“Have I ever lied to you, baby girl?”
I stare at the test, my heart hammering in my chest.
“I should’ve known something was up when you kept accusing me of poisoning your food.” He continues. “I didn’t poison shit. I didn’t need to. I was already poisoning you from the inside with my kid.”
I look back up at his face and my heart sinks. Because as I see the excitement and the satisfaction in his eyes, I know he’s telling me the truth.
I choke, dropping the pregnancy test at my feet and scurrying toward the bucket in the corner. I drop to my knees, barely making it before every bit of food and bile inside me comes up, hitting the sides of the bucket with a sloppy splash.
As I catch my breath, staring down into my regurgitated eggs and toast, a million thoughts run through my mind. If he’s right, it makes sense. Why I’ve been so fucking sick. The mysterious lack of a period the entire time I’ve been down here, which I’d figured was my body in shock. Everything fits together so well, I can practically hear the last puzzle piece slam home as the last of our dirty secrets is exposed to the air.
Gasping on my knees, I don’t even react when I feel a sharp prick at my arm. Warmth and numbness spreads through my limbs and I grab at the floor, trying to stop myself from crashing into the bucket of sick in front of me. Warm hands hop under my arms and pull me up, and the image of a marionette doll on strings slams into my drug-fuelled brain.
He turns me effortlessly, crushing me to his chest in a chokingly tight embrace. I feel my head loll forward and hit my chest as tears leak from my eyes.
So this is what it feels like to be broken. He broke me. He wins.
“Congratulations, mama bear.” He says, kissing salt water from my cheeks. He tucks a stray hair behind my ear and leans in close. “Looks like we’re in this for the long haul.”
“Together.”
He snickers, and the last bit of hope that dared to live inside me flickers like a candle against the wind, wavers, and finally dies.
FOURTEEN
There are things worse than death.
But there is nothing worse than sinking into death, of allowing that the numb bliss to sink into heavy bones, inviting that nothingness to take the place of sadness and pain.
Only to be brought back, dragged from hell, resurrected.
There are things worse than death.
And now, I know all of them.
FIFTEEN
When I wake up, my limbs feel like they’re encased in wet concrete. The rapid-set stuff, that starts to dry the minute it’s poured, and I have to fight to move.
Things feel different. My mouth is incredibly dry, probably from the heroin, and beneath me feels soft and warm and completely foreign.
I smell those same pungent flowers again, the death lilies Dornan served to me only days ago, and the sharp scent finally rouses me from my half-sleep. I open my eyes, and the light is blinding. I cringe, closing them again, my heavy arms flung over my eyes to stop the piercing brightness from burning me.
The sunlight.
My little dungeon of horrors doesn’t have windows. Doesn’t have sunlight.
Where am I?
I force my eyes open again and wait patiently as they leak water and adjust as best they can to the foreign light source. I’ve been in that dank little pisshole for so long, I don’t even know the last time I saw the sun. However long it’s been, it feels like forever.
I sit up slowly, realizing I’m in Dornan’s room, second floor in Emilio’s Tijuana mansion. But why? How?
My stomach roils, and everything comes slamming back into me like a fucking freight train.
Aren’t I lucky then, that I already got inside you a long time ago?
No.
It can’t be real.
But it is real. He never lied to me. He didn’t have to. I’m pregnant. I can barely think the words in my head, they sound so devastating.
I already got inside you.
I clamber off the side of the bed, squinting my eyes open just enough to make my way to the bathroom, the same bathroom where I stood and detonated those bombs months ago. I haven’t eaten since the last time I threw up, and when I lean over the toilet bowl, burning yellow bile leaves my body, hitting the water in the bowl with an inelegant splash.
Jesus Christ. If I really am pregnant – and I think I must be – there’s no way a baby could possibly survive everything Dornan has done to me. The beatings, the starvation, the rape, the drugs. It’s too much for anyone to bear.
But I’m still alive, despite it all. So I don’t know. Could a baby survive this hell?
