Captive Beauty

by Natasha Knight

  “You did this,” I say.

  “What?”

  “You did it. It’s because of you. All of this happened because of you.”

  His eyes narrow, but inside them, I still see pity. Fucking pity. Now, after everything.

  “Get out,” I say, planting my hands on his chest, attempting to shove him.

  “You’re in shock—”

  “Get the fuck out of my brother’s room!”

  The doctor says something, walks toward us, but Kill puts his hand up to stop him without ever taking his eyes from me.

  “I’ll call the police,” I say. “Tell them about our contract. Tell them about your business.” I shove again, this time, he captures my wrists. “Get out. Right now.”

  “I can’t help you if you don’t let me,” he says, but his calm is a thin façade.

  “I don’t want your help. I never asked for it and neither did he!”

  “You did ask for it,” he reminds me.

  “So this is my fault?”

  “No, it’s no one’s fault, but you can’t put your life on permanent hold to help your brother and that’s exactly what you’d be doing if you think you could handle this yourself.”

  I try to pull free, but can’t. “Let me go.”

  He watches me, and I want to know what he sees, what he thinks, but he doesn’t let on. Just keeps hold of me and all those damn machines are too loud. Too fucking loud. And it’s like he knows it’ll only be another minute, another second, before I break down again because that’s all I can seem to do these days. All I can do around him unless I fight him. There’s no in-between for us. He knows the truth. I see it in his eyes. He learned it when he went to get my pound of flesh.

  “Cilla,” he says, a hint of tenderness in the way he says it.

  “Stop. Let me help you.”

  I shake my head, drop my gaze, but his words, God how I want to say yes. How I want to melt into his strong arms, let him hold me. Keep me.

  Hide me.

  “Cilla.” The way he’s holding me changes. He pulls me to him, or tries but, but I can’t. I can’t want this. Can’t have it. It’s too hard and I want to go back to the way it was before. Before I asked for his help. Before he found out.

  A machine starts to beep. I turn, we both do, and a team of doctors and nurses rushes in.

  “You need to go,” one of them says.

  “No!” They’re calling out orders, words that don’t make sense to me. I can’t see my brother anymore.

  “You need to take her outside,” someone says again.

  Kill nods, takes me by the arm and forces me out.

  “What happening?” I’m frantic, but Kill won’t let me go. He just keeps holding me, keeps pulling me into his chest, keeps petting my hair, trying to soothe me.

  The frantic sounds from the room quiet a few moments later. That’s when Kill loosens his hold on me, let’s me turn toward the door. He’s still got my wrist and won’t let go.

  “Let’s sit down,” Kill says. He doesn’t wait for me to reply but walks us to the chairs down the hall.

  I don’t know how long we sit there, but I can hear the beeps come regularly now. If it was a bad sign, they’d come to tell us. They’d come right away. I just keep my eyes on the door of Jones’s room for I don’t know how long until, finally, a doctor steps out.

  “He’s stable again,” he says. He’s watching us cautiously.

  I breathe a sigh of relief, try again to pull free. “I want to see him.”

  The doctor and Kill exchange a look, before the doctor turns to me. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now, Ms. Hawking. Your brother can hear what’s going on. I’m certain of it. And he’s in a very delicate state right now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he can be upset very easily. I think it’s best if you go home.”

  “Go home?” I turn back to find Kill watching us. I realize he moves his hand so he’s no longer gripping my wrist but holding my hand. “I don’t understand,” I tell the doctor.

  “He’ll be okay, we’ll pull him through this, but he needs some time to heal.”

  “Without me.” It’s not a question. I’m Jones’s poison. What happened…he sees it every time he sees me.

  “Cilla,” Kill starts. “I’ll bring you back in a few days.”

  “I think that’s best, Mr. Black.”

  “You’ll call me with hourly updates,” Kill says.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” Kill turns me to face him, takes my shoulders, rubs them, squeezes a little until I look up at him. “He’s going to be okay. Let’s give him some time. Space.”

