Retribution

by Natasha Knight

  Alessandra is gone. Elle is here. She’s alive.

  No. No, I wouldn’t entertain anything more.

  Wiping the back of my hand across my eyes, I went quickly to the duffel bag I’d brought in yesterday. It contained the whip, a long, thin horsewhip with a single knot at the end. She quieted when she saw it and her lip trembled, her entire body shaking at my approach.

  She shook her head. “Please don’t.”

  “Half!”

  “Adam, please —”

  “They gave her thirty-six strokes. I’m giving you half that number. Mercy, Elle,” I said, drawing my arm back as she fisted the chains and begged again for me not to do it. Didn’t she know yet, didn’t she understand that I couldn’t not do it?

  I struck, and her scream pierced my ears, but I raised my arm once more. “I can be merciful, Elle,” I said, striking again, two identical thin pink lines turning a darker crimson as the third stroke fell. “They showed Alessandra no mercy.” Another stroke. “But I will show you mercy. Show you I’m not a monster.”

  The last part I said more to myself than to her and, as I whipped her, as she screamed and begged and wept, I stood behind her, wiping my eyes to clear my vision, forcing myself to do this, to whip her harder, to punish her like Alessandra had been punished, to mark her for the rest of her life, like they had Alessandra.

  But Alessandra’s life hadn’t been long, had it?

  Fourteen strokes finished and twin lines of red smeared down her back. I paused. Blood.

  My arm lifted, but it didn’t fall again. I watched the crimson trails as more followed, Elle’s tears, her weak mewling constant. I couldn’t turn away. Breathing through my mouth, breath shallow, I watched. I couldn’t feel. There was nothing. I couldn’t… Because what I saw when I forced myself to remember Alessandra, to see her face again in the tub, it wasn’t my sister I saw at all.

  I lowered my arm, dropping my head, sweat sliding down my face. My breakfast threatened to come up while I watched her before me, her arms stretched over her head, the muscles of her legs tensed, strained, her naked back marked.

  Only four strokes left to go. Four.

  Four I would not deliver.

  I dropped the whip and tore my shirt off, approaching her.

  She gasped for breath, not daring to turn, to glance behind her. I gripped her ass, pressing my chest to her back, making her scream a little as one hand snaked around to find her clit, to begin rubbing it, ignoring her pleas for me to stop, hearing only the sound of her breathing change as her pussy leaked into my hand.

  Blood smeared on my chest and belly, and, with my other hand, I unzipped my pants as her hips pressed against mine.

  “Forgive me.”

  Lifting her slight weight, slowly, so slowly, I sheathed myself softly inside her, feeling every inch, every fucking millimeter of heat. She shuddered, laying her head back on my shoulder as her cunt throbbed around my cock and she came, her blood on my hands, on my chest, my cock steel for the pain I’d given her, the pain I’d extracted, and when she turned her face toward mine and I saw her reddened eyes, I, too, came, my cock pulsing inside her, filling her, taking her, binding us together as surely as what I had done, what I would still do, would bind me to hell.

  I CAME TWICE AFTER my whipping, once in his hand, once on his cock. I should have hated him. Why didn’t I hate him?

  Adam lifted me gently, wholly opposite to the violence he’d done me when he’d taken the whip to my back. Taking care, he carried me to the bed and laid me on my stomach. I closed my eyes, not wanting him to see me.

  Why didn’t I hate him?

  Was it the mercy he’d shown?

  Mercy.

  A ridiculous word.

  What mercy was there in his kidnapping me? What mercy in locking me here naked and alone, stealing my life from me? What mercy in beating me for sins not belonging to me, sins too old, too dead, to have life breathed into them now.

  The chair creaked along the floor close to my bed, and I opened my eyes only to see what he had in store next. My back burned, throbbed with pain. He’d broken skin. I’d felt the heat of blood running down my back, saw it smeared onto his chest when he’d carried me here. He hadn’t cleaned it off himself. It dried there now, smearing his sculpted body. He’d gotten off — we’d both gotten off — on my pain. What did that say about me? How sick was I?