When I’m done, I tear off a piece of toilet paper and wipe my mouth, then blow my nose. All I can smell and taste is fucking vomit. I toss the toilet paper and flush the lot, then focus my attention on the toothpaste that sits on top of the vanity. Yes. I can’t bear to think about how long it’s been since I actually brushed my teeth. I think it was at Jase’s house. How disgusting.
I can’t find a toothbrush anywhere, so I squeeze a bead of the white paste onto my fingertip and rub it along my teeth and gums. I rinse my mouth, but it still doesn’t feel right, so I repeat this action several times until my tongue starts to burn with minty freshness. I get a quick glimpse of myself in the mirror that hangs above the sink. Circles as black as night underneath my bloodshot green eyes. Three months of blonde regrowth that cuts through the middle of my brown hair like a strip of lightning. Dull flesh that clings to jutting cheekbones, and that’s when I look away. I look like a fucking prisoner of war; I’m so thin. And I’m supposed to be pregnant? It can’t be real. Nothing could survive what’s happening to me right now.
I look down and notice the foreign material feeling smooth against my skin. I balk when I realize someone has changed my clothes. I was wearing an old pair of stained sweats and a baggy T-shirt when I passed out, but now I’m dressed in a black silk nightgown, trimmed with black lace, that falls to my knees. What the fuck?
The thought of Dornan dressing me like a doll is almost more disturbing than the thought that I may be pregnant.
And that’s when I see the white packages stacked up in the windowsill next to the toilet. Pregnancy tests. Five of them. Left there to taunt me.
Motherfucker.
My hand itches to reach out and grab one, to tear the packaging and pee on the stick, but I resist. I’m not playing these fucking head games with him. Maybe I’m pregnant. Maybe I’m not. But right now, I’m almost dead, and that concerns me more.
I turn the tap on again, splashing water on my face. I freeze when I hear a movement in the bedroom, and turn the water off slowly, patting my face with a towel. Still holding the towel in front of me, I inch out of the room, and when I see the broad shoulders and dark hair of a man sitting in a wicker chair in the corner of the room, I freeze. Dornan?
No.
He turns, and I gasp.
“Jason?” I whisper. He unfolds himself from the chair and quickly covers the distance between us, ending up in front of me at arms length.
He doesn’t look right. Something is way off.
“I’ve been waiting for you to wake up,” he says solemnly. My mouth drops open in shock, and I don’t even see his hand flying toward my cheek until it’s already too late.
My head snaps back, and I stumble on my feet, going backward but managing not to fall. I back up as he advances, until the backs of my legs hit the bed.
“What are you doing?” I cry, trying to protect my face with my hands. He glances at the door, his expression unreadable, and then back at me. Something shifts in his expression, and I freeze. He holds a finger to his lips, gesturing for me to be quiet, and I can see the raw grief in his eyes as he approaches me. He points at his ear, then the closed door.
We’re being listened to. Somebody is outside that door right now. That much is apparent.
Time stands still for one long moment as he reaches his hand out, cupping my cheek. He runs his thumb along my lowe
r lip, and as our eyes remain fixed on one another, he mouths the words I’m sorry.
I shake my head. I was the one who stormed out of his house all those months ago. I should be the one who’s saying sorry.
I love you, I mouth back. Lucky we’re not actually saying these words because the lump in my throat wouldn’t let me speak if I tried. Tears prick at my eyes and I brush them away impatiently.
He looks pained.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats silently, and as the door creaks open, he grabs my arm and throws me across the room. I land on my skinny ass with a dull thud, suddenly wishing it had more padding.
I struggle to my feet, heavy and still full of smack, when I see the reason for Jase’s sudden violence. Dornan is standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, a cruel smirk on his face as he stares me down.
I see movement in the corner of my eye and shift my attention to Jase, who is approaching me again with violence in his eyes.
“You killed my brothers, you fucking whore,” Jase yells, coming at me. I scream, scrambling to the other side of the bed as Dornan steps in front of his son.
