Cold Cole Heart

by K. Webster

  Anta broke me.

  She fucking shattered Cole Heart and left this thing in his presence.

  A monster.

  But I’m not scared anymore. I seek my vengeance and I ruin her over and over again. Slowly. Painfully. With a motherfucking smile on my face.

  “Gold would be proud,” my therapist, Savanna Jeffries, says. She toys with a lock of blond hair. Her hair color is her saving grace…among other things.

  “Proud of what?” My gaze meets her kind blue one and I stifle a sigh of irritation. This therapy shit is something I’m required to do by the Navy. It’s been nearly ten years since I was extracted from that horrible fucking place. For ten years, they’ve forced me to seek counseling for what I endured.

  Therapy doesn’t help erase the emotional pain that still haunts me.

  Therapy helps me blend in.

  Therapy shows progress.

  Therapy is a cover.

  “Of how far you’ve come. He was your best friend and—”

  “Savvy,” I interrupt with a growl, anything to stop this shit. “Time’s up.”

  Her cheeks blaze crimson and she bites on her pink bottom lip. “We shouldn’t.”

  We always do.

  She’s my alibi.

  “We will,” I challenge and crack my neck.

  Her brows are furled together as she worries over whatever it is blond princesses fret over. Her career. Her reputation. Right and wrong. But when I lean forward and scrub at my jaw with my palm, heat flickers in her eyes. She’s always distracted from her morals when my cock is buried deep inside her.

  She’s wasting precious time, though.

  I have plans.

  On therapy days, Savvy talks for fifteen minutes while I listen. Then I fuck the pretty blonde for a hard ten minutes or so. And while she collects herself, I slip out. The Navy shows me for the full hour but for thirty minutes, I’m able to go shopping at Whole Organics. My therapist’s office is next door to the most hoity-fucking-toity grocery store in Seattle.

  While they shop, I hunt.

  While they readjust their pearls, or check their compact mirrors a thousand times while in the produce aisle, I watch.

  The stalking is one of my favorite parts. Anta stalked us for weeks before she moved in and captured us. So I do the same. I find my victim and then I learn her pattern. These bitches all have patterns. Yoga and tennis and pedicures and whatever rich cunts do every day each week. When I find my regular Tuesday girl, I follow her all over the place.

  But on the third Tuesday of the month of my choosing, on the day I have therapy, I slip in and slip out. Usually a hundred and thirty pounds heavier.

  “Cole,” Savvy whines as she glances at the clock.

  I rise from the leather sofa and stalk over to her. She doesn’t protest when I pull her to a standing position in front of me. Her throat bobs as she swallows and I love how red and splotchy it gets.

  She’s severely attracted to me.

  How could she not be?

  I’m six-foot-four and solid fucking muscle. I’m covered from jaw to feet in angry, out of control tattoos. They’re everywhere. A walking canvas of pain and hate and fury displayed for all to see as a warning. But these predictable cunts all cream themselves when they see me. My nearly black hair hangs longer on top and flops into my eyes. But I keep it shaved on the sides, an old habit. I’m interesting to them. But truthfully, they have no fucking idea how interesting I am.

  “Be a good girl and let me fuck you,” I mutter, my lips brushing across her parted ones. “Tell me no and I’ll leave.”

  She never says no.

  “Yes,” she moans when I grope her tit through her silky shirt. “Be quick. Please.”

  I’m always quick with Savvy.

  It’s the ones I collect who get it slow.

  I savor them for months and months and months.

  Today is a special day. Woman number six. There were six SEALs captured by that cunt. This sixth one I’ll enjoy ruining day by day until she’s nothing but bones and stink.

  Die, Anta.

  Over and fucking over again.

  This is your eternal sentence and I’m the goddamned warden.

  IN THIRTY-SIX DAYS, I’LL BE free.

  Free from him.

  Free from both of them.

