by K. Webster
He smiles.
That sexy mouth smiles and I’m captivated.
“Uh,” I mutter. “I live two blocks from here. I’ll get your car all wet.” My eyes fixate on the way his black ball cap hides his features. It’s the same guy from the grocery store.
“I don’t mind if you’re wet,” he says, amusement in his voice.
Heat floods through me and I feel silly at the dirty thoughts flitting through my mind. He reaches forward and pulls the door handle. With a shove, the door flies open and I’m invited into the warmth of his car.
I never take chances.
I live and breathe by Alan’s rules.
Besides my weekly novel, I never do anything for me.
Sharing a ride with the man with the lickable mouth is most definitely something I want to do. Soon, I’ll leave this hell hole of a city and do things I want to do all the time.
Once I’m inside with the soaked grocery sacks sitting on my lap, I slam the door shut and lean against the warm heated seat.
“Hi, I’m—”
He leans forward with a handkerchief and interrupts me. “Here, let me wipe that rain off your nose.”
Our eyes meet as I breathe in a slightly sweet fruity smell the moment he runs the handkerchief across the tip of my nose. I catch the dangerous glint in his eyes before surprise washes over his features.
Then, everything goes blissfully black.
HER DARK HAIR. HER SKIN coloring. The fucking mink coat, for crying out loud. They all screamed money, vanity, evil bitch. Anta. Anta. Anta. I’ve followed her for two months. Each Tuesday, she walks from her expensive loft all the way to Whole Organics in high heels and a pricy fur coat. Her makeup is eloquently done and almost black hair is always smoothed to perfection. The woman is so stuck on herself she never looks anyone in the eyes.
I assumed.
I fucking assumed.
And now everything is all wrong.
I fucked up.
With her eyes closed as she sleeps on the twin bed in the corner of the room, she looks like the rest of them. I’d originally placed her ethnicity as part Indian. She resembles Anta more than the other five before her. I was fucking ecstatic to discover her.
But then she finally looked at me.
Her pale, icy gray eyes were a stark contrast against her olive-colored skin. One of her parents was definitely Caucasian. She looks nothing like Anta. When her eyes went wide with surprise right before she passed out, she almost seemed…innocent.
Fucking impossible.
I growl as I crack my neck and pace the small space. This is her home now. She will die here. Hopefully a long time from now. I’ve perfected my techniques and rituals. They can last a year if I want them to. I’m eager and impatient, but my steel heart hardens with resolve.
Slowly, Cole.
Kill her slowly.
I force myself to take a seat in the only chair in the room, a rocking chair. Creaaak. Creaaak. Creaaak. This room is no bigger than ten-by-ten feet. The bed is situated in one corner and the chair sits beside the window. It overlooks the angry, choppy Pacific Ocean. A pinch of the needle was all it took to keep my pretty prisoner asleep for the nearly three-hour drive from Seattle to Ocean City, Washington.
The window is the best part of their cell. They get to stare at what they can’t have. Freedom. My entire home is heavily secured with cameras and alarms. She’d get five steps past that window before I’d have her pinned beneath me.
They don’t get to escape.
Ever.
I scan the small room and frown. It’s much nicer than the hell I was in, but that’s okay. At first, when I wanted to recreate the horrors Anta put us through, I attempted to make everything exactly the same. But it fucked me up. PTSD is real goddamned shit. I’d had a panic attack and nearly pissed my pants.
My revenge has to play out differently.
My way.
They still suffer and hurt but on my terms. By my design.
I grin with excitement. It’s been several months since number five died. I still remember her choked, sobbing begs as I peeled all the skin from her breasts. She was supposed to last longer, but how the hell was I to predict she’d catch an infection that would go on to attack her immune system with incredible speed. I was so disappointed.
But now I’m pleased again.
I have Anta in my clutches. Living. Breathing. Healthy. Strong. It’ll take her months and months to get to that point again.