  I shake my head, but I’m powerless.

  “Come on, Cilla.”

  I let him walk me down the hall, out the front doors. He doesn’t speak as he sets me in the SUV, straps me in. He doesn’t start the car right away but checks messages on his phone, talks to Hugo. I’m not really listening, though. Instead, I look out into the fields Jones and I were watching just a few days ago. There’s no traffic on the lonely road beyond.

  When he hangs up, we pull out of the parking lot.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I need to stop by the club. Pick something up. We can stay at the penthouse tonight so we’ll be closer.”

  I lean my head back, close my eyes for a minute. “He wouldn’t have done this if I hadn’t told him what you were going to do to Callahan.”

  “You can’t know that. Jones is in a bad place. He’s detoxing and maybe for the first time in his life, he’s facing what happened. Or being forced to.”

  The unspoken fact that he knows everything sits in the car with us, taking up too much space, not leaving any for me.

  “This needs to end,” I say, facing him.

  “You’re upset. We’ll talk about it later.”

  “No. Not later. Now.”

  He sighs, turns to me, squeezes my knee in warning. “Later. And we’re not talking about ending anything. We’re talking about what I learned.”

  I swallow. He studies me and his eyes, it’s like they penetrate to my core. He knows everything. I shift my gaze to my lap. I can’t do this. I can’t talk about what happened. I need out. I need away from him.

  Traffic picks up as we near the city, take the turnoff to the club. The parking lot is empty but for one car. I check the time and realize it’s been hours since we left the party. I thought it had been minutes.

  Kill makes a sound when he sees it. It’s a low, displeased growl. He parks beside the car, switches off the engine, turns to me.

  “Stay here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Are you afraid you won’t have the remaining weeks you’re owed?” I ask.

  He blinks, looks confused. “What?”

  I have to say it. Enrage him. Wound him. “That’s what it is, isn’t it? You’re afraid you won’t have access 24/7 to the pussy you’re owed? That’s why you won’t let me go?”

  He fists his hands and I can see the anger creeping into his face.

  “I’ve hit the nail on the head, huh?” I keep going, goading him, because it’s the only way I know how to deal with this.

  “No, Cilla, that’s not it.”

  “Then let me go.”

  He shakes his head, rubs his jaw, runs that hand through his hair. It sticks up when he does, dark spikes on top of his head. “It’s been a really long night.”

  “For me too. A long two weeks.”

  He takes the key out of the ignition and opens his door. “I’ll be back. Stay here.”

  I climb out too, follow him, my heels echoing in the empty night. “You don’t hear me, do you? You don’t hear anything but what you want.”

  We reach the side door and he chooses a key from the ring in his hand, turns to me. “I heard and saw plenty at Callahan’s,” he says.

  It’s like a hit to the gut. I clutch my belly, stumble backward, feel my face burn, feel shame spread its icy darkness throug
h me.

  “Shit. Cilla, that’s not—”

  I look down, grip the railing to keep upright. “I need some water.” And to disappear from here. From his sight.

  It takes him a moment, but he slides the key into the lock, then stops because the door isn’t locked. “Fucking Benji.”

  24

  Kill

  Fuck. I don’t need this right now. I don’t need to deal with Ben right fucking now. I wish I could take her straight back to Rockcliffe House and lock her away until this passes. Until she’s thinking straight again. But I need to pick something up. Hugo will have left it for me and I need it out of the office. I can’t take a chance it’ll be found.

  Cilla’s on the verge of a breakdown. I feel it. She knows I know, but she won’t face the fact. I’m going to need to make her face it.

  Callahan didn’t suffer enough before he died. Not nearly. What I saw at his house was sick. Sicker than I had thought. Sicker than I imagined possible.

  She hadn’t lied when she’d told me he didn’t rape her, but I already knew that. He raped her brother. Knew that too. What I didn’t know was what that pervert made them do. The sick bastard recorded everything. Every single sick moment.

