Retribution

by Natasha Knight

  I turned my head to follow his voice as he circled me.

  “It hadn’t fully healed yet, and I knew it hurt her.”

  He paused behind me, but the chains were too tight for me to turn.

  “They’d branded her, Elle.”

  Everything stopped when I heard his words, me, my breathing, the fire, traffic, him.

  “Like cattle,” he added.

  He would brand me?

  The fire? He was preparing? He’d…

  I yanked at the chains, impossible though it was, and my screaming began anew behind the gag. I was stretched so tightly I could barely move, and now I knew why. It was exactly so I wouldn’t move, my hip the condemned target for this, his cruelest act.

  I hated him then. I hated him. I’d felt sorry for him for so long. Had seen the suffering in his eyes and made him human, made him a victim. I was a fool. A fucking idiot. I should have tried harder to escape. I should have attacked him. Attacked Acosta. I should have scratched their eyes out. I should have done more, but I hadn’t. I hadn’t. Stupidly, I’d believed he would release me. I’d believed — what? That he’d take me back home, tell me he was sorry, make love to me? Hold me in his fucking arms? What was wrong with me? How was I so stupid? So stupid, I now stood tethered like some animal waiting to be branded.

  Branded.

  When his hands came to the back of my head, I screamed from behind the gag, but he only undid the cloth sealing my eyes shut, and let it drop. I blinked, my vision adjusting. The fire burning in the portable pit shone bright in the black night, and in the flames stood the glowing orange iron, the brand that would sear my flesh, burn it away in seconds, the pain it would bring one I knew I’d choose death over.

  He walked around to stand before me then and met my eyes.

  “I should let you see me. You have a right.”

  He picked up the brand and I shook my head wildly, screaming, feeling the warm trickle of urine slide down my thighs, splash onto my ankles when it hit the ground, creating a small puddle between my legs. Fear stole all dignity from me before finally, finally, dropping me into unconsciousness, the world going black around me as I slumped in my bonds, finished.

  I STOPPED.

  I heard it first then saw it, saw the trickle of liquid running between her legs. Her head slumped forward and she stilled. It kept coming, the urine, for a moment longer. A quiet trickle of fear. Of terror.

  I watched, frozen to the spot, my entire body beginning to tremble, to shake. I dropped the iron and it clanged onto the floor, forcing me to step backward.

  “Adam?” Acosta asked.

  I didn’t turn but took another step away from her. From the bound, helpless woman before me.

  What was I doing?

  Who was I?

  “Adam, are you all right?” Acosta’s voice barely registered.

  I forced myself to move before her, to look at her, her wrists wrapped in chains, her legs spread wide, tethered to posts, the hair that had come loose from her braid veiling her face. I circled back again, seeing what I’d already done, at the stripes along her back, scars she’d wear for the rest of her life.

  The iron steamed on the ground behind her.

  How could I?

  How could I have done this to her?

  “Adam.”

  “Go,” I said, my eyes on Elle.

  “You made the right choice.”

  “Go.”

  “Let me help you.” He stepped forward.

  “I said go!”

  My shout surprised him, but it had the effect I sought. I never once took my eyes from Elle’s still form, but listened to his footsteps as he left us alone: my tethered beauty and the beast who would destroy her. I traced the final scabs from where I’d broken her skin, my own back twitching in memory, in shared suffering. As if that made it better. As if it made any difference at all. Again moving to face her, I reached to undo the gag and slid it out of her mouth, holding her face, looking at her, grateful her eyes were closed. Grateful she wouldn’t have to see me in this, my lowest, most vile moment.

  Because I was a monster.

  Stepping to her, I held her body to mine, cradling her head against my chest. “I’m sorry.” I said it knowing she couldn’t hear me. “I’m so sorry, Elle.” My lips touched the top of her head, tears falling onto dark hair when I squeezed my eyes shut.

  Who was I?

  Who had I become in my quest for vengeance?

  What had I become?

  Bending, I unbound her ankles, my arm wrapped around her small waist as I straightened to unwrap the chains I’d so cruelly chosen to secure her tiny, fragile wrists. First one arm then the other, keeping her body to mine as it slumped forward, rubbing her wrists as if I could rub out what I’d done.

