My eyes grew wide.
I understood what he meant to do.
“This is nothing compared to what they did to her. Nothing,” he said, fumbling to flip the file open, spreading the photographs out before me then stepping back. “Nothing,” he said again, before swinging, landing a line of fire across my ass so hot, so intense, all I could do was open my mouth to a scream that did not come, that could not come, not until the next stroke fell, and the one after, and I began to howl, never stopping while he whipped me mercilessly, covering my ass in lash after lash, one overlapping another, the force behind his strokes growing.
Leather cut into my wrists and ankles as I struggled hopelessly. I turned back to look at him, begging him to stop, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. I wasn’t even sure he saw me anymore, not as myself. Not as the woman he’d made love to hours ago. As though he — Adam — wasn’t there. His eyes had gone almost black, rage behind unspent tears glistening. His mouth moved, speaking words I couldn’t make out, but the few times he did meet my eyes, he faltered, pausing, hesitating. In those moments I saw the man I’d come to know, to feel for. But then darkness would take over, as if he forced himself not to see me, to only see vengeance, not a human being suffering before him.
No man had ever raised a hand to me. I would have killed anyone who tried, yet, in him, even through the pain he caused, I saw him. Saw his anguish, his suffering.
The sounds of my calls were surely loud enough to penetrate the walls, to alert someone to what was happening, but no one came, and when my knees buckled and I thought I would die, he stopped. Finally, he stopped. My sobs and his breathing became the only sounds in the room. I didn’t look at him again, watching the tear-streaked photographs he spread out before me instead, unable to make sense of what he said, his voice too broken, too defeated for comprehension.
“See her.” That was all I understood when Adam walked away, and I looked. I thought what I would see would be horrid. I thought — I don’t know what I thought. But the photographs laid out before me were nothing like what I’d expected. They were of a girl. A beautiful girl with long, dark hair and pretty, almond-shaped black eyes. She was younger in some and a woman in others. I saw him, too. Saw him when he was little. His eyes made him recognizable, except there, in the photos of him as a child, he laughed in every single shot. Even when he sat with a skinned knee and a toppled bicycle, his sister holding his hand, he gazed up at her, smiling, only smiling.
I turned to find Adam watching me, his face strange. He held a bottle of water and, after a moment, approached me. I pulled at my restraints, the pain of my beating something I did not want to — something I could not — repeat.
“No more! Please!”
He paused and held up his hands, as if surprised by my reaction to him. When I saw he no longer held his belt, I exhaled, laying my cheek on the desk, exhausted, wanting sleep.
“You okay?” he asked, inspecting the welts he’d left, as if it had been someone else who’d just beaten me.
I closed my eyes, feeling a tear slide down one cheek. “No.” I tried to shake my head. “I’m not okay.”
He unbound me, ankles first then wrists, and lifted me in his arms. I would have resisted, but I had nothing left. Carrying me back into the cell, he sat with me on his lap, the denim irritating the too-tight, too-hot flesh of my punished ass. He held the bottle of water to my lips, and I drank. I drank all of it. He then laid me down on my belly and covered me with the blanket he’d brought. His, I realized, remembering the pattern, the scent of it when I’d been in his bed having my hand stitched up. That was days earlier. Now, I’d become his prisoner.
“What do you want?” I asked, unable to look at him when he stood.
“What do I want?” he asked.
I waited.
“I want your pain.”
Silence descended between and around us. Nothing left to say, I supposed.
Adam plunged me into darkness and walked out the door. I closed my eyes, a single tear sliding down the side of my face.
I LIKED SEX ROUGH. I fucked hard. I took, but I gave in equal measure. I’d spanked women before Elle, but what I’d done to her today, I’d never done anything like that out of anger before. It was always consensual, even if the women were bound. It got them off. It got me off. Today, though, I wasn’t even hard.