“Hey,” he says, holding an arm out. “I’d like to do the same. But you can’t hurt her, son. She’s got something I need. Isn’t that right, baby mama?”
My heart sinks. There’s no good reason he’d stop Jase from pummeling me to death, other than the obvious - he’s protecting what’s inside me.
That’s the exact moment I realize he’s not lying about the pregnancy. Fuck.
Jase looks like he’s about to burst a blood vessel. He’s a fucking excellent actor. He deserves an Oscar for this shit right here. Assuming he’s acting.
He grabs a handful of Dornan’s shirt and shoves him aside. “I’m gonna kill this fucking bitch, pop,” he spits, storming me. I huddle in the corner between the bed and the wall, my hands in front of me. It might be pretend, but I still don’t want to get fake-bashed. It hurts almost as much as being beaten up for real. He reaches for me but misses, a sharp yank on the back of his leather cut taking him away from me. Dornan pushes him into the wall, and I hear the plasterboard crack under the pressure of Jase’s head knocking into it. My first instinct is to run, to huddle in the bathroom, but instead I stay crouched in the corner, watching in sick fascination as Dornan raises his fist to his youngest son.
“Let me beat her to death, pop,” he says desperately. “Let me do it slowly.” He glances at me. “I could make her death last weeks.”
Dornan laughs, looking at me with a mock-shocked expression, as if to say can you believe this guy?
“She’ll die by my hand,” Dornan says to Jase, suddenly serious again. “And when I decide. How the fuck did you get in here, anyway?”
Jase raises his eyebrows. “I got a spare key from the garage,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “Don’t you know all the doors in this place have the same key?”
Dornan glares at him, eventually letting Jase’s shirt go. He pats the shirt back into place and jerks Jase toward the door.
“Go,” he says. “Wait. Give me the key first.”
Jase scowls, withdrawing a single key from his jeans pocket and tossing it at Dornan. Dornan catches it in one fist easily, turning it over to study it.
“I’ll be back to sort you out, bitch” Jase spits at me, and I stare in horror that is kind of fake but kind of real as he leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.
Relief and despair flood me. Relief because Jase is alive. Jase is okay. And by the look of things, Dornan doesn’t know about us.
Despair because he’s gone again, just as quickly as he arrived, and I’m still here with Dornan.
Dornan looks at the closed door for a long time before he turns back to me with a look of satisfaction on his face. He slips the key into his pocket and snaps his fingers. “Get up. Come here.”
I stand reluctantly, but don’t move toward him. He smirks and reaches into his back pocket, that goddamn Taser suddenly in his hands again. He holds it in front of him and depresses the trigger, causing a bright crack of electricity to spark between the two prongs at its end.
Dornan pockets the Taser and pulls something else out again. A syringe full of clear fluid. I swallow thickly, wondering what it is this time.
“Don’t be scared,” he says, unbuttoning his jeans. “If you’re a good girl, and you do as you’re told, you can have some of this.” He sneers. “It’s the good stuff, baby girl.”
“I don’t want some of that,” I reply sharply. “I’m not a fucking junkie.”
He smirks. “Neither was your momma.” Ouch. He sits at the foot of the bed, his back to me. He’s so unafraid of me, he doesn’t even have to keep me in his line of sight.
“Strip.”
When I don’t move fast enough, he pockets the needle and pulls the Taser out again.
“Faster.”
Reluctantly and with considerable effort, I locate the hem of my nightgown and tug the entire thing over my head, dropping it next to me. I’m dressed in nothing but a black pair of panties that are new as well, the lace edging matching the silk nightgown. Jesus Christ. This is sick.
He shrugs out of his leather cut and holds it out to me. “Put this on.”
I take the sleeveless cut, shrugging it over my thin frame. It dwarfs me, but by some small miracle, it covers my breasts. I tug it closed across my chest and look at him morosely.
“My turn,” he says. “On your knees. Take my shoes off.”