A groan from the bed has me sitting up in the rocking chair and ceasing my movements. Number Six lets out more garbled noises as she pushes her hair from her face but doesn’t open her eyes.
“Just thirty-six more days,” she whispers. “You can do this.”
I stiffen and glare at her. What the fuck is she babbling on about? “Get up,” I bark.
She jolts upright as she yells, “I’ll be right there. It’s just a headache, Alan. Breakfast will be done soon.”
Maybe I gave her a little too much etorphine.
“Your sweet Alan isn’t here, princess,” I snarl.
She blinks away her daze and pins me with her pale eyes the color of fog. Relief passes over her features. Fucking relief. I stand quickly and the chair bangs against the wall as it rocks without me in it.
“Name.”
She won’t be so relieved when I’m fucking her cunt with my fist.
“Natalie.” Her cheeks redden. The stupid woman must think this is some fantasy come true or some shit. I’m her worst motherfucking nightmare.
“Take it off. All of it,” I growl.
Her nose scrunches as her brows furl together in confusion. “Take what off?”
“Your. Fucking. Clothes.” I grind my teeth together and fist my hands.
Still, she doesn’t flinch or fucking worry. No terror dances in her eyes. She’s puzzled. Did the bitch fry one to many brain cells from going to the salon every goddamned week?
But truth is, I only ever saw her leave on Tuesdays.
I don’t know what the fuck she does with the rest of her time. For all I know, I stole me a fucking slow bitch.
“Don’t make me take them from you,” I say in a cold tone.
With trembling hands she reaches for the top button of her coat. The silky animal hair is wet from the rain and probably fucking ruined. A smile twitches at my lips, but I force it away. Slowly, just the way I like it, she unbuttons each one until the coat opens. The heavy material slides off her shoulders and pools on the bed around her hips.
I stare at her chest dumfounded.
Blinking several times, I attempt to make sense of what the hell she’s wearing.
A dress. Dirty. Soiled. Old. A blood stain ruins the entire chest area of the fabric. Between her surprisingly small and real tits is a giant hole. I can see the curves of her breasts because of the opening in the material.
Typically, I see Gucci and Prada and Kate Spade and whatever the fuck else these rich monsters wear. Not this. Not something that looks like it was stolen from the Halloween store.
“What are you wearing?” I demand.
Her nostrils flare and she hangs her head in shame. She attempts to hide the hole from me. The rich bitches usually are screaming and ordering me to take them back with their snotty noses in the air. This woman—no, this girl—seems embarrassed. And she should be. She’s wearing something from the bottom of the bottom of a dumpster. It makes no goddamned sense.
“You’re going to learn something quickly, princess. You speak when you are spoken to.” I stalk forward and grab a handful of her soaked hair. When I jerk her head back so I can look down at her, she blinks rapidly at me. Tears shimmer in her gray eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall.
“I, uh, it was my mother’s dress,” she rasps out. “I’m sorry.”
Sorry?
What the fuck?
“Take it off. Now. It’s a fucking abomination.”
Her eyes flicker with happiness. Motherfucking happiness.
&nb
sp; “Thank you.”
I release her hair and step away from her. My mind is reeling. This isn’t how things go. They scream and beg and cry. They don’t fucking thank me.
She grabs the hem and slides it up her thighs to her hips. Then, all too eagerly, she peels it away and throws it on the floor as if it’s personally wronged her.
“Why am I here? Do you know Alan?” she squeaks out, her nervous eyes flicking up to mine.
I peel off my gloves and shove them in my pockets. Her gaze falls to the ink that covers the backs of my hands and fingers. “You’re here because you belong to me now.”
“Oh.”
Fucking oh?
I grind my teeth together. “You’ll soon find out exactly why you’re here.”
She blinks at me, her gray eyes wide and innocent. “D-Did he pay you to do this?”
Stalking over to her, I seize her neck and bring her to her knees on the bed so that we’re face-to-face. Her palms land on my shoulders, sending zaps of disgust rippling through me.