  “This may sting.” Adam poured what I knew must be antiseptic onto a washcloth.

  “Please don’t.” It would burn. I couldn’t take more and I had no strength to move, to fight.

  “Shh. I have to clean them.”

  I sucked in a breath as he closed the cloth over the first line of torn skin, a low mewling sound coming continuously from me as I turned my face into the bed and fisted my hands, trying to manage the pain. I wanted to ask why, again, but I knew why. His sister. Alessandra. She deserved a name. And I couldn’t hate her, not any more than I could hate him.

  I clenched everything when he moved to another wound, feeling the stitches in my palm pull a little, remembering the day that had happened, how he’d taken care of me, how he’d distracted me so I wouldn’t be afraid when the doctor stitched me up.

  Forgive me.

  I’d heard him say it, although had he meant to say it out loud? And from whom did he beg forgiveness?

  I turned my head slightly to find him watching me closely, the pain on his face matching what I felt. “You stopped at fourteen.”

  He didn’t react. Instead, he lowered his lashes, shielding his eyes from me.

  “Why?”

  The tightening of his mouth and the crease of his brow told me he, too, wondered about the answer to that question. This gave me hope.

  “You’re not a monster,” I said.

  He shook his head, poured antiseptic on a fresh cloth, and applied it to my back, making me squeeze my eyes against the pain.

  “If you saw your back, you wouldn’t say that.”

  “I can feel my back.”

  “Then you shouldn’t say that.”

  “You’re not. You stopped. Why?”

  He devoted his attention to bandaging me up, and I let him take care of me as he had before.

  He’s also the one who beat you.

  True, and I would be a fool to forget it. But there was more to this man. He wasn’t evil. I wouldn’t believe that.

  Once he finished dressing my wounds, he took another towel and poured water onto it then went to sit on the cot by my legs. I tensed when he touched one buttock, but he shook his head and I relaxed. Adam cleaned me, cleaned between my legs where his cum had mixed with mine and leaked out of me, the evidence of our pleasure, of a shame I couldn’t put words to. Once he finished, he took out a bottle of prescription medication and dropped two into his hand.

  “Sit up a little, Elle. These will help.”

  I shook my head no. “What is it?”

  “For the pain, and they will help you sleep.”

  “You beat me then you try to take away the pain you give me.”

  He didn’t respond, but I hadn’t expected him to.

  I leaned up, but even the slight movement hurt too much and I shook my head again. Adam helped me then, dropping the pills into my mouth and pouring water into it to wash them down. He pulled the blanket up over my back and sat there, petting my head as I closed my eyes, not sure if the pills or exhaustion — physical, emotional, and mental — had me dozing.

  Not sure how much later, the cell door closed, and I opened my eyes.

  “You didn’t tell me why you stopped.”

  He turned, obviously surprised I’d woken. But, my eyelids too heavy to keep open, I couldn’t wait for a response. I drifted off again, not giving him a chance to answer.

  Adam cared for me in silence over the next few days. I tried to talk to him, to make him stay, but all he’d do would be to come in, bring food and water, take me to use the shower. I couldn’t do it at first. It hurt too much, and so Adam would clean me. I
n those moments, I’d almost call him tender, but then I’d remember why he washed me, why I was locked up in this dark room, and any softening I felt for him evaporated.

  This time when he finished he studied the sutures on my palm. They’d have to come out soon. He’d have to take me to Dr. Acosta. But I couldn’t get my hopes up.

  “Adam?” I couldn’t keep track of his visits anymore. He came several times a day, I knew by meals, but I just couldn’t do it anymore.

  “I have to be somewhere, Elle,” he said, having finished cleaning up the rest of the food I couldn’t eat.

  “I’m going crazy in here, Adam. Please, stay a little while and talk to me. Please.”

  He studied me, regret clouding his eyes. Was he so far gone he couldn’t return anymore? Was that the reason for my being here?

  “Can you bring me something at least?”

  “Would you like something different to eat?”

  For the most part, I’d stopped eating. I’d take a bite, maybe two, of whatever he brought, and even though my belly hurt from hunger, my throat closed up at the thought of food.

