Confucius said, “Before embarking on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.”
Now I know why.
And now I know, that there is something worse than death.
This.
My arms and legs alternate between fire and numbness, and I can feel my back bleeding from the bed’s springs caught up in my skin. I stopped crying a long time ago, and the blood and semen on my stomach has long turned cold, most of it sliding slowly across my hip and dripping onto the floor underneath the bed frame.
I’ve got nothing left inside. I don’t want to fight anymore. I don’t want revenge.
I just want to die.
The door opens and I continue to stare at the ceiling impassively, refusing to acknowledge him. I count the cracks in the paint and try not to shake when footsteps approach the bed.
Not that. Not again.
A face comes into view and my eyes widen when I see it’s not Dornan. Nobody else has ever come in here the entire time I’ve been imprisoned in this place. But now, there’s a young Hispanic guy undoing my arms as I stare up at him, his face stirring some vague, faraway memory long buried. I briefly wonder where I’ve seen him before. He must be a club prospect or a Ross cousin, but his eyes are a piercing blue, so if he’s a relative, it’s distant. He’s got a teardrop tattooed just underneath his left eye, and when he moves to the right I can see a tattoo of a gun on his neck. The rest of his visible skin seems pretty unmarked, which will no doubt change if and when he’s initiated. His head is completely clean-shaven, the harsh bulb that dangles from the ceiling making the top of his head shine. He looks young—twenty-five, at the most?— and pretty fucking ferocious. He kind of reminds me of a pit bull. He’s not unattractive - just the opposite, in fact. He’s good-looking, he’s just fierce. Which I guess is the whole point.
“Who are you?” I demand. I thought I’d be more ashamed at the state I’m in, but since he isn’t looking at me, I don’t really care. It’s like I’m not even inside my body. I’m just an onlooker, observing from the sidelines as my body slowly fades away.
He undoes the last rope and I immediately sit up, bringing my knees up to my chest to cover my almost-naked body as much as I can.
His blue eyes swivel to me and I have to fight myself not to cringe. He’s the most intense motherfucker I’ve ever encountered stare-wise, and that includes Dornan, chilling as that sounds.
“I’m your worst fucking nightmare,” he says, smiling like an arrogant bastard. He’s got a slight accent that I guess is Mexican.
“I really doubt that,” I reply deadpan, thinking of Dornan. Nobody could possibly be as evil as him.
I’m about to add some other snide comment when he straightens and pulls his T-shirt up and over his head, throwing it at me. I grab it quickly, wondering that the fuck he’s doing.
“Put that on,” he says. “Unless you want to walk around with your tits out on display. I don’t mind either way.”
I roll my eyes, quickly losing my ruined shirt and bra that Dornan cut open at the chest. I pull the T-shirt over my head, thankful for the warmth. It swims on my frame, almost reaching to my knees. The guy isn’t fat; he’s barely even solid. No, it’s me that’s shrinking to the size of a fucking twelve-year-old from lack of food.
“Of course you don’t,” I say.
He raises his eyebrows and looks around the room. “This place fucking stinks,” he says.
“Yeah,” I agree. “It does. Wanna let me out?”
He gives me a stare so withering I physically shrink back. Jesus, I’m going soft. I never used to shrink back from anyone. “Yeah,” he says, smirking. “How about I let you out and see how far you get before one of my bullets hits you, eh?”
I tug the shirt down, covering my ass as I stand on shaky legs. I’m not as able as I think I am, and I stumble straight away. Instinctively, I put my arm out to grab hold of something, and he catches me.
I look at him warily. “What’s your name?” I ask softly. “If you’re going to hunt me, I might as well know who you are.”
He gestures for me to walk in front of him, and I can’t quite believe my luck when he points at the open door.
“Go.”
“That’s a weird name.”
My sarcasm is lost on him. He gestures to the door. “I don’t have all fuckin’ day.”
He releases my arm and I walk in front of him, glancing back every few seconds.
“Don’t try anything,” he warns.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I answer. I wonder if I could pull the door closed quickly enough to trap him in here and then run, but as I’m studying the doorframe the urge to run is suddenly quashed by something hard in my back.
