Shattered Hearts: A Dark Romance (Bad Blood Book 1)
Page 9
Now things had changed. How could I yearn for the presence of a woman I was supposed to hate?
I’d always been busy and focused, driving head-on toward my goals. But now I’d reached one of those goals, and it wasn’t panning out quite as I’d planned. I’d imagined I would hate her from the beginning, and I was clinging to that hatred with every fiber of my being.
Of course, I’d known things would be different when she was here. I just hadn’t anticipated how different. I’d worked toward this my entire adult life, and maybe my drive for work had wavered because I knew this was the beginning of the end. By the time this was all over, none of it would matter—not the job, not the property, not the money. It would all be gone, and I’d known that from the start. I didn’t even care. But it now seemed pointless spending time doing something that now meant nothing. All my hard work had been to make this happen, and now that it was happening, I found myself adrift.
Chapter Fourteen
I needed to get out of here.
Hayden was dangerous; he radiated menace from every pore. I’d tried not to show him I was afraid. If he saw me as weak, he would feed upon that weakness, and I thought I’d hidden my fear well. Never in my life had I felt more vulnerable than when I’d been standing with only inches between us, and I was only covered in a towel. That had been a defining moment. If he was going to rape me, he would have done it there and then. There had been no one else around, I’d been undressed, and I’d been able to see by the dark, hooded lust in his eyes that he wanted me.
But then he’d turned around and left.
The man was messed up. His strange insistence that he hadn’t hurt me, despite having kidnapped me, drugged me, and having had his housekeeper electrocute me was plenty enough to prove he had a skewed sense of morals. But he hadn’t laid a finger on me sexually, so far, and it was a small mercy and one I was grateful for. That didn’t mean things would stay that way, however. I was his captive here, and at the end of the day, he could do whatever the hell he wanted to me, and there was nothing I could do about it.
My only hope was to try to escape. My first and only attempt had resulted in me being Tased, and I didn’t think trying to get past Loretta was going to be my best option. I didn’t know what I’d ever done to the other woman, but she looked at me as though I was something smeared to the bottom of her shoe. Plus, she hadn’t even hesitated in using the Taser on me before. Despite the aura of danger radiating from Hayden, something told me he would at least have hesitated. That fucked up sense of right and wrong might have come into play and given me the few seconds I needed to make my escape. I didn’t even care at this point that we were on an island and I’d probably drown trying. I’d rather give myself over to the sea than spend the rest of my life trapped down here.
I needed a weapon, and so far, the only thing I could think of that I might be able to get my hands on was the plastic fork. If I was able to snap off all the tines except one, it would be sharp enough to take out an eye or puncture the soft part of the throat. I wasn’t a violent person, but I had it in me to do it, if my survival depended on it. The hard part would be getting my hands on the fork. I was going to need to cause a distraction, and it was going to need to be with Hayden, not Loretta. I didn’t think for a moment that I could get anything past Loretta, but Hayden... I thought I might be able to distract him, though the idea of doing so sickened me.
I could do it, though. I could live with being sickened, but I wouldn’t live if Hayden got whatever it was he needed from me and then decided to kill me.
Because he would end up killing me. No matter how much he protested that he hadn’t physically hurt me so far. There was no other way this could end. I might not be able to pinpoint where I was right now, but if I was free and went to the police, I was pretty sure they’d be able to figure out who this man was. I didn’t know if the name he’d given me was real, but there couldn’t be too many American men, with dark hair and green eyes, who were clearly very wealthy, and who owned private islands and planes. In this day and age, all aircraft must have to be registered, and I was sure the landing and takeoff from whatever airport we’d flown from must also have been logged. While I doubted he’d used any of the big airports to fly us from, there were only so many airstrips in the New York City area, and I didn’t think I’d been taken much farther than that in the car.
So, yes, letting me go would mean he’d be identified, and he didn’t seem like the kind of man who would do well in prison. He clearly enjoyed the finer things in life.
Which meant ultimately, I was going to die.
After he’d left, I’d quickly dressed in the clean clothes that had been provided for me. Most of the items still had their tags on, and though they were simple clothes of jeans and t-shirts, a quick check of the labels told me they were high-end. The one thing he hadn’t provided me with was another pair of shoes. He’d taken my boots at some point after I’d been captured, which meant I was now bare-footed. This would make it far harder for me to run across the island terrain, but it would also make me quieter, if needed, and I figured if I was going to swim out into the ocean, I wouldn’t want shoes on anyway.
The idea of swimming out into the open sea, when I had no idea how many miles it was to the mainland, or even if I’d be swimming completely the wrong way and heading away from the coast, filled me with a sickening terror. I would be more likely to swim into a shipping lane and be picked up than I ever would stand the chance of actually swimming to the mainland, but getting picked up by a boat worked for me, too. Then again, even more likely than that was the possibility I would drown, but at least this way I had a chance. If I stayed here and did nothing, I would be dead within weeks, if not sooner.
