Retribution

by Natasha Knight

  I shook my head. I was so fucked.

  She was inside and alone. I’d been watching her move around the kitchen for the last twenty minutes.

  I felt like a stalker. Hell, I was already a kidnapper. A torturer. Why not add stalker to the list. It fit.

  Cars honked when I stepped off the bike and into traffic, but I didn’t stop. I was too close to not doing this and I couldn’t stop. I forced my way across the street and into the building. I still had my key and passed through the security gate to the elevator where I rode it alone up to the fifteenth floor. It wasn’t very late, about half past nine.

  My heart pounded as I rode up, the elevator seeming sluggish, drawing out my discomfort. What would she do when she saw me? Would she be afraid of me? I expected she would. I’d just give her the envelope, look in on her once, mutter the words I owed her, and go. But what did I expect to gain from giving her the deed? Was it in some way going to absolve me of my crime? Was it me seeking her forgiveness? I didn’t deserve it, that was for sure.

  The ding announced my arrival as the doors slid open and I stepped out onto the landing. Pausing, I took a deep breath in and forced one foot in front of the other until I stood just outside her door. Not a sound came from inside, and I raised my hand to knock. Would she even open the door? Not if she was smart.

  When nothing came, I knocked again. “Elle?” I said, seeing the shadow at the bottom of the door, knowing she stood on the opposite side of it.

  Nothing.

  “I know you’re there.” I swallowed, my hands sweating, the envelope wrinkling. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just…I want to give you something.”

  Again, nothing.

  My heart sank and I dropped my head.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, wondering if she even heard it. “I’m sorry for what I did.”

  Quiet on the other side.

  She had every right to not open the door but it still hurt. Although, it wasn’t as though I didn’t deserve the hurt.

  “I’m going to slide something under the door and then I’m going to go. I won’t bother you again, Elle. You’re safe from me. I promise.”

  Bending, I set the envelope on the floor and slid it into her condo. I straightened, watching, waiting still. Putting one hand flat against the door, I closed my eyes, burying emotion. “Good-bye, Elle.” I turned on my heel and walked away, the elevator doors sliding open as soon as I called it. It hadn’t moved. I had hoped it had. I glanced over my shoulder one last time before climbing into it and pushed the button to the lobby. When the doors slid closed and I stood faced with my own reflection, I noticed what shit I looked like, how red my eyes were, my face gaunt, shadowed in darkness.

  I CLASPED MY HAND over my mouth to muffle my cries.

  He was here. He had stood just outside the door. He’d been thinner, the skin around his eyes dark. He seemed sadder, although maybe I was imagining that part or making it up or something. I only saw his blurry face through the peephole, after all.

  I’d known it was him the moment the knock had come. My heart had done triple time as soon as I’d heard the soft sound of it. And then I’d heard his voice. I’d forgotten how it sounded, what it did to me when I heard it. How it made me feel now.

  I hadn’t been able to open the door. My hands had shaken — hell, every part of me still shook — as I sat on the floor on the other side of the door from where he had stood, tears sliding down my cheeks, feeling like I had that first morning after when I’d woken up in my own bed: afraid, alone, sad.

  I picked up the large manila envelope and opened it, pulling out the sheets of paper inside, seeing the keys at the bottom. I read it, confused for a moment, recognizing the address but not quite, not right at first. And then my mouth fell open.

  It was the deed to a property. To SafeHouse. He’d signed it over to me, I was now the owner. A clause had been written in that all costs to complete the work on the building should be submitted to the attorney named for payment and a gift in the amount of one million dollars to be used to cover initial opening costs awaited me. It was mine. I now owned the very place that had held me prisoner. The place intended for such good that had seen such pain. It was mine.