“Happy to see me?” I say, irritated as fuck that he’s got a gun pressed into my back.
“Something like that,” he replies, ushering me out of the room where I’ve just spent my last month and probably more.
It is daytime, and as I make my way down the hallway, my eyes burn. I squint, letting myself be guided by this guy to God knows where. When we get to a closed door at the other end of the hallway, he gestures for me to open it.
“What’s in here?” I ask
“Not getting shot,” he replies. “As opposed to staying out here, which is getting shot.”
I roll my eyes and turn the doorknob, pushing the door open. A bathroom. Holy Jesus, is he actually letting me have a shower? I look at him incredulously and he gestures with the gun. “Get in and clean up. There are clothes there. If you try anything, you’re fucking dead. Got it?”
“Sure,” I say. “Mr.…?”
“Mr. have a fucking shower before I change my mind.” He gestures with the gun again, more aggressively this time, and I move toward the shower. It’s nothing special, but I’ve got a month of old blood on my skin, and I’m eager to wash at least some of it away.
“Wait,” I say. “Where’s Dornan?”
His face goes tight and he steps forward, jabbing me in the chest. He gets the spot right where Dornan sank his knife, the soft bit of skin above my heart, and I wince as the fragile skin breaks open again, sending fresh blood blossoming through the thin white fabric of the guy’s shirt.
“Shit,” he says. “What the fuck happened to you?”
I stare at him in disdain, the pain of my wound opening making me pissed. “I killed too many Gypsy Brothers,” I say sharply. “You better keep your eye on me.”
He laughs. “Girl,” he says as he closes the door and steps past me, turning on the hot water, “You ain’t got enough strength to pull the trigger if I hand you this gun myself. Get in the fuckin’ shower and wash that blood and shit off you.”
I turn away from him and shrug out of the shirt, balling it up and throwing it in the corner. Covering my breasts with my arms, I step under the hot water.
It feels so amazing that I completely lose the will to argue or talk snark to this guy. I just pray he doesn’t try anything on me. I really don’t have the energy to fight anyone off right now.
I feel a slight breeze and look up to see the exhaust fan switch on, and suddenly the guy has launched himself at me. I gasp as he wraps a meaty hand around my throat, the other on my mouth, and backs me into the corner of the shower.
“Do you recognize me?” he hisses in my ear, before returning his crazy blue eyes to mine. I stop fighting for a moment, thinking about that possibility.
“Nod if you do.”
I nod, because I did recognize him the moment I saw him, but I can’t for the life of me remember where.
“Do you remember who I am?”
I shake my head emphatically, because I don’t. I have no clue. I remember being shocked, and afraid, and I remember it was from before, but I can’t remember what context it was in.
“That’s good,” he hisses. “Let’s keep it that way.”
I go limp against his grip, his words ringing painfully in my ears. “Take your fucking shower,” he says, louder now. He steps back and pulls h
is gun out again, standing rigidly between me and the door, his gun a warning that he taps against his leg.
I massage my throat as I step back under the spray, no longer caring what he sees. In my peripheral vision I see rivulets of my blood washing off me and streaming down the drain, but I don’t take my eyes from his.
“Time’s up,” he barks. “Get out and get dressed.”
I nod slowly, shutting the water off and taking the towel he’s handing me like an obedient little lamb. I towel most of the water from me before hanging the towel back on its hook and dressing in the clothes he hands me. A black oversized T-shirt and a pair of grey sweat pants that swim on my radically shrinking frame. There is no underwear, but I don’t care. I bunch the loose material up on one side of the sweatpants and tie a crude knot in the material to stop them from sliding off me.
The guy gestures with his gun to leave the bathroom and I do, slowly and with reluctance. He ushers me up the hallway and back into my horrid little jail cell, and I almost cry when I approach the door.
“Your eyes look just like hers,” the guy says offhandedly, and a lump forms in my throat.
