by Cole McCade
She wet her lips and ventured, “When I was little…even when I wasn’t so little. I…” Her eyes lowered, fixing on her knees—and in her peripheral vision, his hands, resting loose on his thigh, the scars and calluses drawing her to linger on each one. “This girl used to pick on me. She called me Willy and told me I was a boy, because I liked boy things like engineering and wood shop. I liked taking things apart and knowing how they worked, and my hands were scarred and rough. She even kicked me in the groin to see if I have a penis.” He was probably laughing at her right now. Laughing at her for being an insecure little girl; for still being hurt by things that had happened in childhood. “I just…I…” She exhaled shakily. “I know I don’t look like a boy. I know she was being a jerk, but…”
Why was she saying this? Why was she giving him more tools to hurt her?
Because maybe if he sees me as human, as real…
Those long-fingered hands filling her vision moved—setting the phone down on the floor, then reaching toward her. She flinched, but he didn’t touch her. His arms slid around her, encircling and yet never quite making contact even as he enveloped her in that compelling, inviting warmth that pulled at her, wrapping her in a cocoon that shut out the real world and left only him. Him, and that heated, hypnotic gaze that lured her without even looking, drawing her to lift her head and meet his eyes.
Behind her back, his fingers curled around her wrists. She stilled, unable to look away from him as his fingertips glided over the fine bones under her skin, tracing them inward with a rough and scorching touch. Deep tremors set in, starting at the base of her spine and radiating out through every inch of her body, as his hands flowed over hers. Enveloping them. Cradling them. Coaxing them open, his thumbs stroking over her fingers until they unfurled, and the pads of his fingers circled the centers of her palms. Her breaths fluttered in the center of her chest as he traced every callus, every scar. Every roughness that made her hands her own, and that she’d so often tried to hide.
“You are not a boy.” This close every word that built in his chest melted into her, a deep growl that started low down and rolled its way up like gravel and heated silk. “These are strong hands. Hands that know good work. They are every inch a woman’s hands.”
She shivered. That old scar inside her ached, yet she could hardly pay attention when he held her so captivated, so close—and in this moment she was every inch a woman, when he made her so intimately aware of her body: its softness, its smallness, how it throbbed and pulsed and needed something that terrified her, something that hard-toned bulk and the lingering caress of his gaze offered. The tip of his nose brushed hers, and her world narrowed down to the imprint of his lips on the air and those arms to either side of her, the promise waiting in the thin skim of space that was all that separated flesh from tingling flesh. She wanted to pull away. She needed to pull away, but she couldn’t move.
Don’t be weak, she told herself, but she was already weak. Already wavering. Priest was dangerous for so many reasons more than the blood on his hands, the knives along the wall, the ropes binding her body.
He made her forget herself—and the moment she did would be the moment he’d won.
For an instant his hands clasped hers tighter, swallowing them within his grip, his palms so broad, his fingers so large he completely consumed hers. Then he drew back—fingertips tracing, grazing, skimming up her arms in a whispered touch before drifting away. He sank back on his heels, and she could breathe again; the space between them left room for air, room for her own thoughts and her own feelings and not these things that filled her up and crowded her out whenever he was near.
She searched his face, but that calm, thoughtful gaze offered no answers. No reason why he’d bothered to reassure her, soothe her, ease the pain of that old wound. She lowered her eyes, swallowing against the tightness in her throat.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
His only answer was a soft sound of assent, before he picked up the phone from the floor and flipped it open. The screen lit up in pale blue and white.
“Tell me the number,” he said, and she jerked her head up, eyes widening.
“You’re really letting me…?”
“One call. One.” He raised a long finger sternly. “And you should know better than to give any identifying information, or tell them where you are.”
“I don’t even know where I am. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here.”
“A few hours. It is nearly dawn.”
“It’s felt like days.”
A shadow of something flickered across his face. “Is my presence so intolerable?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
His brows drew together. His lips parted, then closed, and for once it was he who bowed his head, he who lowered his eyes. “No,” he said, and she wondered if inhuman, unfeeling murderers were capable of being hurt. “No, I don’t.”