  I was numb. Slowly and on trembling legs, I stood. I turned the key and unlocked the door, opening it, knowing he was long gone but still leaning my head out, catching the faintest lingering scent of aftershave. I wept then, knowing it was finished, over. I would never see him again. Adam Smith had come into my life like a whirlwind. He’d swept me off my feet. And then, he’d stolen me away. He’d scarred me physically for life. But those physical scars paled in comparison to what he’d done to my insides. To the damage I would carry forever. Somehow, some way, I’d fallen in love with him, with my captor. Was it before he’d done those things to me? Was it during? I’d never hated him, not really. I felt his darkness, his hopelessness. It shone even through his sick revenge. I loved him. He terrified me and, yet, I loved him.

  Clutching the envelope and the deed to my chest, I grabbed my jacket and purse and walked out the door, following his footsteps to the elevator, riding it down, drinking in what was perhaps the imagined remnant of aftershave, of his essence, until it was gone. In the garage, I climbed into my car and drove into the night, cars honking their horns when I pulled out into traffic, not paying any attention. I drove to SafeHouse, not sure what I was thinking, what I would do. Once there, I parked along the street, half expecting to see him there, to see him leaning against the wall like he had been the night I’d taken the taxi. The night he’d kidnapped me.

  Fishing the keys out of the envelope, I walked quickly toward the entrance. It took three tries as tears and darkness impeded my vision, but I unlocked the gate and went inside, not bothering to close it behind me, having one destination in mind. With that, I walked toward the building, entering, turning left, the smell the same as it had been before, the stillness now eerie. I switched on the flashlight on my phone to see the path as I made my way down the stairs, still stumbling. Searching for more keys, I tried them all until I got to the one that would unlock the heavy steel door, and I pushed it open, fumbling for the light switch. Light flooded the place, and I went inside, leaving the door open behind me, staring straight ahead into my prison.

  I shuddered in momentary panic, memory telling me to run, but I didn’t. I stayed. I looked. I forced myself to see. To feel.

  Nothing had changed; not one thing had been moved. My skin prickled, goose bumps covering it as I made my way inside. Remnants of that last night lay scattered on the floor: the plastic bag and the empty container of tomato soup I’d inhaled. My pillow with the brownie I’d hidden underneath. The comforter he’d brought — his comforter — lying in a heap on the floor.

  My knees fell heavy as a sob broke out and I clutched the thing to my face, trying to force his smell from it, wanting to, needing to smell it, to feel it, to feel him. What was this? What was this lunacy? How could I be feeling this?

  He was gone, Adam was gone, and, as ludicrous as it was, I wept there on the floor of my prison, the sounds coming from me so strange, so foreign and almost inhuman, like those of a thing, an animal broken, a woman who certainly couldn’t be me.

  I felt him before I heard him, his presence a powerful thing. I turned my head, unsure if it was real or imagined. Transfixed, I watched Adam push the cell door open, remembering how it creaked when it opened or closed. My heart thudded, and I fell to a seat, my back hitting the cot. I clutched the blanket, watching him, watching his face, dark and a little broken. That last part, that was what made the sobbing begin anew. What he’d done, what had happened here, he couldn’t have known it would break him while he broke me. He couldn’t have known. He couldn’t have expected it would bind me to him and him to me so completely, so irrevocably.

  I pushed myself to stand, the effort tremendous. My eyes remained on his.

  “I didn’t know you’d be here,” he said, this hulk of a man frozen in place. “Don’t be
afraid. I’ll go.”

  His eyes consumed me, but he forced himself to turn, to take one step away then another before I called out to him, making him stop.

  “Don’t.”

  I took one step toward him, but stopped when he faced me. We stayed like that for an eternity, my heart beating out of my chest, the sight of him here, so close, too much, too unreal.

  “Elle,” he said, taking a step but hesitating again when I startled.

  I dropped to the cot, unable to stand, unable to hold back the tears, too weak, too empty. He came to me, determined, and took me by the arms, lifting me to stand, his touch soft but powerful, his eyes swallowing me whole. He crushed his mouth to mine, pulling me to his chest, my hands moved to his arms, his shoulders, my arms wrapping around his neck.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered between kisses. “I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

  Tears tasted salty on my tongue as we clung to one another, each devouring the other, his hands tearing at my clothes as I ripped his shirt, needing to feel his skin on mine, bare flesh to bare flesh. That was when I saw them, when I saw the lines along his chest and shoulders, the marks like mine that hadn’t been there when he’d made love to me before, when I’d seen him naked. I had questions, but he gripped my chin and forced my face upward, his eyes burning into mine, his mouth taking mine again.