There were still far too many variables to even worry about the drowning at sea part. First, I had to find a weapon, somehow overpower a physically strong man, escape from the house, and run across the island. Right now, even one of those things felt impossible, so the idea of putting them all together and getting the result I wanted seemed as unlikely as picking winning lottery numbers.
He didn’t come back for the rest of that day. I hadn’t really expected him to. My meals were brought to me by an unsmiling Loretta, and I made no attempt to connect with her either. The memory of how it had felt to be Tased was fresh in my mind, and I definitely didn’t want a repeat performance.
I bided my time.
Wanting to stay physically strong, I made sure I ate my meals, and then I used my time to exercise. After all, wasn’t this exactly what people in prisons did? I might not have a gym to work out in, but I’d watched enough videos of people performing bodyweight exercises to know I could keep myself fit with squats and pushups and jumping jacks until sweat poured from my brow and soaked my armpits and cleavage. The exercise helped me sleep better, too. I refused to wither away in here. Much of my life had been snatched out of my control, but I wasn’t going to be a victim.
ANOTHER COUPLE OF DAYS—AT least I figured it had been a couple of days by the change in lighting and the meals that were brought down to me—passed before I saw him again. I’d just done my workout and was wiping the sweat from my brow with a folded t-shirt. It wasn’t my mealtime yet, as I’d had lunch only an hour or so earlier, so I was surprised when the elevator doors opened.
Hayden stepped out, his sullen features unreadable. His gaze flicked to me briefly, quickly taking in the sight of my sweaty body and red face and putting together what I had been doing to get in this state. He couldn’t ban me from exercising, unless he kept me permanently tied up, which I hoped he wouldn’t think of doing. I’d be well and truly screwed if that happened.
“I need something from you,” he said, getting straight to the point.
I stared at him. “What?”
“Here.” He held something out, and my line of sight flicked down to see what he was offering. A pad of paper and a pencil. I noted he was wearing gloves.
“What am I supposed to do with that?”
My insides twisted, every muscle in my body going rigid. “No. I have nothing to say to that man.”
“That’s fine. They won’t be your words anyway. You write down what I tell you. I just want for forensics to be able to tell it’s your handwriting, and maybe even pick up a little of your DNA from the paper.”
I frowned at him. “Why? Why do you want them to know I’ve been taken? What if the letter is traced back to you?”
He shook his head. “It won’t be.” He seemed certain of that.
“I’m still not going to write it.”
He exhaled a frustrated huff of air. “Don’t make this difficult, Jolie. It’ll be hard for both of us if you do.”
“I suspect you’ll make it a lot harder for me,” I muttered. Then I thought of something. “If I write what you want, can I keep this?” I nodded to the paper and pencil. “It gets boring down here. I’d like to be able to write down my thoughts, maybe even some poetry.” I’d never written a line of poetry willingly in my life, but all I could see was the sharp point on the end of the pencil and how it would also work if I needed to stab someone in the eye or throat.
“You won’t be able to write a letter asking for help, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said. “You’ll never get it out of this room.”
“I wasn’t planning to, but if you really believe that, then there is no harm in giving me the pad and pencil, is there?”
His gaze glittered. “I shouldn’t have to negotiate with you. I can hurt you if you don’t do as I ask. You know that, don’t you?”
“I thought you didn’t like to hurt women,” I threw back at him, hoping to play on his weakness.
“I don’t, but that doesn’t mean that I won’t.”
Our eyes locked, a silent battle of wills. I refused to be the one to glance away, sullenly crossing my arms and staring right back. “Give me what I want, and I’ll give you what you want. It’s as simple as that.”
“Write the letter, and I’ll think about it.”
He shoved the pencil and pad at me again, and I sighed in irritation. I guessed ‘I’ll think about it’ was probably the best I was going to get.
I snatched the items out of his hand, careful not to make contact with him, even if he was wearing gloves, and then sank cross-legged to the floor. I needed something to lean on, and the floor was the closest thing I had right now.
I opened the pad to the first page and positioned the pencil, ready to write. I glanced up to where Hayden stood above me, lifting my eyebrows to tell him I was ready.
“Write exactly what I tell you to,” he said. “Help me, Daddy. I miss you and I love you. He’s hurting me, just like you hurt those other women.”
I threw down the pencil and folded my arms. “I am not writing that.”
“Yes, you are.”
“What kind of sick fuck are you to make me write that? It probably won’t even reach him. You know the prison administration go through each of the letters to monitor them.”
“I’m aware of that, but if they want to find you, they’ll have to tell him. Clearly, your disappearance is connected to him, and they’ll want him to tell them if he recognizes any of what you’re saying, or if he has any idea who has taken you. They will show him the letter.”
“And then what? Do you actually think they’ll be able to find me?”
He shook his head. “No, they won’t find you.”
I threw up my hands in exasperation. “Then what’s the fucking point?”
“I want him to suffer, Jolie. Can’t you see that?”
“He’s been suffering for the last ten years behind bars.”
Hayden shook his head. “No, he’s been provided with a place to live, with regular meals. Hell, he probably even has like-minded friends in there. I want him to suffer emotionally, in the same way he made the families of his victims suffer. I want him to know that one of the very few people in this world who he actually cares about is in very real danger.”
