Lachlan's Protégé

by V. F. Mason

  “So consider it my generosity,” I inform her as the video starts to play on the TV. Her quiet sobbing stops and she blinks in shock while she watches Max pat the head of a little boy who bangs on the door, crying out for help.

  “Shhh, little one. No one is going to hurt you,” he says to the kid, and the boy wipes his cheeks, looking up at him.

  “I want Mommy.”

  Max kneels in front of the boy, smiling at him softly, although his eyes don’t hide the fucking gleam that is forever imprinted in my brain from fuckers like him. “Mommy is not here now. But I am. I won’t hurt you. If you play with me.”

  The boy blinks in confusion, stepping away from him. “Play?”

  Max slides his hand down the boy’s shirt, unbuttoning each button as he nods.

  I pause the video, asking Valencia, “Is that enough, or do you need more visuals?” I hope it’s enough, because every time I see this kind of shit, I want to destroy everything in sight.

  She finally snaps out of shock, whispering, “Oh my God.” She swallows loudly, covering her mouth. “Is he going to… is he… the boy?”

  Resting my back on the table, I say, “Going to rape him? Yeah. Repeatedly, for a few years. That boy is his favorite actually. Nick.”

  “Stop,” she pleads, covering her ears, but I continue anyway, as I’m not that considerate.

  Life isn’t that kind either.

  “Twice a week, Max made trips to his favorite place to enjoy the boys. Why do you think he never pushed you for sex? He didn’t need to. He had six-years-olds to sustain his desires.”

  “Stop,” she says again, turning her face away from me, but once again, I do not listen.

  Why should only the victims live with this dirt and truth, while people hide from it because the information is too difficult for them to handle?

  “Perfect Max, from the suburbs and all. With dark desires. And for him you cried and lost a bet with me. That’s the man you’ve spent three years in a relationship with. How does it feel, Valencia? Who is the biggest monster now? Me or him?”

  “Stop, stop, stop!” she screams. She breathes heavily, her chest rising and falling, and I expect another burst of tears, but surprisingly they don’t come.

  In fact, a blank expression blankets her face as she stares above my shoulder. “Can I go back to my room?”

  My brow lifts. “Your room?” I wonder if she means the cage or—

  “The one where I got ready for dinner. Can I sleep there tonight?” Her skin is pale, her makeup smeared all over her, but she keeps her chin high, even as her body trembles.

  Control.

  People learn to access it fast when unbearable pain has the power to destroy them. It’s the only thing that can keep the person alive and sane.

  I motion with my head for her to go, and with a nod, she does. Oddly, she remembers the way, her feet tapping against the floor as she walks to her room and finally reaches the door. I trail after her like the fucking fool I am.

  “I just need time alone tonight. Tomorrow, you can do whatever you want to me.” She doesn’t wait for my response but goes inside, and I’m left standing there.

  In normal circumstances, these things wouldn’t fly with me, but I can give it to her tonight.

  Valencia doesn’t know that Max is nothing compared to the truth that awaits her once she is truly mine.

  I have to make her psychologically vulnerable before firing the big gun, so to speak, because it will completely crush her.

  And then she can become my protégée.

  I head to my office, but halt midway, hitting the wall on my side as a deep unsettling in my stomach overwhelms me when I think about her catatonic state.

  What will she do there alone?

  The concept of caring about someone is so foreign to me I don’t know what to do with it at first, but then my worry doesn’t go away no matter how much I try to block it.

  Instead of celebrating the death of Max and torturing someone myself, because there is always a victim lying around, all my thoughts are with Valencia and her dead, brown pools.

  Wasn’t that my ultimate goal? To destroy the little blind kitten living inside her and introduce her to the truth that’s surrounded her life from the very beginning?

  “Why now do I hate the idea of her torment?” The beast roaring in my ears demands to go back and check on her, to soothe her, even if it means angering her to gain some kind of emotion.

  Anything but the blank fucking stare.

  Valencia

  As I numbly pad to the bathroom, I remove the crown from my head and drop it on the floor. Then I turn on the water in the shower stall and step inside, not bothering to undress. Immediately, the freezing water slaps my skin, not that I pay much attention to it.

  I don’t feel anything except the agony in my chest as images from the video play in my mind over and over again.

  The little boy. How Max touched him. His voice. The implications of what would happen later.

  Along with that comes all the years I’ve known Max. A kind man who had a wicked sense of humor, perfect grades, and always helped anyone who needed it. Sure, we didn’t match as a couple, but I thought I’d forever keep in touch with him, because he deserved better than me.

  He was always so understanding about my desire to hold off from sex. Even though months turned into years, he never pushed for it and just shrugged whenever I asked him if he needed it. Not that his answer would have changed anything, since I didn’t want it.

  Of course he didn’t insist; he simply got off somewhere else.

  My skin itches, so I grab the soap and rub the bare parts of my skin to the point of pain, hoping to wash away his disgusting preferences that stripped poor children of their innocence and killed so many souls.

  But then another thought strikes me and the soap bar slides from my hands to my feet, hitting my already bruised toes.