  “Adam.”

  “Shh. I need you now. I need to be inside you.”

  My shirt open, he tore my bra in half, gripping a breast painfully as he hiked my skirt up, undoing his jeans and yanking my panties aside.

  “Tell me you want this,” he said, his mouth hot against my cheek. “Tell me you want me or tell me to stop.”

  “I want you.” It sounded desperate, I sounded desperate, but God, if he’d leave me now, I didn’t know what I’d do. I didn’t know what would happen to me.

  Shoving me against the wall, he lifted me so I straddled his legs. “Are you sure? Once I’m inside you, I won’t be able to stop.”

  I nodded, kissing him, hauling myself higher, trying to sheathe myself on his cock.

  His gaze scorched mine, and he held me against the wall by my shoulders to thrust into me, his intake of breath audible. “Elle.” His mouth reclaimed mine, the kiss wet, our eyes open as he thrust again, locking me in his gaze each time he did, hurting me, as if needing my pain still, like he had then. But what was different now, what had changed, was that I wanted to give it to him, wanted to give him everything, and as he took from me, he gave me back all of him, letting me see him, his darkness, his weakness, his strength, his vulnerability, his pain.

  His pain.

  When he came inside me, I watched him, his eyes, listened to the sucking in of breath, felt his fingers crush my shoulders as he emptied, giving me everything. Giving me more than I ever imagined he could. Giving me more than I thought I could take.

  I COULDN’T STOP TOUCHING her. I couldn’t pull my face away from hers, from her hair, wanting to burn her scent onto my mind, seal it in my memory, make it a part of me. I couldn’t bear the thought of being apart from her, not yet, not just yet. It would come, there was no other way, but not yet.

  “What were you doing here?” she asked.

  “I was going to take the cell apart.”

  She nodded, leaning more heavily into me. It was silent again for a long while. “Why did you let me go?” she asked, her face buried in my neck as if she, too, couldn’t bear the thought of being apart from me. It was insanity. This woman should hate me. She should run like hell from me. She knew the monster inside me, had stood in the eye of the storm that raged in my head. She had lived my nightmare, had become the object of my hate. She had been my prey.

  “Because you were right. I just didn’t see it until that last night. I was — I am — the monster.”

  She pulled back, shaking her head, looking up at me. We leaned against the wall in various states of dress, her between my legs, cradled in my arms, every inch touching that could possibly be touching.

  “No, you’re not. You’re not a monster.”

  “Don’t fool yourself, Elle. I am what I am, still.”

  “You didn’t do it; you didn’t finish. You couldn’t, Adam. It wasn’t in you. You may have thought it was in you for too many years, but it wasn’t. Not ever.”

  I smiled down at her, tucking an ebony strand of hair behind her ear. “You are innocent and pure. You only want to see good. Doesn’t that make me even more evil?”

  I was convinced. I knew the reality and I sought neither pity nor consolation. It was a fact I had come to terms with.

  “No. You acted out of hurt. Out of love for your sister. That hate, that vengeance, it’s all you’ve known since you were fourteen. That’s more than half your life, Adam.”

  I tried not to seem like a complete creep when I inhaled close to her face again, as if trying to take in as much as possible so that maybe, just maybe, I could hold onto the scent of her, recall it at will.

  “What are you going to do with SafeHouse?”

  “I’m going to pick up where you left off. I’m going to finish it, I’m going to open it, and it’s going to be good.” She squeezed my hand. “We are going to do good. Together.”