I was staring at him because the penny had finally dropped. “You weren’t in prison with my father, were you?” He’d never looked like the kind of man who’d spent time behind bars, far too well groomed. “Did my father kill someone you loved? Is that what this is all about?”
He didn’t meet my eye but glanced away and shoved the paper back toward me. “Just write the fucking note, Jolie.”
“I’m sorry that he hurt someone, but it’s not my fault. You can’t be taking this out on me. I’m the one you’re punishing here, not him. He doesn’t give a fuck about me.” Tears of frustration filled my eyes. This was so unfair. Hadn’t being the daughter of a serial killer made my life miserable enough? It wasn’t as though I’d asked for any of this. I’d have loved for my dad to have been the man I’d believed he was for the first twelve years of my life—funny and caring, and always there for me—but that had been a lie, and I’d been punished over and over again for it, and it seemed this was just the latest line in ‘ways my father could fuck up my life.’ It wasn’t as though it was bad enough finding out that the same hands that held mine were also capable of squeezing the life out of a woman, but then my mother hadn’t been able to cope and had taken her own life, and later, after we’d grown, my brother had completely withdrawn from my life, too.
And now this.
I was mad. Really fucking mad.
“Fuck you!” I jumped to my feet. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!” I was losing it, screaming like a toddler about to have a meltdown in a grocery store. I lashed out, kicking at anything that was near, shredding the paper in my hands, no longer caring about any plans I might have had of using the pencil as a weapon. I kicked out at the dresser in my bare feet, slammed my fists against the wall, tried to claw the stuffing out of the mattress. It was madness for a while, caught up in a whirlwind of emotions that I couldn’t release myself from.
Hayden just stood there and watched in silence as I lost the plot. I was like a whirling dervish around him, dragging books off the shelves and emptying the sleeves of DVDs out onto the floor, all the while screaming with fury. He remained motionless, the center of my storm, his arms folded across his massive chest, his square jaw locked. Even through the red haze of my fury, I knew better than to try to attack him. Nothing could touch him. It was as though he had an invisible forcefield around him, and even if I tried something, I’d rebound off him before I got too close.
Eventually, I wore myself out and was left panting for breath, doubled over, my heart racing.
I wasn’t quite done, however.
“Who did he kill?” I demanded. “Your sister? A girlfriend?”
His full lips thinned, his nostrils flaring. “I’m not talking about this with you.”
“Why not? You brought me here. You know who I am. Surely I should be the perfect person to talk to about it.”
“I didn’t bring you here so we could bond over the murders of innocent women,” he snapped. “I told you, this is about revenge.”
“What makes you any different than him? You’ve kidnapped me. You’re no better in my mind.”
But the cold hatred in his eyes made me rear back. “Those women were innocent. You’re not.”
What the hell did he mean by that?
Chapter Fifteen
“Just write the fucking letter.”
I didn’t want to get into a sob story with her. I was sure her life wasn’t easy, but neither had mine been, and I hadn’t played any part in making hers miserable—well, up until a week ago.
“Fine. But I’m writing what I want, not what you tell me.”
She sank to the floor again, all the fight gone out of her. Her little outburst made me realize how constrained she’d been up until this point, and I couldn’t help but feel a certain amount of begrudging respect. Plenty of women would have gone crazy by now, but she’d been holding on, toughing things out until eventually it had all become too much. There was more, too, but I
didn’t plan on telling her that. She’d find out eventually. It was better to drip feed this information than slam it all down on her in one go. I didn’t know what it would do to her mental health—not that I really cared, of course. If I did, I would never have locked her up down here in the first place.
Using the toe of my shoe, I pushed the pad of paper and pencil toward her. The top few sheets of the small pad had been torn, but the sheets of paper beneath were fine.
I thought she was going to fight me again, but she reached out and hooked the paper and pencil and pulled them toward her. Shifting position, she sat cross-legged and put the pad of paper on her thigh. Her long honey-brown hair created a curtain around her, and she looked like a school child might if they were trying to write something without their friends copying. The pencil scratched across the paper, and I waited, trying to be patient. Her shoulders shook and trembled as the words and emotion spilled out of her.
Finally, she lifted her tear-streaked face and handed the pad of paper back to me.
I glanced down and started to read.
To the man who used to be my father,
You ruined my life once, and now it seems you’ve managed to ruin it again. A man has kidnapped me because of something you did. He won’t tell me exactly what, but I can take a good guess. I don’t know why he even wants me to write you this letter. It’s not as though you can come and try to rescue me. To be honest, I wouldn’t want you to even if you could. I’d rather die here than see your face again.
Jolie.
I stared down at the words she’d written. Was it enough? It wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but would it be enough to inspire some paternal sense of responsibility, or was she right when she said he didn’t give a fuck about her anymore? But maybe her version would be more believable than the one I’d come up with. Either way, I figured it was probably the best I was going to get. Some of the paper was even slightly damp from her tears. Maybe that would be enough to stir a little love inside what I could only assume was his cold, dead soul.