  Thing is, he’d been abusing kids for years. He had a pattern, like Hugo had learned, and when he was through with the kids, when the boy was old enough to leave the house, he’d promise to release the girl in exchange for silence. But for kids who are abused like that for that long, you don’t need to make deals for them to keep your secret. Shame will do that for you. Shame and self-hatred. Because they think they’re accomplices.

  I look at Cilla and she can’t look at me. I try to touch her, but she jumps back. I don’t push. “Let’s go in. It’s cold out here.”

  She nods, keeps her head down, walks in.

  I wonder how long Ben’s had a key to the club. How long he’s been waiting to get in here when Hugo or I aren’t here. I guess Hugo went home with a girl tonight and maybe Ben found his opportunity. What I want to know is when the fuck did he even get a key to get in here? I’m done with this asshole.

  I walk into the dark main floor of the building, switch on a light. Look around. But there’s no one here.

  “Whose car is that?” Cilla asks, sensing my mood. “Who’s here?”

  At the elevator, I punch in the code and the doors slide open.

  “My cousin.” I’m getting more and more pissed off by the minute. If he’s not down here, that means he’s up in my office. That means he’s watched me punch in the code, memorized it. Of all the nights he cannot be in my office, this is it.

  Although maybe he’s been there before tonight.

  But I stop short. I realize I don’t want her up there, not if he’s there. Because maybe I underestimated him all along. Maybe this isn’t about twenty grand at all.

  I walk around the nearest bar, get a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, open it. “Stay here while I handle this.”

  She nods, takes a seat on the stool where I set the bottle of water. She doesn’t drink. Instead, she hugs her coat to herself like she’s cold, and her eyes are far away.

  I don’t want to leave her alone right now, but I need to take care of this.

  “I’ll be down as soon as I can.”

  She seems to shrink into herself.

  I give Cilla one more glance as the doors close. It’s a short ride up and as soon as the doors slide open and I hear what I hear, all the things I’m feeling take on a different form. Rage. Pure, unfiltered rage.

  Cilla. Cilla that night I recorded her.

  I almost don’t see Ben for the red.

  My fingernails dig into my palms at the sight of my cousin sitting behind my desk, the dim light of the lamp illuminating him. He moves into that light, eyes not on the monitor but on me, the look in them vengeful, ugly. Full of hate.

  This is Ben. This is the real Ben. And I’ve been closing my eyes to it all along.

  I switch on the lights.

  Ben stands. He looks shocked to see me.

  His face is covered in bruises, one eye swollen nearly shut, his lip cut. Blood is crusted on his ripped shirt. But when I see what he’s holding in his hand, I know this wasn’t ever about money. There was no twenty grand debt.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you, Ben?” I take a step toward him but stop when he raises a shaky hand, in it the pistol I keep in my desk. I really need to lock that drawer.

  “What are you doing in my office?” But I know when I watch him slip the thing he’s holding into his pocket.

  “I told you they’d come after me,” he says.

  When he talks, I notice one of his front teeth is broken.

  “I fucking told you!” he yells.

  “What did you put in your pocket, Ben?”

  He’s jittery. Anxious. His eyes wide. I can’t tell if he’s stoned or scared. Maybe both.

  “Nothing,” he says.

  He’s a bad liar. “Put the gun down. You don’t want to hurt yourself.”

  “Fuck you. You’re not the only one who knows how to use a goddamned gun.”

  I take another step. I need to disarm this fool before he does something stupid. “Put the fucking gun down, Ben.”

  “Don’t you mean Benji?” he spits. “I’m tired of you and your goon calling me that.”

  “Jesus Christ.” I shake my head, walk to the bar, get a bottle of whiskey.

  “Don’t fucking move!”

  Ignoring him, I pour a tumbler. Turn to face him. Drink a sip before setting it down. I’ve got another pistol stashed behind the bar, but if things go that far, this will be the last night of Benji’s life, and that’s not what I want.