  My heart twisted. I saw the question in her eyes, the desperation. She already knew what I needed to tell her now. She knew what she said was impossible. I shook my head, unable to hold her gaze. “No, not we. You.” I moved to rise, not sure how long I’d last, how long until the flimsy control I had over my emotions would give way. I didn’t want her to see me like that. I didn’t want her to see me weak.

  But she wouldn’t let me go, her hands fastening on either side of my face. “We,” she repeated.

  I shook my head again, taking her small hands in mine and slowly pulling her off me before standing, adjusting my clothes. Elle rose, too, her blouse still open but her skirt falling to her knees to cover her.

  I touched her face softly and leaned in close, my eyes locked on hers, forcing her to see what I didn’t want to say out loud. “You. This is for you to do.” Hot tears warmed my eyes and my voice broke, but I straightened, releasing her, steeling myself, or at least halfway attempting to.

  Tears streaked her face, though, the dam having opened. She already knew what I was saying, she just didn’t want to hear it, to know it.

  “This is what you were meant to do, Elle. This is why all the photographs. This is why the draw. This —” I gestured around us at the building. “This is where you’ll do good, not some exposé that will be forgotten in a matter of days. No, the focus needs to be on the victims, the women. On helping them. On making a difference. Enough of one that it makes an impact and makes life better, makes living more than just bearable, for them. This is for you to do, Elle.”

  She watched me, leaning her cheek into my palm. This was good-bye and we both knew it.

  Up until that moment, I’d thought there wasn’t anything left to break inside me, but I was wrong.

  I allowed myself one final kiss, her lips soft against mine, her tears salty. I watched her, burning the image of her face onto my mind, willing myself to never forget this, to never forget her like this. The next time she saw me, I would either be dead or holding the gun that would have killed her father in my hand. I wanted her to remember me like this, without the hate that would inevitably come.

  “Good-bye, Elle.”

  I walked out, toppling over the precipice on the inside, while, on the outside, I put one foot in front of the other, my back rigid, body stiff as steel. It took every ounce of willpower to do it, to not turn back when a sob broke from her chest, when she called out my name, the sound a desperate plea, but also knowing this was it, this was the only way. I walked out into the night with a single purpose before me. With just one more thing on my agenda to keep me going. I couldn’t think about what that thing would do to her. If I did, I would stop, and if I stopped, I would take the gun to my own head, failing everyone.

  SIX WEEKS HAD PASSED
since that night. Six weeks where every day I dragged myself out of bed and forced myself to shower and dress, to eat what I absolutely had to, to go out into the world. Having SafeHouse saved me, in a way. As much as it reminded me of everything that had happened, of how much I’d lost, how long I would hurt, without it, I would have given in to the depression. But with SafeHouse, there was more to think about than myself. In fact, I could put myself on the back burner and focus on the building, on its construction and on readying it for opening.

  I’d told Nikki I wanted to hire her to be the day-to-day manager. She had been thrilled, and it had felt so good to see her happy. Truly happy. She could stop working with the escort service if she wanted to. She hadn’t yet, but she put in hours preparing for opening right along with me, and, with the money Adam left me, I could afford to pay her and myself.

  Tonight, I would have dinner with my father, finally, after more than two months of not seeing each other. Although it hadn’t been conscious effort, I’d been putting off meeting in person.

  He was in town for a few hours between flights, and we had plans to meet at my favorite Italian restaurant. I’d felt uneasy, even while dressing, and now, walking in to find him sitting at our usual table, deep in conversation with a man who had his back to me, I felt almost nauseous. I stopped at the hostess stand and smiled to the girl who knew me. Taking off my coat, I handed it to her and turned to where they remained talking, oblivious to my arrival. I clutched my purse and took a deep breath.

  Everything was fine. This was just dinner with my dad. He was still my father, the same man I’d known all my life.

  I approached, each step heavier than the last. My father’s bodyguard, Stefano, saw me first, clearing his throat, alerting my dad to my arrival. He glanced up, still talking, his eyes empty until he saw me. It took him a moment, but he rearranged his face, pasted a smile on, and stood to greet me.