CHAPTER NINE
SHE GAVE HIM WALLY’S NUMBER, and waited for the other shoe to drop. This had to be a game. He couldn’t be letting her actually have contact with the outside world; that would imply he actually had a heart, and that was one thing she couldn’t let herself believe. She was already being stupid, letting him get under her skin. Once he got inside her, once he found her weaknesses, she was already doomed.
She wasn’t ready to give up that easily.
Why not? an ugly voice mocked in the back of her head, and it sounded too much like Erin, too much like that nasty voice that said dirty thing, dirty thing over and over again. You gave up on everything else in your life without even putting up a fight.
That’s not fair.
Life isn’t fair, Willy. No one ever said life was fair.
Priest fixed her with a hard look, then held the phone to her ear, cradling it against her cheek. Tinny, shrill rings rose, and she silently begged that Uncle Wally would hear it, wake up, and somehow know and magically come to save her without her having to say a word.
“Please. Please pick up, please pick up—”
“You have reached the very esteemed voicemail of the somewhat lesser esteemed Walford Gallifrey, Esquire,” lilted out of the phone gaily. “I’m sure you understand what to do at the tone. Ta for now.”
“No. No!” She jerked hard enough to make the chair rock and rattle. “It’s his voicemail. Call him back.”
Preist snapped the phone closed. “The deal was for one call.”
“Voicemail isn’t a call. Call him back!” She glared up at him, but he only looked at her, silent and unmoved. She swallowed back her scream. “Please,” she forced out. Fuck, she hated begging him for anything, but she had to appeal to the compassion that must be inside him somewhere. “Please, Priest. If you’re going to kill me, please let me talk to someone I love before I die.”
He looked away, tapping the phone idly against his thigh, then sighed and snapped it open again. “One more chance,” he said, and she sagged against the ropes, letting out a rough breath that sounded too much like a whimper for her own comfort.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He said nothing. The faint tinny beeps of the redial came, followed by a distant ring that grew louder until the phone was against her ear again, his fingertips poised against her cheek like the feet of a perching moth. She prayed—she prayed as she had never prayed before, prayed as if that Jesus on the wall could answer her wish and promise her salvation—and listened to the rings count three, four, five.
She was ready to scream if it went to voicemail again, but there came a fumbling click, a sleepy snuffle, a rattle of something falling and a hiss of cloth and skin. Then a sleepy, slurred:
“Hello?”
“Uncle Wally?” she gasped out in a rush, and then the tears were there: hot and filling her nose and mouth and eyes, and she could barely hear him over the sound of her own choking breaths as she struggled not to sob. Wally. Wally who made everything all right, Wally who was her strength, her safety, whom she love
d so much and couldn’t reach no matter how hard she strained toward the phone.
“Willow.” He sounded much more awake. “Darling, where are you? Your father’s worried sick, but won’t tell me why. I heard Maxi shouting, but he wouldn’t let me speak to her.”
Willow stilled, surprise punching her hard enough to knock the sobs back down her throat and clear her airway enough to speak. “He called you?”
“That is exactly how worried he is. How could you not call home? Where have you been?”
“I…” She licked her lips, looking up at Priest. “I can’t tell you that.”
“What? Why not?”
“Please don’t ask.” Even if it wasn’t what she wanted to say. She wanted to be brave, to scream out what happened, but that cold ugly part of her told her it wouldn’t be bravery. It would be foolishness, and for once the ugliness was right. She took a deep breath, fighting not to sniffle where Wally could hear. If he realized she was crying, he’d lose his mind and not listen to a word she said. “I need you to do something for me,” she said.
“Anything,” he promised.
“Take care of Dad. I might not be back for a while, and someone’s got to take care of him. Make sure he gets his meds every day. Make sure he eats.”
He made a soft, distressed sound. “Willow? You’re frightening me, dearest one. What’s wrong? What’s happened? Why can’t you come back?”