“You’re here because you look like her,” I seethe, my spittle spraying her pretty face.
“Like my mother?”
I have to close my eyes to keep the rage at bay. I’ve never had such a stupid goddamned prisoner before. She’s staring danger in the fucking face and she’s oblivious.
“Anta,” I hiss, my grip tightening on her throat.
When I reopen my eyes, I find her staring at me. Confusion still pinches her features together, but she’s not wearing the look of fear I’ve come to expect. Before I do something stupid like choke her to death in one instant, I toss her back down on the bed. She makes no move to sit up, simply stares at me, her fingers lightly brushing her delicate neck that now burns bright red from my grip.
Beneath the bed, bolted to the floor, is a long, heavy chain. It isn’t like the ones Anta used in her dungeon of horrors, but that’s okay. I absently rub my wrist that still tingles and throbs from phantom sensations of being held by that unforgiving metal. Kneeling, I grab hold of the chain and yank it out. It scrapes across the wood floor and clangs together. My blood boils when I sit up on my knees and find her staring back at me.
Not running for the window.
Not screaming as she tears past me for the door.
Just sitting and watching.
Waiting.
“Come here,” I snap, my tone harsh.
She jumps at the order and scoots forward on her knees. Her pussy is in my line of sight. I could lean forward and take a bite. Give her something to be scared about. But as she nears, offering her slender body to me, I become fixated on red, angry welts that have been inflicted on her cunt and thighs. I reach forward and run my thumb across the worst one. She lets out a hiss of air.
“Who did this to you?” I demand.
“A-Alan.”
“Are you some kinky bitch?” My rage is rising to new levels. Fuck her if she is. I want them to hate the pain. I want them to suffer.
“I-I don’t t-think so. I’m n-not sure what you mean,” she stammers out.
“Do you like it when you get hurt?” I roar, spelling it out for the stupid girl. When I run my fingernails across her welt, she screams. God, what a beautiful scream. And then she fucking slaps me.
They.
Don’t.
Strike.
Me.
With a furious growl, I launch myself at her on the bed, knocking her back. She thrashes—fucking finally—to no avail. I roughly slide the chain around her hips and then yank a padlock from my pocket to secure it in place. The fucking chain probably weighs more than she does. When I jerk away from her and stand, she’s glaring up at me.
Still, not afraid.
Furious and upset but not fearful.
We’ll soon fix that.
I’ll make her piss herself by the end of the week.
She tugs at the heavy chain around her waist, but it’s not going anywhere. Once she realizes her situation, she stares at me with a wobbling lip.
“Why?” A single tear rolls down her cheek.
“Because those were the cards you were dealt, sweetheart.”
I get no warning before a pained scream rips from her. With surprising strength and speed, she flies out of the bed with her claws bared. Instead of running past me, she pounces on me. Like a fucking jungle cat. Her nails rip across my neck, no doubt breaking the skin, as she yells words that confuse me.
“Don’t call me sweetheart!”
I grab her hair with both fists and bring her to my face so our noses touch. She sags against me in defeat, the chain smashed between us. “I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want to call you,” I snarl. “I’m your nightmare now. You’ll never wake up from it.”
When I release her hair, she falls against me, her face pressing into the crook between my neck and shoulder. From this angle, I get a whiff of her soft hair that tickles my face. Sweet. She smells like honey or something straight from a bakery. Not expensive, just sweet.
“Please,” she whispers against my throat, her lips brushing along my skin. “Please.”
I want to laugh at her and call her the name on repeat just to make her fucking crazy. But I’m not the same person I was when I escaped that prison years ago. I’m smart and calculating. This bitch has weaknesses. I’ll expose them all. Learn what makes her mind crack. I’ll use them all against her. Clearly, this Alan, has her mind warped. I’m going to make him my mental tool to tear her apart piece by motherfucking piece.
Slowly.
So fucking slowly.
