other people do.” I pause, “well, not all of the time anyway.” Fitz smiles despite himself. It is a small smile, but a smile nonetheless.
“If it wasn’t for you I’d still be living in the city, in a nondescript apartment, too afraid to feel anything for anyone. You woke me up, Fitz.” Tears prickle at my eyes, threating to spill over as I press a hard kiss against his lips. Fitz’s hands grip the sides of my face, reassuring me.
The kiss is short, only lasting a moment. But a moment was all either of us needed. When we disconnect, Fitz turns his face from me, calling out.
“John?”
“Yes, sir?” John appears in the doorway impossibly quick. He must have been waiting just outside of our view.
“I want you to tighten the patrols around the estate. The package doesn't have a stamp, or return address, which means it was hand delivered. If he’s that bold, he’ll try again. Make sure everything is locked and secure, and keep Ella at her grandparent’s house, it’s safer there.” Fitz spouts the to do list to him. John nods along until he gets to the last order, instead his brow furrows into a tight knot.
“Sir...” John begins, his voice filled to the brim with unbridled fear.
“What?” Fitz is more alert now, sitting up beneath me.
“You ordered her home over the radio an hour ago. You said you wanted her to spend some time with you and Alex.”
The room explodes around me; Fitz and I both jump to our feet at the same time. He is barking orders at John, who has pulled out his phone and is typing away. Doing what, I don’t know. The commotion almost makes me miss the vibration of my cell phone in my back pocket. Almost.
Pulling it o
ut, I read the bone-chilling text. The number isn’t saved, but I’d recognize it anywhere.
I have something of yours. If you want her back alive, you’d better come alone.
The phone buzzes again, the display screen showing a familiar address. It’s our old home.
My blood runs impossibly cold.
“Stop, please!” I screech at Daniel from my spot on the floor at his feet. I have curled my body into the fetal position, trying desperately to protect my stomach.
“You whore!” He yells at me again, punctuating his words with a swift and crushing kick to the exposed part of my rib cage. I can feel them crack beneath the blow, the pain spreading quickly throughout my torso, blooming a fresh set of tears in my eyes.
“You think I’m going to let you have another man’s baby? Huh? You think you, my wife, gets to have another man’s baby?” Daniel unleashes blows upon me, and I can feel my body blooming in bruises beneath each touch. I can’t bring myself to fight back. I can’t even bring myself to speak anymore. I pull my knees into my chest impossibly tighter, scrunching my eyes closed and praying for the torture to end.
A sharp and unmistakable pain stabs at me from deep in my stomach, and my worst fear begins to come true. I can feel myself begin to bleed. Begin to lose my baby. If Daniel notices, though, it only serves to motivate him, his blows growing harder with each drop of blood that leaves my body.
I clutch my stomach, trying desperately to shake the traumatizing flashback from my brain, cursing myself for not having that conversation with Fitz. The one that I contemplated earlier. While I was trapped in my most painful memory, John and Fitz disappeared. They’re probably in the basement, strategizing.
Stepping into my boots, I throw a jacket over my shoulders, rushing out of Fitz’s bedroom. I have to save Ella, no matter what it takes.
Chapter 16
Alex
The drive from Bedford Corners, New York to Roanoke, Virginia is surprisingly short when you’re fueled by bone chilling fear, and driving a Maserati. I chose the fastest of Fitz’s many cars. Though I know that Daniel won’t kill Ella before I arrive, it doesn’t mean he won’t hurt her. Who knows what he’d do to her.
When I pull into the familiar driveway, a deep chill settles over me. The day is as dark as I feel, walking into the hollowed-out place I used to call my home. I don’t bother ringing the doorbell or knocking. When I turn the aged brass handle, the lock releases freely, allowing me to push the door open.
I glance cautiously into the small foyer. The house is empty. No furniture, or art on the walls. Nothing. And Daniel is nowhere to be seen. I knew he wouldn’t be though.
He’ll be upstairs, down the hall, in our bedroom. It was always his favorite place to inflict pain. To torture me. He’d drag me up those creaky wooden steps and down the hall by my hair; or sometimes he’d make me crawl; or he’d walk me slowly in front of him, his arms wrapped around me as he pressed a knife into my throat. I still have anxiety about that, the acute feeling of fear as I contemplated tripping into the sharp blade.
I leave the front door wide open behind me, not having it in me to close it. To lock myself in the house with the devil. I don’t bother being quiet. He already knows I’m here.
“Ella?” I call out, trying to keep my voice even and unbroken, on the off chance that she can hear me. If she does though, she either cannot, or does not, respond.
I climb the worn wooden steps to the second floor. It is equally as empty as the first, every remnant that I ever lived here gone, save for the memories that haunt me.
I recklessly round the corner to our old bedroom, growing desperate in my search for Ella. In a moment of oblivious distraction, I slam into a wall of black clad muscle. Reverberating backwards, the blood drains from my face as I can’t help but submit to the fear that rises in my chest, blooming with its first stroke of affection in ages.
He mirrors my small backwards step, maintaining our close proximity, and looking down at me with a sickening smile. It is wide. I can see all of his cigarette stained teeth.