“What?” I remember I’m not wearing blue contacts anymore, and that my eyes are back to their natural green, just like my mother’s eyes. My mother.
“Is she here?” I ask shrilly, and the guy pushes me back.
“Shut up!” he hisses. “Get back in there and wait.”
He raises his eyebrows and emphasizes wait, and I guess he’s telling me to wait for him? But then again, maybe he’s not even real.
“What’s your name?” I ask again.
He ignores me, pushing me back into my cell and handing me a fresh bucket. Lovely. I decide that until he tells me his name, I’m going to give the motherfucker a nickname. The Prospect. It suits him.
“Wait,” I whisper, putting my hand on his arm as he turns to leave. “Why are you here today? Where is Dornan?”
His eyes cloud over as he turns back to me momentarily. “He’s burying his sons,” he says.
I let my hand drop from his arm as a cruel smile widens on my face, so wide I feel like my face might break in half.
He raises his eyebrows as he steps out into the hall. “You’re the weirdest girl I’ve ever met,” he says, slamming the door behind him.
A funeral. How delicious.
The dormant vengeance inside me bursts to life again, carried on the wings of newfound hope, however fleeting that hope might be.
The afternoon is positively luxurious, at least for a crazy girl. I huddle in the corner with my new clothes and the open wound that has become my entire midsection even stops bleeding for a little while.
I miss the sun. It’s bright in this room most of the time - the light bulb is hardly ever dimmed - but it’s not real.
Nothing here is real except the pain.
I contemplate my future as I wait for Dornan to return. I know he’ll come for me after the funeral. He’ll make me pay. Adrenaline and fear knot awkwardly in my stomach as I wait for him to come in and hurt me. Maybe he’ll rape me again. Maybe he’ll put a gun to my head and force me to my knees. Or maybe he’ll carve my heart out and eat it for dessert.
I jump forcefully when the door explodes open, and my reckoning stands there in the doorway. His eyes are red-rimmed and I can smell the bourbon coming off him in waves. It’s so strong, it’s as if he’s bathed in the stuff.
He’s wearing a suit, and carrying a briefcase, and every inch of my skin rises in goose bumps as I smile widely at him.
“Were they open or closed?” I ask, smirking the way he does. Because I know. He’s wearing a suit, pressed and proper, a white death lily tucked into his shirt pocket.
“What?” he asks, slurring his words ever so slightly. I estimate him to be a little drunk, but not enough for me to gain any real advantage.
“The caskets,” I purr. “How bad was it? I bet those boys were burned up real good.”
“Fucking slut,” he rages, dropping his briefcase on the ground. As he storms toward me I shuffle back, trying to keep out of his grip. When his arms come at me in a tackle attempt, I slither down the wall and dart between the small spot he’s left open beside him. Once I’m behind him he whirls, growling, but before he can stop me I’ve got the chair raised in my hands, striking out with the legs.
It takes almost all of my strength to swing the chair at him, and he grabs onto two of the legs easily. Before I can get out of the way, he’s pushed the chair back against me so forcefully, I become airborne, flying back and hitting the edge of the bed with a dull thud. The pain in my back is immediate, and I slump to the floor, momentarily paralyzed.
I raise my head in time to see him toss the chair to the side and stalk toward me. I roll onto my hands and knees, crawling toward the door, but he’s too fast. Rough hands knot into my hair and pull hard, forcing me to my feet if I want to keep my scalp. I groan at the sharp pain of a million hairs being pulled out of the soft skin on my head, and stumble quickly toward him to stop the screaming pain of being scalped. He keeps one hand fisted in my hair and sets the chair straight with the other. Slamming me down into the seat, he works quickly at securing my wrists behind my back with what feels like a zip-tie. He doesn’t bother with my legs this time.
It’s not like I’m going to be able to do anything much to defend myself, anyway.
He picks up the briefcase and sets it on the bed, snapping it open with a satisfied smirk. Despite my need to look cool and collected, I crane my neck to see what’s inside, but the angle is wrong and I can’t see anything.
“What’s the surprise today?” I ask him.