  For nearly six months, I’d belonged to my uncle at just seventeen. When my mother died, I was sent to live with Uncle Ashok in his fancy Seattle home. Uncle Ashok, my mother’s brother, was cruel and cold. He had no time or patience for a grieving young teen. Three years ago, though, my situation went from bad to worse. Uncle Ashok began suffering from dementia and was put into a home by his adopted son Alan. Alan became my guardian, because at the time, I wasn’t eighteen yet. I was uprooted from my school and taken to his swanky loft in the heart of the city.

  At first, things were good.

  Alan, a non-blood-related cousin I’d never really known and was ten years my senior, took care of me.

  He made sure I was fed, clothed, and educated.

  I’d even relaxed, for once. I settled into my new home and thought maybe life was getting better for me. Those few weeks until I turned eighteen were the calm before the storm, though.

  He was just warming his hands together before he unleashed one monstrosity after another.

  Almost three years later and I’m anything but relaxed.

  I’m so wound up I’m afraid I’ll snap at any moment.

  “Natalie.” His cold voice, much like his father’s, jerks me from my mindless daydreaming. My hand sloshes in the dishwater and I unwillingly drag my gaze toward him. I hate looking at him.

  My eyes fixate on the shiny marble floor he stands on. His black dress shoes are scuff-free. I know, without looking at him, that’s he’s donning an expensive suit, a killer haircut, and a perfect smile. He’s every woman’s fantasy. But what they don’t know is, inside, he’s made of nightmares.

  “Alan,” I breathe. I dry off my shaky hands and force myself to calm down. If I rile him up, there’ll be hell to pay.

  “Your dress is wet,” he grumbles, irritation in his low voice.

  A shudder ripples through me. Alan is obsessed with perfection. Why I’m here, dirtying up his space, is beyond me.

  “I’m sorry.” I swallow and blink unwanted tears from my eyes.

  His shoes squeak on the marble as he stalks forward. With a gentle touch, he brings two fingers beneath my chin and tilts my head up. My dark hair always curtains around my face—my only place to hide. And Alan hates when I hide. Using his other hand, he brushes my hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear.

  I want to close my eyes so I don’t have to look at him. To hold my nose so I don’t have to breathe in his masculine scent that haunts me. I want to disappear.

  “You know how I feel about your messes, sweetheart.” Malice clings to every word he so flawlessly delivers. “You know it…upsets me.”

  I shudder despite my efforts to remain strong. “I’m sorry. I’ll go change.”

  But we both know I won’t.

  My prison sentence is this dress—the same dress my mother was killed in. Her bloodstains that mar the white fabric between my breasts are a constant reminder. Each time the air catches the hole from the knife that ended her life and sneaks its way inside to my nipples, devastation overwhelms me.

  “You know I love you in this dress,” he murmurs, his lips lowering to just above mine. “I love the access to your sweet tits.”

  I grit my teeth but force my eyes open. His dark brown eyes study mine. To an outsider, he’d appear suave and handsome. Successful and distinguished. A good head on his shoulders. He’s an influential criminal attorney with his heart set on the district attorney seat. Everyone sees him as a stand-up pillar of the community.

  I know better.

  “I thought I wouldn’t have time, but perhaps I can make time,” he mutters, his lips pressing soft kisses along my jaw.

  A single tear snakes out and
his tongue darts out to catch it. I hate when he’s gentle. It’s a prologue to a horror story. I just want to get to the end already. I’m ready for this to all be over. When I finally make my escape, I’ll make my own story. I’ll finally have my happily ever after.

  “Lift your dress,” he orders.

  I’d take it off completely and forever if he’d let me.

  He never lets me.

  “Hold it above your head. I need to see your tits.”

  I swallow back my tears. I hate not being able to see him. Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I obey my monster and clutch the ratty fabric in my grip. Quickly, I tug the dress up and hide behind the sheer layers. The air is cool and runs its slithering tentacles over my naked, exposed flesh.

  Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

  I hear a splash and then it sounds like he’s wringing out a dishrag.

  “Spread your legs and let me see,” he barks.