  But you didn’t do it. You stopped.

  She weighed nothing, like holding air when I lifted her into my arms, and again, the vileness of what I’d done rushed me, making me stumble. She’d had no chance. She was no match for me. I’d stripped her bare and locked her behind bars and a steel door. I’d chained her to the wall. I’d kept her cold and alone. I’d left her in the dark. I’d whipped her. I’d fucked her. I’d come inside her. And all that time, all I could think, all I could remember, all I could see were her eyes — the forgiveness in them. The compassion. The mercy she showed me when I only deserved her hate.

  A sob broke from my chest as I hugged her closer, wanting to feel the beating of her heart against my chest, wanting to know she lived, she breathed, that I hadn’t killed her. The cry, it was more a howl, and it came from somewhere deep inside me, buried so far within my chest, locked up so tight for so many years, it came out all wrong, inhuman.

  But wasn’t I inhuman for doing this? Wasn’t I a monster for doing what I’d done to her? What I’d planned to do?

  You stopped.

  The voice spoke louder this time, as if trying to get my attention. To make me listen.

  But I wouldn’t. I didn’t deserve to. I deserved the pain I gave her, the suffering I caused. I deserved to rot in hell with the monsters I claimed to be fighting against, claimed to be protecting people like my sister, like Elle, from.

  I was that monster.

  I took her to the cell. She lay unconscious as I cleaned her, shame flooding me when I wiped away the traces of urine on her thighs.

  What had I become?

  After dressing her, I carried her upstairs and out to my truck, laying her gently in the passenger seat, strapping the seat belt around her. She shivered but didn’t wake. Once inside, I started the engine and cranked the heat up, one eye on her as I drove back home. It was late; it would be unlikely I’d run into anyone. And if I did, well, I didn’t give a fuck if I did. I needed to take care of Elle now.

  I parked the truck and collected her in my arms, her breathing quiet against my chest, her arms limp. The elevator didn’t stop once on its way to her floor, and I fished the keys to her condo from my pocket and opened the door. Leaving the lights off, I brought her into the bedroom where I laid her on the bed and stripped off the things she’d worn, the few things I’d allowed her. I tucked her into her bed, wrapping the thick covers tightly around her shoulders. She slept throughout. She didn’t move, didn’t make a sound while I worked, turning up the heating in the bedroom to keep her warm, placing a glass of water on the nightstand for when she woke. Once finished, I watched her, contemplating a note, some sort of apology, something, but I did nothing. Instead, I walked away. I forced myself to turn my back and walk out of her life. I couldn’t erase what I’d done. She’d have the scars to prove what had happened to her. Would she go to the police? To her father? I didn’t care. I deserved whatever I had coming, and no amount of sorry would ever be enough for her to forgive me. I didn’t deserve forgiveness. I deserved her hate.

  I set her cell phone on the counter and left, locking the door and sliding the key back underneath it. I then opened the door to the stairwell and took the stairs calmly toward the garage, cl
imbed on my bike, and rode out into the night, unsure where I was going, chilled by the cold, my jacket back at SafeHouse. I rode out of the city and kept going, no destination in mind, only the memories of her keeping me company, making me see within the depths of those crystal-blue eyes who and what I was.

  I ROLLED OVER, HUGGING the comforter to me, burying my face in my pillow.

  My pillow.

  Blinking my eyes open, I turned my head, taking in my surroundings, recognizing the bed I lay in, the blanket wrapped around me. I sat up and pushed the duvet off, naked beneath it. I knew he hadn’t done what he’d threatened to do, what he’d prepared to do. I would have felt it, and I felt nothing. No pain.

  A glass of water sat beside the bed and I took it, my throat dry. I sipped, going over the night’s events, remembering how he’d blindfolded and gagged me, taken me to one of the still-unfinished upper floors. How cold it had been, how the icy chains he’d strung me up with had bitten into my skin, the heat of the fire the only source of warmth. I remembered his words when he’d first blindfolded me: “Don’t look at me. I can’t have you look at me.” But then, when he’d told me what he would do to me — brand me — he’d taken the blindfold off again, said I had a right to see him. I remembered pleading with my eyes, my sobs muffled by the gag. And then, then, the trickling warmth on my inner thighs. I’d wet myself. Just before I’d passed out, I’d wet myself in fear.