  Was it my fault that he touched them? Would something have been different if I provided him with sex on a daily basis? Would he have been able to control his cravings?

  Is all those children’s pain my fault? If I had seen his… his… I can’t call it desires, just sickness. If I did that… would he have not done it?

  I sob into the water, resting my forehead against the tile, my body shaking with my silent cries as tears fall, mixing with water as I let it all out.

  Since I was a child, I always had one special rule. If I needed to cry, it had to be in the shower so no one would know something upset me.

  That’s why I asked Lachlan to give me access to this room.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I whisper to all those lost souls, and the cries don’t stop. Because how can someone do that and then pretend to be a good person?

  How can you hurt innocent children and sleep at night? And that man wanted to marry me?

  For the first time, I’m glad he is gone.

  At least this way he won’t ever hurt anyone else, not that it’s compensation to all those kids.

  The water temperature changes and scalding heat surrounds me as strong arms spin me around and press me against the wall.

  Lachlan holds me, his chest bare. He still has his pants on, along with a scowl on his face, as the spray soaks him to the skin. “Do you want to get pneumonia?” he growls, ripping my bodice and skirt and throwing them over his shoulder where they land with a splat on the floor. My undergarments follow, and then he kneels in front of me and carefully takes off the pointe shoes. I wince as my feet are finally free, and I wiggle my toes although it only brings more throbbing.

  He examines one foot for a moment and then does the same with other, and finally, once I’m completely naked, he rises again so we face each other. “Do not apologize for what he did.”

  I could probably scream and say how inappropriate this is, that he doesn’t have the right to stand here and look at me as if I’m his property. But that seems so silly after the revelation about Max, so beside the point.

 
Lachlan is a monster and a murderer, yes. Nothing changes that.

  But at least he doesn’t hide it or harm kids.

  There is a code, not that it has any merit.

  Killing is killing.

  I tense in his arms, because he hurts women. What if he does the same to kids? I just assumed… “I don’t,” he murmurs, and I relax, finding some solace in that.

  “Even you blame me for what he did,” I finally say, coming to the realization that it’s probably why he kidnapped me. “Otherwise, what was the need for all this?” I remove the pieces of hair that escaped the braid, but he wraps his hands around mine and pushes them above me.

  “Trust me, Valencia, that’s not it.” His gruff voice only fuels my misery.

  “You mean there is something worse?” Something crosses his face before he hides it from me, and I laugh, along with crying. “Oh my God, there is. Tell me now, Lachlan. Just deliver the sucker punch and end it.”

  The bubble that surrounded me has burst anyway; he might as well finish it.

  “You are not ready for it.”

  I blink in confusion. “You think with time I will be?” I’m not sure any amount of time could have prepared me for Max, or Lachlan, for that matter.

  “Following my rules will make it less tormenting.”

  “I’ve followed the rules my whole life. Look where I am now,” I whisper, as our gazes clash, and for a second, my breath hitches at the intensity of his stare.

  His sky blue eyes hold so many secrets, but underneath it all, I detect anguish that can break a weaker person.

  Evil is not born either, right? His tendencies have to come from somewhere. “What made you the way you are?” My question is probably unexpected and not appropriate for the current situation, but with him and after what he put me through in the dance room, I never know how much time I have left.

  I’d like to at least know the truth from him before I die.

  “Who, Valencia. In the case of serial killers, the question is always who. We all have a creator,” he informs me, and then maneuvers me right under the spray. I cry out from the pain in my feet, and he mutters something under his breath. The adjusted water quickly creates steam around us that envelops us in its warmth. He then proceeds to wash away all traces of makeup, then my hair and body. I wince as the soap touches my cuts and try to escape his touch, but he doesn’t let me.

  I don’t protest much, completely emotionally drained. I’m not sure this shock will even pass. I should be hitting him and running away from him, yet here I stand and let him touch my most intimate places.

  For how intimate this moment is, there is no connection between us. I’ve built walls around my heart and I won’t let him in. I can’t; he will so easily destroy me and not even blink.

  Finally, he turns off the water, steps outside, and comes back with a towel to dry me off. He tugs a shirt onto me that reaches the middle of my thighs and then picks me up. In a few short strides, he dumps me on the bed as I focus my eyes on him. “Rest. There is always tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, rubbing my feet against each other, hoping to eliminate at least some of the ache. Propping on the pillow, I let the material soak up all the silent tears, as I whisper, “When I tried so hard to please everyone, I forgot to grow up.” I’m so pathetic I feel disgust at my own self.

  A normal person would have seen that her boyfriend and lover are evil people she should stay away from. But in my naivety, I placed one in the perfect box while the other in the seductive.

  And both times, I ended up wrong.

  He doesn’t reply and I don’t want him to. I close my eyes, as they burn from all the tears, and when I hear the door open, I think he is about to leave, but then the bed dips and something cold touches me.

  My eyelids pop open only to come in direct contact with a big muzzle of a Newfoundland dog that licks my neck and then settles next to me.

  He is so warm. Normally I’m afraid of dogs, but this one is so fluffy I forget everything and hug him close, needing the contact like never before.

  And slowly, I drift to sleep, where I can find a small retreat from this nightmare.