  I jerk my legs apart. My cousin Alan took my virginity the day I turned eighteen. He was gentle and sweet. Kissed me all over. I hated myself later, when looking back, because my body responded to the way his tongue touched me between my thighs. I enjoyed it and it was nothing more than a trick. It was as though the moment I came for him, he took it as permission to own it ever since. I’ve never once told him no. Now, he’s a cruel lover—if you can even call him that. Nothing but hate between us, that’s for sure. I’m nothing but a golden egg he’s waiting to hatch on my twenty-first birthday.

  His fingers rub at my dry sex and I barely hold in a whimper. I should be used to the way he violates me, but that would be a lie. Nothing ever prepares me for his brutality.

  “Ow,” I choke out when he pushes his finger inside me.

  I instantly want to reel the word back in and hide them from him.

  “Ow? Am I hurting you, dear?” With soft, sweet movements, he slides his finger back out.

  Slap!

  A scream tears through me as pain slices across my abdomen. He hit me with that wet towel! Before I can even process, he hits me again, this time across my sex. Pain sears across my sensitive flesh. He manages to slap the towel across my thigh before I drop my dress and stumble away from him.

  “Where the fuck do you think you’re going, sweetheart?” he snarls, his usually composed face twisted with rage. “You know that’s not how we play.”

  His hand, lightning quick, snags my hair. I cry out as he turns me and shoves me against the counter.

  “Put your hands on the countertop and don’t move them or things will be much worse for you.” His breath comes out in heavy pants.

  Terrified of him fully unleashing his monster, I obey him. He yanks my dress back up and stuffs it between me and the counter edge so that my butt is exposed. The moment the towel hits my bottom, I scream. I fist my hands but keep them firmly on the surface as he beats me with a wet towel of all things. He gets more and more creative each time, which scares the hell out of me.

  When all that can be heard are my ragged sobs and his violent huffing, he drops the towel with a splat on the floor. Then, I hear his belt coming undone behind him. I know what comes next.

  “Say it,” he urges, his voice soft and quiet despite the rage that ripples from him.

  “Please,” I reply without hesitation. “I need you.” Lies.

  The tear of the foil. His fingers spreading me apart. A spit of lubricant. And then he’s inside me.

  But today, he’s feeling extra mean because he bypasses my sex altogether. Instead of entering me there, he pushes into my still sore bottom. It’s one of his favorite places to ravage late at night when he’s horny. White-hot fire explodes through me as he tears his way inside me. I cry enough to soak the countertop as he takes what was never his. I somehow manage to make it through his violence. I’m not sure if I blacked out some or if God had mercy on me, choosing to fast-forward time.

  He pulls roughly out of me and whistles. “I love seeing your ass gape for me, sweetheart.” To follow up his crude statement, he slaps my tender skin. “Now get ahold of yourself and take care of your chores today.” He leans in and kisses my neck. “I’ll see you around five, angel. If you’re a good girl, you can buy yourself a treat.”

  All I do is nod because I can’t ignore him unless I want more punishment. I move away from the counter and let my dress fall around me. As soon as he leaves, I know I’ll have a few blissful moments in peace, outside of this horrible dress, as I shower and get to feel pretty. One day a week, for a short while, I feel human.

  In just over a month, I’ll be able to leave, a very wealthy woman, and will be able to feel human all the time. It’s a fantasy that’s soon becoming a reality. The moment I turn twenty-one, my mother’s inheritance finally becomes unlocked and I will be free. I’ve endured all of this for so long and the prize is finally within reach. I can do this.

  Almost there, Natalie. Your mother would be proud of you.

  She would want me to have the money and to get far, far away from my sick cousin. Soon, I’ll make both our wishes come true. I’m tough and resilient like Mom. Determination makes my blood hum and buzz within my veins. Soon.

  The front door slams shut and I let out a sigh of relief. He’s gone. For now. On shaky, wobbly legs, I make my way to the shower. I toss away the terrible dress and stand in front of the bathroom mirror as the water heats.

  Sad, wide eyes that remind me so much of my mother stare back at me. Everything about me is an exact replica of her. My full, naturally rose-colored lips pout out just like hers always did. I don’t know if I look like her when I smile. Truth is, I don’t think my heart could see her smiling face looking back at me.

  Thirty-six more days.

  I can take Alan’s abuse for one more month.