“No questions. Please don’t ask me any more questions, because I can’t answer them. I’m sorry.”
“But—”
“Please. Just listen.”
She started to say more, then paused when she caught Priest moving from the corner of her eye. He slipped his free hand into his pocket; she tensed, but he only emerged with a square of thin, fine cloth, white and embroidered at the edges in dark navy blue. A handkerchief. Who the hell carried a handkerchief in the twenty-first century?
Without shifting the phone away from her ear, he sank to his knees before her and gently dabbed the handkerchief against her eyes, her nose, carefully wiping the wetness from her skin. She stared at him, her lips parted, a strange and funny thing moving inside her, caught somewhere between her ribs and stomach.
I don’t understand you, she mouthed, and his lips curved faintly.
You don’t have to, he mouthed back.
“Willow?” Wally asked, a touch of panic in his voice. “Are you still there?”
“Yes. I’m here. I’m here.” She jerked her gaze from Priest and tried to pull her scattered thoughts in order. “A…a check is coming from Devon. It should be there first thing, probably in a few hours. It might even have come last night. It should keep you both going for a while.”
“Why is Devon sending a check?”
“Because the lights are off and I couldn’t hold it together anymore.” The words had the bitter taste of failure, and Priest’s inflectionless voice slithered into her mind, whispering Unemployed. “Just…cash the check. Pay the bills. Take care of Dad for as long as he’ll let you. Fight him about it if you have to.”
“Your father won’t want to see me. You know that.”
“Make him!” Willow flared desperately. “This is important. It’s more important than anything I’ve ever asked you in my life.” She forced herself to lower her voice. Calm. She had to stay calm. “I know he hurt you. I know. But he needs you, and you’re the only one who can do it. You’re still family.”
“I’m…not sure…”
“Please. Please. Don’t make me beg anymore. I can’t stand it.” Those fucking tears again. They lined up on her lower lashes like dewdrops on the edge of a leaf, turning the world into prisms. “Can you just…trust me that this is necessary?”
“I…yes.” There was something in Wally’s voice that said he was starting to catch on. Starting to understand, and what she hated most was that he truly did sound frightened.
Frightened that he would never see her again.
Uncle Wally couldn’t be frightened. If he didn’t believe he’d ever see her again, she had no reason to hope herself.
“Willow, are you in danger right now?” he asked.
She hesitated, lips parted, but nothing coming out. Could she answer that? She met Priest’s eyes. He watched her searchingly, but gave away nothing of his thoughts. Nothing that would tell her if he could hear the other end of the conversation, or if Wally’s voice was a Charlie-Brown’s-Teacher squawk at the other end of the line. Maybe she could risk it. Neutral answers. She was only answering a question, not giving anything away.
“Yes,” she said in a dry whisper that sucked the moisture from her throat.
Wally’s voice sharpened, urgent. “Are you somewhere where you cannot speak freely?”
“Yes,” she said again.
“Is there any way you can give me more information without endangering yourself?”
Ask Maxi, she wanted to say. Maxi will know. But she couldn’t. Not when Priest was watching, not when the sound of Maxi’s name might send him on the hunt for her next. Another witness. Another problem to be disposed of. She had to hope he hadn’t heard that phone call to Maxi before the call to 911; she didn’t know how long he’d been stalking her after she’d run, how long he’d hovered close waiting for his moment, but she had to believe if she kept her mouth shut and played her cards right, the people she loved would be safe.
Even if she might be giving up her own life to safeguard them.
“No,” she said, and choked on the word like gravel.
“Oh, God.” Wally’s voice was a hot thing, a burning cloud of dread enveloping her. No. No, please don’t, please don’t give up hope… “Do you need me to find you?”
“If you can. It’s more important that you take care of Dad.” She fought to steady her voice. As long as she sounded calm and casual, Priest might not pick up the gist of the conversation and realize she was begging: please. Please follow the breadcrumb trail, and find me. Save me. “I love you, Uncle Wally,” she whispered.
“I love you too, dearest one. And I will find you. I swear it. But please—”
Priest pulled the phone away from her ear.