  Lachlan

  She is lying on the bed, breathing evenly as Chance’s head settles into the crook between her shoulder and neck, sighing heavily and probably giving her all his warmth since she hugs him closer.

  His watchful eyes are on me; he growls slightly and my brows lift. “That’s your gratitude I gather.” He shows me his teeth, so I lean down to tap his muzzle and he hides them, closing his eyes completely, content by the looks of it near Valencia.

  Who wouldn’t be?

  Removing the strands of her wet hair from her face, I run the back of my hand over her soft skin that’s still wet from her tears.

  They should bring me pleasure, the suffering. But all it does is confuse me.

  I want to destroy what brings her misery, but what do I do if that one thing is me?

  Sliding my hand to her neck and breasts, I wonder what it would be like to keep her for myself as the only thing that has never been tainted by the dark.

  Could I forget then? Not be plagued by the nightmares or voices that never leave, no matter how much I will them to?

  Succumbing to these desires will mean betraying the promise I made a long time ago.

  Besides, for Valencia, it’s all the same. She will be my prisoner with no choice of escaping, and shouldn’t it disgust me?

  Try as I might though, the idea only excites me; there is no other man out there who gave her what she gets from me.

  She is mine.

  From the top of her brown hair to her bruised and crooked toes, every part of her belongs to me. We are connected in a way she has yet to discover.

  This connection was supposed to be her downfall.

  But now I think it will be mine.

  Valencia

  Groaning, I shift onto my side, burrowing into the pillow and hoping to evade the heat, but it follows me. My body is covered in sweat. My eyelids flutter open as I blink a few times at the ceiling that reflects the moonlight.

  I blindly search for the blanket to throw it away, when instead, I find a hand thrown over my middle, and the heat next to me registers for what it is.

  Or rather who it is.

  Lachlan.

  Looking at him, I see he is lying on his back, breathing evenly, one hand under his head while the other is on me, as if he just put it there to make sure I’m still in one position.

  The dog is lounging on the floor, snoring loudly with not a care in the world it seems, while the light breeze comes from the open window along with the heat erupting from the ductwork.

  Why the hell keep the window open, then?

  But then it dawns on me that my captor is asleep while I’m awake and I can easily slip through his fingers if I want to.

  Slowly, I pick up his hand and place it between us, then hold my breath as he huffs and lies fully on his back with his other hand stretched up. Once free, I get up on my knees and crawl over him, and as soon as my toes dig into the Persian carpet, I’m ready to do the hallelujah dance.

  I quickly run to the window on the way, checking the curtains, and mentally thanking my dad for teaching me to escape the house from a window, even if it’s high, in case of fire.

  Come to think of it, Dad was obsessed with fire and was always afraid something might burn. He even hated when Mom used lighters to light the candles and at some point just forbade them in our house.

  This is only the second floor and the ground is not very far below. The bed leg has a good spot to wrap the curtain around. I tug on the curtain to snatch it away and they screech over the bar. Wincing, I check over my shoulder on Lachlan, but he is in the same position, so I exhale in relief.

  With another few pulls, it falls to the floor, where I pick it up and quickly proceed as planned. I secure one tight knot around the leg of the bed and check, tugging on it hard. It doesn’t even budge.

  Fina
lly satisfied with my efforts, I fling the rest out the window and put on Lachlan’s socks I found lying around. There is snow and I won’t survive for long without them. I can find an escape through the maze, and then someone will find me.

  Or that’s the outcome I pray for anyway. He might have not hurt me, but he is still a man who kidnapped me and made me experience horrible things.

  And I definitely shouldn’t feel safe in his arms, and that’s what happened back in the shower. I heard that victims develop some kind of feelings for their captors over time and grow attached to them, some syndrome I think.

  But they spend years with them, and I did what? Four or five days, and most of those days I’ve spent alone in a cell.

  I get up on the windowsill and climb over, holding the curtain tightly in my hands, and slowly go down while gritting my teeth from the burning of the cloth.

  Sliding lower and lower, I hold back a cry of pain until I finally reach the ground. I drop to my feet and then instantly to my knees as a jolt of pain is sent from my foot upward.

  I forgot I overdid it on the dance floor, and the carpet was much softer. How will I freaking run?

  That’s why I became a ballerina and not a freaking police detective. I just don’t have a head for grand schemes.

  I turn around and yelp as the man stands in front of me, exhaling a big puff of smoke into the air. “So what’s the next stage of this grand escape?”

  Lachlan.

  How did he manage to get here so fast? He was just on the bed. As if reading my mind, he elaborates, taking a long pull on his cigarette. “Since you were amusing being so proud of yourself, I decided to let you run the show, but I’m really impressed.” He whistles. “You are a survivor after all, darling.” He tries to remove the errant strands of my hair, but I slap his hand away, stepping back.

  Right. The monster never sleeps. “I hate you, Lachlan. With all my heart,” I hiss into his face and expect him to snap at me, but instead, he just laughs. The sound bounces off the walls as he catches his breath, throws the cigarette on the concrete, and steps on it.

  Then he says, “Get back inside the house, Valencia.”