Punishing Elle was central to my plan. I’d meant what I’d said before I’d begun, that there was no other way. But in all the years I’d been planning, I’d never taken into account how it would feel to actually do it, the process of it rather than the end result. Had she been someone else, someone I hadn’t run into when she’d been hurt, someone I hadn’t fucked, would I have felt any differently? Would the guilt of what I’d done be less? Because, right now, I felt more like a monster than the monster I wanted to hurt.
Twice, when I’d looked at her face, I’d faltered. She’d seen me in those moments, and I wondered if she’d glimpsed my weakness. I’d stopped before I’d meant to. I’d wanted to break skin. I’d intended on drawing blood. I’d told myself I’d only stop once I’d cut flesh, once blood streaked the backs of her legs red. But I hadn’t been able to do it. And two opposing forces battled within me because of it. One, relief at the thought that maybe, just maybe, I was not a demon. But the second, that of a dark, powerful voice angry I’d not taken more of the thing due me.
That voice terrified even me.
I steeled myself as I sat at the bar, the shot of tequila untouched, the beer going flat. I swallowed the former and washed it down with a mouthful of the beer, paid my tab, and walked out the door. The phone in my pocked buzzed with a message, but it wasn’t my phone. It was Elle’s. I took it out, and it lit up in my hand. I’d held onto it, planning on reading messages from her father, if any arrived. I hadn’t had a chance to do it yet, though. The message flashed then disappeared, and I slid my thumb over the line to access it. She didn’t have a password on it, which made it easy. One new text waited to be read. I opened it, one hand balling into a fist as I read the name of the contact: Daddy.
Elle, I have to leave earlier than expected. Business. I’m sorry, baby girl. We’ll have to reschedule dinner.
I scrolled up, reading through the recent messages. They’d had a dinner scheduled for tonight. I wondered what business called Manuel Vega away, if it had to do with a dead witness. How many had the man killed? For how many deaths was he responsible? The questions reassured me, reinforced my plan because sometimes, when evil kept winning, good had to resort to any means necessary to get the upper hand.
How much good is left inside you, Adam?
Ignoring the voice and tucking the phone back into my pocket, I climbed on my bike and headed back to SafeHouse, the name at odds with what it had become: the opposite of anything safe, at least for Elle. I’d halted construction. I’d pick up on it once I’d finished my business. And I would finish it. This text from Daddy made it that much easier. He had plans to eat dinner with her, probably take her somewhere nice, dressed impeccably, smiling to the waiters as if he simply shared a nice evening with his beautiful daughter when, in reality, he’d be eating with blood-soaked hands.
No, I’d continue as I meant to, carry on as I’d planned. I would take pain from Elle. I would take it out of her back. I may not draw blood, but I would take her pain. And then, once I was ready, I’d reschedule that dinner date, only this time, it would be for three. I’d give him back his daughter, broken, just like Alessandra had been broken. I would avenge Alessandra’s death. I wouldn’t forget that. And then I’d be free. Free to die myself because I knew once I did what I had to do to Elle, I would have to die. I would no longer be able to bear living.
Elle slept quietly on the cot, the comforter pulled up to her neck, her arms tucked beneath her chest. I opened the cell door and went inside, but she didn’t stir. Grabbing the chair at the desk, I brought it into the cell, hung my coat over the back, and sat down to wait for her to wake.
She
made hardly any noise as she slept. I brushed the hair from her face, feeling strange doing it. Her mascara had smeared across her temple and beneath her eyes. All other makeup had worn off long ago. Her lashes still held droplets of tears. She’d likely cried herself to sleep.
But wasn’t that the point?
She blinked her eyes open a few minutes later, startling when she saw me.
“Adam.” She sat up, flinching, holding the blanket tight around her as if it would safeguard her from me.
“I woke you.”
“How long have I been sleeping?” She didn’t wear a watch, and the room was below ground so no windows. An hour could, and probably did, feel like a week to her.
“A while.”
“I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”
“You don’t need to understand.”
“This is crazy. How long are you going to keep me here? I have a job. Friends. I’m meeting my dad for dinner.” She stopped. “Did I miss dinner?”