“No!”
But he ended the call with a press of a button and a forbidding look. Willow leaned after it, trying to reach it as if she could bring that beloved voice back by pressing her ear against the speaker and pleading.
“Please,” she said, but it was too late. She stared at him. Stared at the heartless, cruel creature who returned her gaze with utter impassivity. “I didn’t…I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
“Your uncle is Walford Gallifrey.” It wasn’t quite a question.
“Did you google him, too?” she bit off.
“No.” His fingers clenched on the phone. It started to ring—not even once, before it choked off like the cry of someone dying from a snapped neck as he flipped it open, caught it in both hands, and broke it in half, plastic and wires crunching with terrible finality, the pieces falling apart and tumbling to clatter on the floor. That single sad, pathetic ring silenced. “I know more about you than you think.”
What was that supposed to mean? She stared at him—only for comprehension to click with a nauseating certainty. She lunged against the ropes. “Don’t you go near him—don’t you touch him! I didn’t tell him anything! He’s no threat to you!”
Something odd settled over him. Something strange and still and yet latent, vibrating like the promise of lightning inherent in lowering black clouds. “I owe Mr. Gallifrey a debt,” he growled. “One not paid in blood.”
“I don’t know what that means.” She twisted, squirming until the ropes scraped against her arms, burning and abrading until her skin must be coming off, but she’d fucking bleed herself raw if it got one hand free. “You fucking tell me—fucking tell me how you know my uncle!”
“No.” He regarded her coolly. “You are hurting yourself.”
“I don’t care!” she snarled. “Just promise you won’t hurt him!”
P
riest sighed wearily. “I already made that promise to him. I do not need to repeat it to you.” He looked away, then bent to gather the broken remnants of the phone. “Your uncle is safe. Stop harming yourself.”
Willow subsided breathlessly, her arms and thighs on fire, even her breasts aching where the rope had rubbed the texture of her shirt painfully hard against her. How could she trust that? How could she trust that he was telling the truth? She eyed him, watching as he walked across the room to the trash bin.
“That doesn’t tell me how you know my uncle. Or what debt you owe him.”
“No,” he said simply. “It doesn’t.”
He tossed the fragments of the phone in the bin, then returned to her with that same unhurried, measured stride. He had the slow-moving way of mountains: of things so great they could only be moved with time, unconcerned with the small creatures clambering over and around them, with their short, sweet firefly lives. When he slipped behind her, she flinched away, twisting over her shoulder to watch him. He bent and unclipped the ring in the chain holding the chair to the floor. She had a moment to contemplate rocking forward and bolting for the door with the chair strapped to her back—before he hooked his hand in the topmost bar of the seat back and lifted.
The floor fell away in a dizzy rush. She yelped, trying to kick out, trying to struggle, but she was still tied firmly and flying out of control through the air, SIREN OF THE WAREHOUSE, WILLOW THE RELUCTANT FLYING WOMAN, crying out as Priest flipped the chair about to face him. She panted, swinging from his grip, struggling to uncross her eyes as one Priest swung into two, then three, then one again, blurring together with nothing pinning them in place except a single pair of fox-gold eyes. He studied her—then reached for the ropes over her breasts, curled a brutal hand into the nylon, and pulled it down hard.
The ropes popped over her breasts, scraping her nipples until they burned with a harsh wash of heat and rose into stubbornly hard, throbbing little knots; she caught a keening sound between her teeth as her breasts bounced over the ropes, spilling loose. Her shirt next—caught in a tight handful and ripped upward, pulling from between her skin and the ropes, bunching up under her arms and baring her breasts to the cool lick of the air, not even a bra to shield her when the last thing she’d done before the phone call and the scent of chloroform and the gagging chemical taste in the back of her throat was get ready for bed, vulnerable and bare in nothing but her tank top and panties. Yet vulnerable was nothing compared to naked flesh exposed, the ropes crossed underneath, lifting and harnessing her breasts until they stood out defiantly and presented for Priest’s cold, assessing gaze.