  “I’m going to ask you nicely one more time to put the gun down.” The sound of Cilla coming over and over again is gnawing at me. “And turn that off.”

  He grins, cocks his head to the side. “What? You got a soft spot for Jones’s sister.”

  I take two steps. He takes a small one back, but the chair is behind him so he’s trapped between it and my desk and his eyes are bouncing between the elevator door and the locked one to the stairwell.

  “Turn. It. Off.” I squint to get a better look at him. I’m blocking his way to either exit—he won’t be leaving here until I get what he put in his pocket back. “Antonino’s men do that to you?” I ask, not that I give a fuck, although I realize he’s never been properly beaten before. My bad. I should have taken Hugo’s advice and done it years ago. I’ve been coddling him and he’s taken that for weakness. I made a fucking traitor out of him.

  “They’re not done with me.”

  “What did you put in your pocket, Ben?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Did you agree to the beating? Make this look more real in case I walked in on you? Or is that a sample of what they’ll do to you if you don’t give them what you’re stealing from me?”

  He starts fidgeting, shifting his weight.

  “Are you stoned, Ben?”

  He cocks the gun.

  I take a deep breath in, exhale slowly, watch him. “Turn that off, put the gun down and we’ll talk. Last chance.”

  He gives me a nervous chuckle. “I’m the one holding the fucking—”

  I lunge at him, ducking down as I do so when he pulls the trigger, the bullet flies over my head and shatters a bottle of something before lodging into the wall. Knocking Ben down isn’t hard. He’s not a big guy and liquor has only weakened him. We knock the chair over on its side as I take him to the ground, wrestle the gun from him, and slide it across the floor.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I ask again, taking him by the collar and dragging him up as I rise to my feet. I sit his ass down on the couch, pick up the pistol and set it on the corner of my desk, then turn my attention to the computer. I find the file that contains the recording of Cilla and hit delete.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Ben rise to his feet, take a step toward the bar.

  I turn to him.
“Sit your ass back down.”

  He looks at me, fear in his bloodshot eyes. He sits.

  I fold my arms across my chest. “What do you think you’re doing here? In my office, behind my desk, on my computer. Aiming my own gun at me?”

  He scratches his head, shifts his gaze to the glass of whiskey I’d just poured that’s still sitting on the bar. The bottle is what shattered. It was nearly full and fucking expensive.

  “Last chance to tell me what you put in your pocket.”

  “I told you they’d come after me,” he says again.

  “Antonino?”

  He nods.

  I hold out my hand. “Give me what you took and I’ll protect you.”

  His eyes narrow. “You weren’t supposed to record it, were you?”

  He’s talking about the meeting. He knew all along what was going down tonight. And no, I wasn’t supposed to record it, but fuck that. This is my club. My rules. No exceptions.

  “I just don’t get one thing. Are you working for Antonino or are you really scared?” I ask.

  “Fuck you,” he says, and bolts up, tries to dash past me. I grab him easily, hold him by the throat and dig out the thumb drive from his pocket. Tossing him back on the couch as I slip it into my pocket.

  “You don’t know what they’ll do to me if I don’t give them that drive.”

  I snort. “You’re pathetic, you know that? Go home. Get the fuck out of my sight before I hurt you.”

  “What home? I don’t have a fucking home. Remember, you took it!”

  “I took what?”

  “Rockcliffe House. This club. My father. Everything.”

  I’m out of patience. “Rockcliffe House belonged to my mother. It never belonged to the Black family. You and your father lived there because when my father died and that asshole father of yours was granted custody of Ginny and me, it made the most fucking sense. When your father raped my sister, he signed his own death warrant. Ginny was a kid. He fucking raped her, Ben.”

  He knows this, I know he does.

  “This club I built from the ground up,” I continue. “You have no part in it.”

  “You fund it with drug money.”

  “That’s not any of your fucking business.”