“You’re still just as beautiful,” the molasses words somehow come out sounding like an insult on his lips, as he twirls the edge of the knife I hadn’t realized he was carrying around the ends of my hair. “Though, I prefer the blonde. And I definitely prefer it short. No worries.”
In a swift and vile moment, Daniel grips my hair in his fist, forcing the knife through its length, cutting several inches off. I force back the tears that prickle in my eyes as the evidence of his assault falls to the floor, graceful in the windless air.
“Where is she?” I bite out the question, trying desperately to ignore the feeling of his hands on me.
Daniel grins at me, running the blade along my jaw. “She’s fine. You really should start thinking about yourself, beautiful.” He applies a little more pressure with the blade. Not enough to break skin, yet, but enough to hurt. I resist the urge to cross my arms over my vulnerable stomach.
“You ran away from me, beautiful. I’ll have to punish you for that.” He tilts his head with his words, punctuating them. “It’d be a shame to scar such an exquisite face.”
My eyes snap up to meet his in pure fear. Scar? He always said he’d never hurt me where it was visible, because he didn’t want me to be any less pretty for him. Gently caressing my cheekbone, now with the blunt edge of the offending silver object, Daniel ticks his tongue at me.
“What to do, what to do?” Letting out a deep sigh with his contemplation, his eyes roam over me.
“Daniel. Please tell me where Ella is.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to make sure she’s safe.”
“I would never hurt a child. You know that. How could you even think such a thing? Do you really think that low of me?” His voice raises with each question. Shit. I think to myself. Just diffuse the situation.
“No, I don’t. I don’t” I speak to him with the softest voice I can muster, comforting him from the horrors of me thinking he’s a monster. “Let’s just let Ella go, okay? Then it can be just us. Just let her walk out the front door. Someone will find her eventually.”
I try to convince him. He stares at me intently, studying me.
He is swelling with magnetic rage. I can feel it radiating off of his body, permeating me to the bone. I try my hardest to keep my expression neutral, to keep my hands from shaking as I reach out towards him, brushing the tips of my fingers along his upper arms, trying desperately to manipulate his current manic state.
Like the flip of a switch, he comes alive. He is moving. His arms wrap around me tight, one clamping on my exposed throat while the other wraps around my chest, pulling me first into him.
I freeze, not daring to struggle. He holds me here for what feels like forever, his lips gently brushing the sensitive spot just below my ear. He’s not saying anything, though. He doesn’t need to. Though I can’t see his face from this angle, I know his thin lips are parted with erotic anticipation, and his eyes are probably clamped so tight that his eyelashes are brushing the tops of his cheeks.
He exhales into the skin at the back of my neck, and I am powerless to suppress my shudder at the sickening sensation.
“Are you afraid?” He asks me, his voice cutting through the air with a sultry danger that makes me want to run and hide. But I can’t. This isn’t for me, it’s for Ella. I have to find Ella. His eyes are open now. Piercing into me.
I hold a precautionary hand, clutched tight at his wrist, as if my strength would be anything compared to his if he decided to choke the life from me anyway.
I spin on my heel, turning to face him, fully aware that he had allowed the movement. His eyes are all-consuming. They are the only in my line of sight. Green orbs, dark with mischief and promise, threatening to devour me. I try to keep my composure, but I can see his eyes trained on my lips, and they begin to involuntarily quiver.
“Do I need to be?” I purse my lips into the words. Of course, I know the answer to the r
idiculous question. That wasn't its point, though. If he thinks that I know he’s in control, he’ll be less horrible than he would be otherwise, if he were trying to prove his dominance.
The corners of his lips pull up slightly at me. I am terrified. I know he can feel it, and I know it only serves to feed his animosity. I curse myself for not murdering him in his sleep when I had the chance.
His large eyes search my own, like a predator about to pounce on his prey.
We stand there like that for several long, torturous moments. I hold his focus naturally, and with every heave of my chest that forces my skin to brush against his, my resolve cracks and shatters that much more.
I could tell he was waiting for me to snap back into myself and start running, but I couldn’t. Not this time.
He reaches up, brushing one gentle finger to my chin, willing me to look at him.
“Just let Ella go. Please.” I plead with him, my eyes filling with unspent tears.
“Maybe,” he says, “but first you have to do something for me.”
Dread fills my whole body. I’d expected this; but no amount of anticipation could have made it any easier. Leaning down, he forces his lips against mine, his grip drifting to my hair, tugging it harshly and forcing a small scream to tumble from my lips, granting him access to my mouth. The taste nauseates me. Like bile, filling my mouth.
The kiss is gentle. Barely there. Like the first kiss we’d shared at a town fair when I was twelve. My lips are still quivering beneath the force of his, and I can tell he enjoys it. Daniel pulls my body even closer to his, so that I can feel him through the thick fabric of his jeans. I swallow hard, struggling to keep the contents of my stomach.
It takes me a moment to regain control over my body, overcoming the paralyzing fear that threatens me. But when I do, I return the pressure of the kiss. Lightly. It is all I can muster. My hands drift upwards as I place them flat against his muscled torso, readying to push him away.