  “Adam?” I called out, my voice cracking, my throat needing clearing before I tried again. Was he still here? Why hadn’t he done it? Why had he stopped? Why had he brought me home? It had been the same when he’d whipped me. He’d promised me eighteen, half what his sister had taken, but, even then, he’d stopped at fourteen, excruciating enough, but the point was, he’d stopped.

  As I stepped out of the bed, reaching for my robe, a familiar sound startled me, making me jump. It was my cell phone. I walked toward the sound, which came from the living room or kitchen, cautious still, watching every corner as if he’d jump out at me. Why would he have brought me home?

  The phone rang twice more as I followed the sound, scanning the living room, gauging it to be late morning by the quality of the light coming in the windows. Both the living room and kitchen were empty. In the hallway, a beam of light glittered over my key, which lay on the floor. He must have slid it back inside after locking the door. I picked it up, still moving slowly as I processed.

  My phone stopped ringing, but I saw I’d missed a call from my dad. A moment later, a bell sounded, alerting me to a voice mail. Strange, my father didn’t leave voice mails. He always texted me if I didn’t pick up. I was quicker to reply in text.

  Although I knew Adam was long gone, I moved like a ghost through the rest of the condo, searching. Coming up empty.

  Why had he brought me back home? Had I dreamt it all? Had I made it all up?

  I picked up my phone and checked the date. March twenty-seventh. I’d been gone two weeks. I checked my phone for messages, texts, first finding several from friends, casual invites to coffee or dinner, a few concerned “Where are you? Please call me back” messages, a number of texts from my father that Adam had answered for me, telling him how much I enjoyed the heat and sunshine of Miami. I’d be back soon and, once home, I’d call him. My father’s messages had changed in tone. I could read it, but Adam probably hadn’t noticed. I pushed the button to listen to voice mail. Mails. My father had left several asking me to call him. I’d call him, but I needed to figure things out first, so I sent a quick text since the voice mail from a few minutes ago said he’d be sending a search party if he didn’t hear from me, concern evident in his tone even though he’d tried to make light of it.

  Got in late last night. Sorry I’ve been out of touch. Lost my charger, and my phone ran down! I’ll call you later today.

  x

  I scrolled through my messages to find the one Adam had sent me weeks ago, when he’d told me he wanted to see me. I almost tried calling the number, but my hands shook so badly, I didn’t. I stopped. I should call the police, shouldn’t I? I should report him. I should take them to the crime scene. I should…

  But I knew I would do none of those things.

  I set the phone down and went into the bathroom to strip off the robe. I stood facing the mirror, seeing my reflection, examining hollowed-out, shadowed eyes, sunken cheeks. My hair a tangle, the braid mostly having fallen out sometime last night. My body had changed a little, I had lost weight. It went quickly with me, losing or putting on pounds. Now, pelvic bones jutted sharply out of thinly stretched flesh.

  I turned, sucking in a breath at the lines marking my back, soft, silvery-white, the shade lighter than my flesh, the last of the wounds healing. I hadn’t really thought I’d dreamt it, but if I had any doubt, here stood my evidence of what had happened to me, of what he’d done to me. I wondered if I’d wear it for the rest of my life.

  I plugged the drain in the tub and ran a bath, pouring sweet-smelling salts into the water and going to make myself a cup of tea while it filled, picking up my phone again. Scrolling to Adam’s message, again. While I waited for the kettle to boil, I hit call on the contact. My heart pounded as I watched the screen, not sure what I wanted, if I wanted him to answer or not. I didn’t have to wait long for it to click over to voice mail though. This is Adam Smith. Leave your message.