  I shook my head. “My computer. I make collages of my photographs. I can work. It will help me pass the time.”

  “I’ll tell you what. You eat the next meal I bring you, and I’ll get you your computer.”

  I nodded. “Can you…I have pills. For depression. Can you bring those, too?”

  He shook his head. “No. No pills. You’ll feel better when you eat.”

  “I’ll feel better when I get out of here!” A burst of energy surged through me and I screamed at him. “You have no right to keep me here!” Courage gave me strength to walk right up to him and pound his chest. He took it without trying to stop me. I expected retaliation or anger or something, but got none of it.

  “Good. Do it again. Hit me again,” he said.

  “You want me to hit you?”

  I let go of the blanket I stupidly held onto for the sake of modesty. He’d seen every inch of me. Every intimate inch. He thought he could shame me with my nudity? Things had moved far beyond that. I didn’t care.

  “Yeah? You want me to hit you?” I slapped him hard across the face. He flinched but remained still. “You fucking bastard!” I shoved him, a renewed strength coursing through me. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.” I punched his chest but it didn’t do anything but hurt my hand. “You have no idea what my father will do to you when he finds me.” His face hardened, but I liked it. I wanted it. I wanted him to get angry, to retaliate, to fucking feel. “You think he doesn’t know I’m missing by now? Huh?” I smacked his face again, not as hard this time. The way his body tensed at the mention of my dad warned me not to push too far even though it was exactly what I wanted. I wanted a reaction, sick of his doom and gloom and guilt and darkness. I never asked for this. I never asked to be trapped in his black world.

  “Tell me something, Adam. You think my father kidnapped your sister so you’ve kidnapped me. You’re now punishing me to teach me something. To show me how she felt.” His hands clenched into fists, but I couldn’t back down now, not when I was getting through to him. “Tell me, I wonder if you’ve even thought about this.” I glared, wanting to burn him. “What does this make you, Adam?” I spat through my teeth. A nerve twitched in his temple and, for a brief moment, the vulnerable side of him shone through the darkness in his eyes. “What does kidnapping and torturing me make you but the same as the monsters who did it to her.”

  In an instant, he dropped what he held, and his hand closed around my throat, cutting off my breath as he walked me backward and shoved me against the wall, slamming the back of my head against it. I clawed at his forearm, the effort like trying to move a fucking Mack truck.

  “Don’t you dare,” he began, his face so close to mine our noses touched.

  I weakened. I needed air. He loosened his hold and I coughed, waiting for him to continue. But something had changed for him, and as much as I knew I needed to get away from this man, a part of me wanted to help him. I saw his vulnerability, his heartache, and, for all he’d done to me, I still wanted to help him.

  I was so completely fucked up.

  “Don’t I dare what? Speak the truth?” I finished for him, angry with myself and scared shitless of what he would do to me when I said the words, but saying them anyway. They needed to be said. He needed to hear. He had this fucked-up plan for avenging his sister’s death, and if I didn’t speak, I’d be the one paying, and who knew how much dearer those payments would become.

  “Tomorrow, Elle,” he said, releasing me, collecting himself again. “You’re healed up enough to take the next punishment tomorrow.” He turned and left the cell.

  I stood, stunned, eyes on his back as he retreated, locking the cell behind him. What had I done? I hadn’t meant for that to happen. But he held all the power. He knew it. I knew it.

  “Here, material to study,” he said, sliding a file folder into the cell, the photographs spilling out, littering the cell floor. “For when you’re bored.”

  “No.” I went toward him, grabbing the bars of my cell, but he simply grabbed his keys off the desk and walked out, the steel door banging shut behind him, leaving me behind. “No.” I watched the space where he’d been, refusing to look down, too afraid to see my fate. It had gone wrong. My ill-conceived plan to rile him had gone so wrong. But what had I expected to happen? What did I think he would do?

  Fuck.