I roll my eyes, but kneel down in front of him, unlacing his boots. I tug on one and he lifts his foot, letting the boot slide off. Once the boot is off I take his sock off, and repeat this action with the other foot.
“Good girl,” he says. “I’m a little disappointed. I thought I’d get to kick you in the face at least once for refusing.”
He stands. “Pants.” He smiles as he clarifies, “Everything. All of it. Off.”
I stare at him sullenly, noticing his dick pressing hard against the material of his jeans. Great. If he makes me suck it, I’m going to bite the fucking thing off, even if he kills me for it. It’d be worth it. I pull at the already unbuttoned pants, avoiding his erection as I tug the material past. Once they’re around his knees I do the same thing with his boxer shorts, and I’m suddenly eye-to-eye with his raging hard dick. I lurch back, suddenly nauseous again.
My reaction earns a deep laugh from him.
“On the bed. On your back. Now. Or I’ll shove this so far down your throat, it’ll come out the other end.”
I scurry to sit on the edge of the bed, as far away as I can, and swing my legs up. I can handle the punches and the kicks, the touches and the pain, but I can’t handle the thought of being mouth-raped by him. Not today. I’m also keenly aware of the stun gun that sits on the bed beside him, and how much I want to avoid giving him reason to use it on me again. The last time he did, I felt I was going to die, and not a painless, delicious sleep-death like the hotshot of heroin. It was fucking horrible, and I’ll do almost anything to avoid being shocked again. I lay myself in the middle of the bed, propped up on stiff elbows, not letting him out of my sight. The rough leather of the cut brushes painfully against my nipples, and I stay as still as possible to stop that icky feeling it evokes in my belly.
He leans down and fishes something out of his jeans. Crawling up onto the bed, he straddles me, his hardness pressing painfully against my thigh.
He wraps that something around my upper arm, and I look down, seeing it’s a silk tie. Probably the same one he wore to the funeral, I think to myself. That makes me feel marginally better. Until I remember his plan for me, to breed me until I replace his dead sons.
Now I feel like shit again.
He produces a syringe from thin air and inserts it into my vein, pulling back so that my blood flows into the syringe, mixing with the clear fluid to form a dangerous red-tinged cloud of nirvana. I can feel myself tensing, waiting for that hit, and despair slams into me when I realize how addictive thi
s shit is. I’m already looking forward to it, looking past the needle completely, not even caring if it might kill me. I’m already one step away from being addicted to this shit.
And I don’t even care. I just want him to hurry up and push the fucking plunger down and let me have my fix.
Jesus. I’m even thinking like a junkie with junkie words. My mother would be so proud.
I glance at the syringe, hanging out of my arm, as Dornan moves his hand away and down between my legs. “What, you’re not excited to see me?” he says, sneering as his hand obviously detects no wetness.
I move my other hand toward the syringe, brazenly attempting to grab it in order to inject the good stuff and at least make this a little more bearable, but Dornan slaps me away as though I’m a kid with my hand in the cookie jar.
“It’s quid pro quo, baby,” he says, spitting on his palm and rubbing his saliva between my legs, making my stomach roil. “Something for something.”
“I know what quid pro quo means,” I say, suddenly annoyed. “I’m not a fucking idiot.”
He laughs, pushing into me forcefully. I squeeze my eyes shut momentarily. I’m not ready, and it burns.
“You’re especially tight today,” he says, moving roughly, quickening his pace. “I like it.”
I roll my eyes. “I think it’s called dry,” I reply sharply. “As in, not turned on at all. You disgust me.”
He smirks, slamming into me harder, making me cry out. “You sure about that?”
I stare at the ceiling. Sad and worn out and numb. “Yep.”
“Well, I intend to get off,” he says, ripping the leather cut open and squeezing my breasts.
“I know,” I respond slowly, as if he’s an idiot. He responds by wrapping his fingers around my neck and squeezing tight.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he whispers suddenly, moving faster. “You are mine, you know that, right?”
Gypsy Brothers: The Complete Series Page 40