  Hearing his voice made me shudder and I hung up at the beep signaling I could start recording. The kettle boiled then, and I opened the cupboards, everything feeling foreign to me as I chose a mug and a tea bag, pouring the boiling water over it, smelling the smells and listening to the sounds. Weird. In my own home, I felt completely out of place, as if I were a stranger here. It made no sense.

  I carried the mug and my phone into the bathroom, locking the door behind me even though I was alone. I sank into the too-hot water, forcing myself to submerge fully, my head as well, and holding my breath, eyes open. I stayed under as long as I could, listening to the strange sound of water, knowing only that for those moments.

  I was safe. He had finished with me. Something had happened last night to make him stop the insanity. I should have been happy. I should be calling the police to have him arrested, this lunatic who kidnapped me, who tortured and humiliated me. But I didn’t and I wouldn’t, and as I emerged from beneath the surface of the water, all I could do was cry.

  From the collection of newspapers outside my door, I learned the investigation into some business transactions my father had been a part of had been stalled. A key witness had disappeared. He’d gone missing the night my ordeal had begun. I remembered that night clearly, remembered how Adam had received a text message changing his mood, anger rising to the surface. Could it be connected? But how?

  Although I didn’t want to, although I wanted to just stay in bed with the covers over my head, I called my father. He wanted to send someone to see me. By someone, I knew he meant one of his bodyguards. Doubt circled my mind. My father had always managed to wipe away any doubt when I questioned anything. Maybe because I wanted to believe him. Maybe that was what made it so easy. He’d said anyone in his position would have enemies, powerful ones. All I could think as he spoke was no, Adam was mistaken. This man couldn’t have done all those things. Those terrible things. He didn’t kidnap women and sell them. He didn’t have them whipped and tortured. He’d been a kind and loving father. But then other memories, of times when he “met” with associates, when things didn’t go well, when a crew of them would collect, he and his men.

  No. I couldn’t do this. This was my father. Manuel Vega may not be completely legitimate in all his business dealings, but, certainly, he wasn’t what Adam said he was. Adam was the monster.

  Wasn’t he?

  I slept those first days. I slept a lot. Not wanting to leave the house, not sure if it was out of fear or another reason. I wished I’d kept more food in the pantry, but I used to eat out a lot. It was easier. I wasn’t a good cook and hated cleaning up after myself. I realize
d how spoiled I sounded just thinking it, and my mind went to the things Adam had said about my father. About his sister. About how this condo was paid for. About how my cars were paid for. How my clothes, my jewelry, my brand new everything, hell, about how my life was paid for. It made me sick to think of it. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.

  After eating pasta drizzled with olive oil, my mind working through every detail, I went back to bed. It couldn’t be. I couldn’t process it all yet. I just needed some time.

  I existed on crackers and pasta when I had to eat, and slept most of the days away. I kept the blinds closed, and noises in the hallway made me jump. I felt exhausted and knew part of that was depression. It made no sense to the logical side of me. What I did made no sense. I should go to the police. I should be happy to be free. I should be seeking my own revenge. But I only wanted to sleep.

  I wondered if he was upstairs right now. I didn’t think he would be. I don’t know why, but I just didn’t think he would be. I tried to go up twice but chickened out both times, cowering in my condo, doors locked. Although I knew if he wanted to get to me, he would. He could take me again. I wasn’t even sure I’d fight him, and that frightened me most.

  I slept, cracker crumbs littering my bed, glasses collecting on the nightstand. I wished I had alcohol in the house, but I didn’t. I’d finished the last bottle of wine with him. Everything had become about him.

  I tried to call him again, but it went right to voice mail, like the last time. I started a text message, only to delete it. I did this a dozen times before finally hitting send typing just his name, written as if I called out to him.

  Adam?

  Nothing. No reply came. And I felt disappointed.

  I dreamt of her, of Alessandra. I kept seeing her face, an animated version of the girl I’d seen in photographs. No matter what, I couldn’t stop dreaming of her. I wished I knew more. Jolting awake sometime in the night, I remembered something.

  He’d had files. Photos. Her name had been Alessandra. Smith wasn’t her real last name. His either. He hadn’t told me when she’d died or where. It would be like searching for a needle in a haystack.