  I stepped on the file when I went back to my cot and sat down. At least he’d left the lights on. I sobbed, hugging my knees to my chest, clutching the blanket around myself. His blanket. His fucking blanket. I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore, tears and energy spent. But seeing the photographs scattered on the floor made me angry and, before I lay down to sleep, I collected all of those images, refusing to see them as I crumpled and tore, scattering them outside the bars as I screamed, raging, until not a single one was left within my reach and I had nothing left inside me, no energy, no hope, no nothing. If Adam had set out to do this, if his intention was to break me, then I must have made it easy for him because I felt empty. Broken. All I wanted to do was close my eyes and shut the world out. To sleep until this nightmare ended, and if it wouldn’t ever end, then what I wanted was death.

  I NEEDED TO REFOCUS. I’d been living too comfortably for too long. Forgotten the one thing at the heart of my mission. The one person. Alessandra.

  She was dead, and I needed to remember that. Needed to keep her death in the forefront of my mind.

  I’d taken Elle on a date. A fucking date. I’d talked to her. Fucked her. No wonder the whole fucking thing was going down the toilet. I’d forgotten myself. I knew things wouldn’t go as planned the night I’d run into her after my run, after she’d cut her hand and I’d called Acosta to sew her up. She’d lain in my bed. I’d fucking buried my nose in that pillow until the scent of her perfume had disappeared.

  I almost hadn’t even taken her that night but for Clay’s message pushing me over the edge. I’d almost let her walk out of there. If he’d gotten Vega, would I have walked away? Would I have let the memory of Alessandra slip away, unavenged? Because death was too good for the son of a bitch. Too easy.

  I’d stopped whipping her at fourteen. I should have kept to the thirty-six and I’d already told her eighteen. Mercy, I’d said. Fucking weakness. That’s what it was. That’s what I was. Weak. But that ended. Now.

  I slowed as I navigated the long, curving driveway up to Alex’s house. It had taken me forty-five minutes to get here. I’d needed the speed, the cold wind in my face, numbing me. I slipped off the leather gloves, taking in the large mansion. The bright moon lent an eerie glow to the dimly lit estate. Ivy crept along most of the walls and smoke came out of the two chimneys. The light came on in the hallway as a curtain moved in one of the upstairs rooms. It was late, and I hadn’t called, but she’d be here. She was always here.

  My steps grew heavy as I made my way to the front do
or, adjusting the duffel bag on my shoulder. I didn’t have to ring the doorbell though. One of the maids opened the large door as I climbed the steps toward it. Always unseen, in the background. I nodded in greeting and entered, waiting in the large, circular foyer. The maid locked up and left me, her footsteps quiet as she retreated.

  “Adam.” Alex’s quiet voice drew my attention as she descended the stairs. Five foot eight without heels, in her late forties, Alex stunned even without a stitch of makeup. Apart from the scarred flesh on one side of her face, that is. She could have had it repaired surgically. God knew she had the money. But she hadn’t. Instead, she never hid it, made you look at it. I liked her all the more for it. Where I showed weakness, Alex embodied strength. And she would make me strong again.

  “It’s late.” She knotted her robe around herself and studied my face.

  “I should have called,” I said, not meaning it.

  Her eyes bore into mine, waiting.

  “I need your services, Alex.”

  She grinned. “Who is she?”

  She saw right through me. “It doesn’t matter. I need to remember Alessandra and what happened to her.” I gestured toward the side of her face. Alex knew my story. She knew Alessandra’s. Knew all about Manuel Vega, the one man she feared.

  She nodded, no more questions necessary. She turned to lead the way through the house toward the basement. I followed in silence, emptying my mind as she entered the code into the keypad to unlock and open the door. I closed it behind us as we descended.

  Fourteen stairs. I always counted. And then the comfort and luxury of her life above ground disappeared, as if it didn’t exist at all. Down here, this windowless, dank space only held pain. It muffled cries, absorbed human suffering, cleansed the filthy stain of man.

  We passed three closed doors to the one at the very end. She opened it, and I followed her inside. Adjusting the light, she turned to me, folding her arms across her chest. I looked beyond her at the simple space. A large room, cold and empty but for posts from which chains hung to restrain those needing to be restrained. Black walls and concrete floors offered no warmth whereas the other rooms welcomed, depending on the need, but this was mine. This was always mine.