  Then I’ll take my mother’s money that’s rightfully mine and run.

  I catch my reflection in the store window and a smile ghosts over my lips. Once a week, Alan allows me to wear makeup and dress like a woman. He takes the silky black mink coat from storage and drapes it over the chaise lounge in his bedroom. Of course, I must still wear the bloody, ruined dress that belonged to my mother but for a few hours, I get to pretend I’m her. When she graced magazine covers all over the world. I wear the over-the-top fur coat as I do my shopping. I’m allowed the small escape and it means everything to me.

  A horn honks on the busy street behind me and I yelp. The noise in this city grates at my already exposed and throbbing nerves. Even in Alan’s penthouse loft, I can’t escape the noise. It makes me miss the Malibu home I shared with my mother several years ago. When the waves crashed and the gulls squawked. It was peaceful. Home. Ours.

  “Excuse me,” an older woman with ridiculously perfect hair despite the drizzle hisses as she shoves past me, nearly knocking me over with her Gucci purse.

  A man catches my elbow before I stumble off the sidewalk and into the bushes. I keep my gaze averted—Alan’s rules—but offer the man a smile of my thanks. His scent is different than my cousin’s. He’s not doused in cologne but smells naturally nice. Like the ocean.

  “Thank you,” I breathe before righting myself.

  He clutches onto my elbow a beat longer than necessary. It makes my heart thump in my chest. I want to peek up at him, but I refrain. Instead, I study his rain-soaked black combat boots. His dark jeans are holey but stylish. And the dark gray waffle-textured shirt hugs his muscular stomach beneath his trench coat. A black leather gloved hand slowly releases its hold on my arm.

  I hurry away from him as the rain picks up, my obnoxious heels clacking on the concrete. When I steal a glance back his way, his head is bowed and a black baseball cap hides his features. His collar on his coat is flipped up, hiding any exposed skin from my curious eyes. He’s massive. Giant and muscular. For a brief moment, it makes me want to run over to him and ask him if he can help me get away from my cousin. At that silly notion, I sigh and make my way inside the store.

  Just like every week, I purchase the exact items from Alan�
�s list. One of my chores is to cook his meals. At first, I was a terrible cook. But then, after asking for a cookbook and surprisingly receiving it from him, I began to learn. I actually don’t mind cooking. It frees my mind as I lose myself to the task.

  The shopping takes an hour or so as I find all the items requested. Once I have everything in my cart, I make my way over to the paperback novels. These are the treats Alan speaks of. The small token of reward for good behavior. I guess letting your cousin anally rape you constitutes as said good behavior. After spending too much time gushing over all the stories, I finally choose one story. I find the thickest book—the one that will take the longest time to read. Alan allows me to read the story once and then he takes it away from me. Once, I tried to pretend I was slow at reading, rather than reading it twice in a row. He caught on quickly and tossed it in the fireplace. I didn’t get another treat for three months. He always makes sure I learn my lessons.

  My day of freedom quickly passes and I almost burst into tears as the lady bags up my groceries and sends me on my way. I tuck the book inside of my coat in a pocket before scooping up all the bags. The trek three blocks back to Alan’s loft will be a long, wet one. I’m not chancing ruining my only escape for another week by taking a cab.

  As soon as I step outside, the heavens toy with me. Seattle, known for its cold, bone-chilling rain, opens the skies and rains down as if just for me. I run as quickly as I can in my fancy heels. I’ve barely made it a block before I’m slowing.

  “Hey!” a deep voice calls out.

  I squint to peek into the passenger-side window of a black SUV as rain pours down in buckets. A black-leathered glove reaches out toward the open window and motions me forward.

  “Need a ride?”

  Unease claws its way up inside me. “N-No. I can manage.”

  “It’s raining and you’re getting your pretty hair wet.” His voice is sensual and inviting. It warms me despite the chilly temperature. “Get inside, miss.”

  Despite not knowing him, I’m drawn to his gravelly voice. I step and step, splashing on the pavement until his mouth comes into view. Strong, sharp jaw. Full parted lips. Dark hair dusting his cheeks.