“He canceled, actually. Business called him out of town.”
“What? How do you know?”
“He sent you a text.”
“People will notice I’m gone. He’ll notice.”
“Your father believes you’re taking a ‘much deserved’ getaway. He texted you back after you let him know you’d be out of town for a little while. You won’t be found, not until I’m finished.”
“Finished?” Tears streaked her face. “What more are you going to do to me?”
I reached to the floor and handed her the bag of takeout. “Here, eat. You’re probably hungry.”
She shook her head, pushing it away. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this. If it’s some sort of game…”
“No game.” I stood and picked up the chair. “Water and food are here for when you get hungry. I’ll be back soon.”
“Wait.” She jumped off the cot and followed me, holding tight to the blanket. When I turned to face her, she stopped, stiffening, backing away.
I raised my eyebrows, standing taller.
“How long do I have to stay here?”
“Until I’m finished.”
She hesitated but I waited, knowing she had another question.
“Are you going to kill me?” Her voice broke as she asked the question she’d asked the night before.
I closed the space between us, combing her tangled hair back with my fingers, catching on a knot, making her wince. “I don’t want to kill you.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I already told you. Your pain.” I traced the line of her jaw with the knuckles of one hand, making sure she saw me, truly saw me, when I said what I said next. “I only want your pain, Elle.”
She swallowed, her eyes searching, trying to comprehend, to process. I took a step away.
“Please don’t leave me here in the dark,” she said. “Please, Adam. I’m so cold, and… I’m scared.”
Her confession wrapped itself around my heart made me glad I had my back to her. She couldn’t have seen her words made me pause, made me question. Made me fucking feel.
I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing memories of Alessandra to come, to shroud the image of Elle’s tear-stained face, to obliterate any compassion I felt. But they wouldn’t. They would not. I would be granted no reprieve, and why should I be? My heart was as black as her father’s heart. It had to be, or I couldn’t do this, couldn’t do what I had yet to do, to another human being.
Without another word, I walked out of the cell, not turning as she ran to the bars, trying to capture my arm from between them, pleading with me. I ignored her. Slipping my jacket on, I unlocked the heavy outer door and left without looking back, pulling it closed behind me, leaving the light on for Elle.
As soon as the door closed, all was silent, the room soundproof, the door costing a small fortune but necessary for my purposes. If only blocking out my thoughts was as easy, as straightforward, as closing a door behind me.
IF I COUNTED MEALS, I’d had six in the days I’d been there. Well, he’d delivered six. I’d eaten two. My stomach growled, but hunger took a backseat to the weight of my situation, to the depression lurking around the corner. I’d always been prone to it, had medication for when it got bad, but, in here, I had nothing. I could usually manage it, recognizing the signs early, but as I sat here in the dimly lit room, watching for the steel door to open, darkness descended, slowly stealing away hope.
It couldn’t have been more than a few days, could it? The last two times he’d come, he’d only delivered meals and water and taken me to the bathroom behind a door I hadn’t noticed earlier, to shower. He’d taken care of everything, planned this when he’d built this room. That fact frightened me more than any other. And yet, every time he came, he’d sit with me. Sometimes we’d talk, other times, he’d simply sit. He’d watch me. I’d watch him. He’d try to coax me to eat but I always waited until he left and then picked at the sandwiches, forcing down a few bites but wondering, hoping, if I starved myself, he’d release me sooner. All this while, something about him, something in his eyes, in the tender way he’d do things, made me question. He wasn’t pure evil. I had no doubt of that. A darkness raged inside him, and I could see him battle it, almost see the two sides of him warring. He believed he needed to do this, he believed it to be just. But all the while, he questioned himself. My hope stemmed from that questioning.
When he’d seen I was cold, he’d brought me a blanket. When I’d tried to untangle my hair, a hairbrush. He hadn’t hurt me again, but it would come. Now, he waited. For what, I didn’t know. Perhaps to come to terms with what he planned to do before inflicting it upon me?