“It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you,” he replies, holding up a clear vial of fluid in one hand and a needle in the other.
“More drugs to try and make me tell the truth?” I ask. “Come on, Dornan! You’re running out of shit to torture me with.”
He turns, grinning as he stabs the sharp syringe into the vial. He draws up the liquid and makes a show of flicking the tip of the needle, spraying a little fluid out of the end.
“Am I supposed to be scared?” I ask, acting bored. Truthfully, I am scared. I couldn’t resist last time he gave me that stuff, and it was a miracle I made him angry enough to knock me out before I divulged something I shouldn’t have - something about Elliot, or Jase, or the money my father stashed away for me before Dornan killed him. The safety deposit box number floats in my mind, a number I memorized before I destroyed the paperwork, and I begin to panic.
Dornan tilts his head to the side. “Breathe, Julie,” he says. God, I wish he wouldn’t call me that name. The same name my mother used to moan at me when she was too whacked out to get up and answer the front door. Or cook. Or do pretty much anything. Julie, do this, Julie, do that, Julie, why do you hate me? Her green eyes swim in my head as I remember The Prospect from only hours ago, giving me a moment’s peace and a troubling memory that I still can’t place. Do you remember me? Yes. No. I don’t know.
“You’re going crazy, Julie,” Dornan says, interrupting my thoughts.
“Tell me about it,” I retort. “Takes one to know one, right?”
He laughs at that, squeezing his thick hand around my upper arm until a fat, blue vein rises to the surface. I jump when he stabs the needle in, and squeeze my eyes shut tight as something warm and soupy makes it’s way into my bloodstream.
Oh, Lord. Whatever this is, it’s good. I suddenly feel like I’m floating on a cloud of marshmallows. I’m so completely blissed out, I don’t even notice the other needle sinking into my pale flesh. I can feel the sun shining on my face, which is kind of impossible since we’re in a windowless room, and also, it’s night. But none of that matters. For the first time in forever, I feel amazing.
Heroin. The drug that destroyed my mother. Is that what he’s given me? It doesn’t matter. I can’t catch onto a single thought, I just do not care, and when the second needle slides into my arm, I only hope that it’s enough of this
shit to last a long time.
In the moment, I don’t even care if I die. In fact, if I get to die on this cloud of bliss, I’ll happily go.
And then
PAIN. AGONY. RED. BLEEDING. PAIN.
I open my mouth and scream, a howl of suffering that makes Dornan laugh. Everything becomes fast and harsh and bright as the sharp reality of my situation sinks in anew. I can’t hear anything above the roaring of my own skittering heartbeat in my chest. I gulp in a lungful of air as my heart strains and struggles and skips all over the place.
Dornan’s voice comes to me through the thick, soupy fog of panic that’s immobilizing me.
“Breathe, baby girl.”
I can’t breathe. I take shallow, rapid sips of air that do nothing except make me almost pass out.
Thwack! A hand slaps at my cheek, leaving a sting that cuts through some of the murky stupor and panic that grips me. “Juliette, get your fucking self together.”
I could hyperventilate until I pass out, but the next thing I know, another sharp pain is at my arm and more of the good, marshmallowy stuff is in my blood, soothing me, making me calm almost instantly. I can still feel my heart beating rapidly, but with every breath it slows a little, loosening until I feel good enough to think.
He looks pleased. “I’ve got something to ask you,” he says. “And if you give me the right answer, baby girl, you can have as much of the good stuff as your twisted little heart desires.”
I eye him warily. “I don’t believe anything you say, you monster.”
He chuckles. “I might be a monster, baby girl, but if I’m a monster, then so are you. Do you think we’re born like this? A knife in one hand, a gun in the other? It’s life, baby girl. Life happened to me just as surely as it happened to you.”
“You should have protected me then,” I respond bitterly, “instead of taking everything I ever loved.”
He regards me with those deep brown eyes. He doesn’t speak for a long time, and the silence scares me more than any words he could say to me.
“And yet,” he says in that gravelly voice, “you were going to take my son from me. My lover.”
Three Years Page 3