HE SHOVES ME ASIDE AND abandons me on the floor. Cold. Naked. Alone. I’m confused as to why I’m here. If he’s not working with Alan, then who is he working for? Alan has had his eyes set on my mother’s fortune for years now. When she was killed, he’d been in for a rude awakening to find that she’d written up a will that it all went to me upon my twenty-first birthday. And should I not survive, the money would be donated to charity.
So he made me survive.
Forced me to stay in his hell with him until he got me to my birthday.
We were almost there.
But what Alan didn’t know was that I wasn’t going to wait around to see what he’d do. My plan was to slip away, get the money that is rightfully mine, and then bolt. The silent battle with him has been incredibly difficult. At times, I wanted to die rather than endure any more abuse. But as quickly as those thoughts would form, I’d chase them out of my mind.
Alan will never win.
The tattooed man has left the room and I hear the sound of a lock engage. I wait for what seems like hours, but the obnoxious ticking on the wall indicates it’s been less than a minute. My gaze fixates on the clock.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Shaking away the maddening sound, I turn toward the window. As soon as the ocean comes into view, I burst into tears of joy. Visions of my mother dance in my head and my heart fills with happy memories. The chain around my midsection is heavy, but I can still move easily enough. I make it over to the window and run my fingers along the cool pane of glass. Gulls can be heard in the distance, but the crashing waves are what steals my attention. Wherever we are overlooks what I’m assuming is the Pacific Ocean. If I had to guess, I’d say we’re still in Washington based on the scenery. It’s not quite raining—more of a wet drizzle encased in a light fog. I can’t see where the waves break, I can just hear them. It appears this home sits on a cliff, but I can’t be certain from this vantage point.
I want the man to come back.
I have so many questions for him.
A shiver ripples through me, but for once it isn’t from fear. It’s from the chill of the room. He’s left my clothes, but I refuse to put the dress back on. Instead, I pluck my novel from my coat pocket and slide under the covers of the bed. It’s warmer beneath the blankets and for one second, I can almost imagine I’m at a bed and breakfast. Away on vacation.
So close.
Ano
ther month and this could have been my life for real—minus the sexy tattooed kidnapper.
My thoughts drift back to his dark brown eyes that were lined with the thickest, most gorgeous black lashes I’d ever seen on a man. His jaw was sharp and severe but somehow handsome. And his lips…I lick mine because the moment I’d seen his mouth, I’d fantasized having it on me.
But then he kidnapped me.
I was stolen from one monster and given to another.
Another shiver ripples through me.
I should be trying to wriggle free from this chain around my waist and slip out the window. An escape. But where would I go? Right back to Alan? Fear trembles through me because with every tick-tick-tick of the clock on the wall, I’m reminded of exactly what time it is. When five rolls around and I’m not there, he’ll lose his mind. And if he ever finds me…
Maybe I can win the man over and convince him to keep me safe until my twenty-first birthday rolls around. I could even give him a cut of the money for my safekeeping. All I have to do is convince him. I’ll certainly try.
A sob chokes my throat and I pull the covers over my head. I clutch the novel to my bare chest and squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe this is all a dream. Maybe Mom is still alive and I’m just seventeen in my bed back in Malibu.
Thunder rumbles in the distance and I’m made aware of my surroundings again. I’m not at home. This nightmare is my life and it keeps getting darker. More violent and twisted by the second.
“Everything’s a test, Nat. It’s how you perform during the test that shows your character.”
Mom’s words hang in the air around me as if she’s said them herself. Hot tears leak from my eyes because I miss her desperately. Despite being trapped here with this new monster, I can’t help but sigh a breath of relief.
Alan isn’t here.
I won’t be feeling any pain from him or having to look into his dead eyes.
The muscles in my always tense body relax some. My eyelids feel heavy and they droop. I stow the book under the pillow before letting sleep steal me away. Hunger pain gnaws at my gut, but I ignore it as I eagerly chase sleep that will end my nightmares, even if only momentarily.