I picked up the bottle of water and emptied the last of it down my throat. I felt like he’d been gone longer this time, but couldn’t be sure. My measuring of time came from counting meals.
When I heard the sound of a key sliding into the lock, my heartbeat quickened and I sat up. Each time he came gave me hope: an opportunity to break through and tilt the scales of his internal battle in my favor. But each time he left, leaving me behind, stole a little more of that hope.
The door opened, and Adam stepped inside. The duffel bag he carried reminded me of the last time he’d brought it. Without a hello, he set it down then took off his coat and hung it up. In silence, he unzipped the bag and took a second, smaller one out of it before opening the cell door and entering. He picked up the chair he now left inside the cell, brought it closer to the cot, and sat down.
“You look tired,” he said.
“Are you serious? I’m a prisoner locked away in here. How do you expect me to look? Refreshed?”
He ignored me. “Here,” he said, taking out a container of warm food. My mouth watered at the smell of Chinese and I took it. So far, he’d only brought cold sandwiches. I opened the top and took the fork he handed me, inhaling again. He smiled when I took the first bite then a second, too hungry not to.
“Aren’t you eating?” I asked. He usually brought a second sandwich for himself and ate even when I didn’t. It gave me a small comfort when he did. As though some humanity remained between us.
“Later.” He took a beer out of the bag, twisted the top off, and held it out to me.
I licked my lips, trying to figure out what this was about, but took the beer.
“God, that’s good,” I said, after drinking a third of the bottle.
“I’m glad,” he said.
Something in his demeanor made me nervous.
He waited until I slowed down on the food and finished the beer before speaking. He took my things and put them back inside the bag and took a folder out of it. He didn’t open it, instead, he set it down on the cot beside me. I stared at it, heart pounding against my chest, waiting, expecting something like the last time.
“Take the blanket off.”
I studied his face, trying to read his mind.
“I’m not going to hurt you. Do as I say now, Elle.”
I stared, un
able to move. He waited a few more minutes in silence then stood and picked up his bag.
“No wait!” He couldn’t leave. He’d done this before, when he brought me something to eat. If I didn’t eat, he got up and left.
He raised his eyebrows, waiting for me, and I sat up, pushing the blanket from my shoulders so I sat naked before him.
His expressionless gaze raked over me and he resumed his seat.
“Put your feet up on the cot.”
I swallowed, my belly quivering, my clit, somehow, even considering the circumstances, beginning a slow throb. I lifted my feet up and set them flat on the mattress.
“Spread them.”
I knew what he wanted. I could see it in his eyes. See it in the outline of his cock straining his suit pants. I wondered why he wore those, if he went to an office to work or something. I knew nothing about him.
I spread my legs, showing myself to him, studying his face, his eyes as he took in my exposed sex.
He didn’t say anything and his expression didn’t change. He gazed at it, at me, for a long while before moving off the chair to kneel between my legs. His eyes met mine, the desire in them making me catch my breath. Without a word, he put his hands to either side of my pussy and pulled the lips wider before leaning forward, inhaling deeply then licking the length of me. I gasped, my hands on his thick shoulders when he gripped my hips.
“Adam,” I muttered, sucking in air, the sensation of his hot, wet mouth licking my clit while the rough stubble of his beard scratched my pussy, making my eyes roll to the back of my head.
Tension collected and I arched my back, moving myself along his mouth, his face, pulling him tight to me.
I shouldn’t want this. Why did I want this?
His tongue worked, licking, circling, tasting. My breath came in gasps, and I closed my eyes when he closed his mouth over my clit, giving myself over to it, this moment, this one sensation. I came quickly, the orgasm like a heavy weight releasing from inside me, inside my belly, the sound only my quiet gasps and his sucking. I squeezed my eyes tightly and leaned my head against the wall, drawing the sensation out, my entire body throbbing beneath his tongue. It lasted forever and ended in an instant, and, when Adam pulled away, I shuddered, suddenly cold.
Retribution Page 8
