Captured

by Myers, K. L.

  “Oh, Mr. Madison, who I am is of no interest to you, but what I have to offer is.”

  “I’m listening,” Madison replies with a smug tone.

  “You have sealed your fate.” I start off saying, “Prison awaits you yet again, and who knows for how long this time.”

  “I can’t go back there. Not again. I’ll never survive it. Please help me.” The smug expression on Madison’s face is gone, replaced with trepidation.

  I wrap my arm around his shoulder and reach inside my jacket, pulling a syringe from the pocket inside. “You’re looking for absolution. I plan to give you no such thing, you sick son of a bitch.”

  Needle in hand, I quickly puncture the skin on his neck and press the plunger down, forcing the liquid to flow through his veins. I don’t even attempt to catch him as he drops to the ground, laughing at the thud from his head. He deserves so much worse than the lump that might form.

  Alarm and fear reflect in his eyes. “What have you done?” he screams. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m the devil, here to deliver you to hell.”

  “No,” he cries, and I laugh again.

  Jamal lifts Madison off the ground, carrying him to the other side of the room and placing him on the bar top. “You like touching women without their permission? When they can’t fight back? Let’s see how you like a taste of your own medicine.”

  My sinister cackling fills the room as the serum I injected him with paralyzes every part of his body. “Unlike those women, you’ll be fully aware of everything I do to you, and you won’t be able to do a fucking thing to stop me.”

  His eyes bug out of his head and spit spews from his lips as he shouts, “Please don’t do this. I’m reformed. I was a sick man back then, but I’ve gotten help. I’m sorry for what I’ve done. Please. Listen to me.” Tears stream his cheeks. “I got early parole for all the work I did to reform. I promise I’ve changed.”

  “Anyone can fake change. I’m here to judge what’s in your heart, and all I see is black.”

  When I place my gun beside his head, he whimpers louder. “Please,” he begs once again, trying to find that place in a person’s soul that makes them consider goodness. I don’t have a soul. He’s praying to the wrong god.

  “This is for you, Emery. This fucker will never touch your sister again. I love you, baby.” My words are a whisper in the air but loud enough he can hear them.

  “I’m sorry, man. I’ll apologize to her. I’ll do any penance you want. I’ll—”

  From my back pocket, I retrieve my knife, remove the blade from its sheath, and set it next to Madison’s head, making him stop talking. Thank fuck for small miracles. His voice was starting to grate on my nerves. With one look from me, Jamal quickly removes Madison’s pants.

  “What are you doing, you fucking pervert?” Madison yells at Jamal.

  Pervert. How ironic, him calling anyone else that. This sick prick raped Addison and messed her up for the rest of her life. And because the world believes me dead, I can’t go to my sister-in-law and comfort her.

  I will avenge her.

  “Don’t fucking touch me!”

  Jamal ignores him, but his lack of respect for my friend fuels my need to hurt him. To show him he’s here because he wronged so many others. Someone I care about. Grabbing his hand and starting with his pointer finger, I slice it clear off.

  Screams of pain echo through the room as tears pour from his eyes. I look him straight in the face and say, “Can’t touch anyone against their will without fingers, can you?”

  I waste no time cutting the next finger off. “Addison Curtis was my sister-in-law. She’s been in and out of mental institutions because of what you did.”

  “I’m sorry,” he cries.

  “Sorry? Because you raped her? Or because you told her it was all a hallucination? You made her go crazy. Ruined her fucking life. And now you’re going to pay.”

  I don’t listen to anything else he had to say as I go to work removing every damn finger he has. His thumbs too. His screams are loud—glorious—and they fuel me on.

  He needs to die.

  Hurting him is not enough. I need to know he’ll never harm another person. Hell is where he belongs, burning and writhing for eternity.

  “Say hi to the other motherfuckers I’ve sent to hell.”

  His eyes go wide as I grab my gun and place it between his eyes. With a final smirk at him, I pull the trigger, not caring that I’m close enough to be sprayed by pieces of him.

  Rubbing my hand against my chest, I sigh. The emptiness still remains. I thought for sure he was the answer to this endless void. Seeking retribution for Emery’s sister, not to mention the other women, should have set me free, but here I stand, feeling as empty as ever.

  Why am I not redeemed?

  A knock at my door pulls me back to the here and now. Confident it’s Jamal, I say, “Come in.”

  He enters with a somber look on his face. “She’s gone to her room, sir. She refused to eat and is asleep now. I just removed the tray from her room.”

  I nod in acknowledgment.

  “You were quite hard on her. She does not understand her role here. May I suggest that you determine your path with her? Either end her life or help her find her way.”

  “I wish it were that simple, Jamal.”

  “It is. You just need to choose.” Jamal bows at his waist slightly. “Good night, sir. See you in the morning.”

  He takes his leave, and my thoughts run rampant. Is it as simple as he says? Do I just choose? What if she doesn’t like my choice?

  8

  A New Day

  Willow

  The sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling window rouses me from my sleep. One eye slits open at the annoyance of the light. I know those curtains were closed last night. Someone came in and opened them, but who?

  Brecken?

  Jamal?

  I’m not sure who I prefer.

  Rising up onto my elbows, I take stock of the room. Nothing seems out of place... except a small silver platter on the nightstand. A cup of coffee—steaming coffee—sits on the platter next to a piece of paper. I sit up and open the folded paper as I reach for the coffee. Taking a sip, I sigh contentedly as the hot liquid hits the back of my throat.

  Willow,

  I’m sorry for my behavior last night. I would very much enjoy your company for breakfast when you are ready.

  Respectfully,

  Brecken

  He can act human. I chuckle at the thought and take another sip of coffee. It’s perfectly made—a splash of milk and a teaspoon of sugar. It begs the question again of how long Mr. Wade has been watching me.

  Today is the day I find out.

  That and a few other things I would like to know. And to get him a bit more eager to answer, I guess I should bend a little on how I behave. All humor funnels out of my body as I stand from the bed and make my way to the closet, coffee mug clutched in hand. Everything in here is extravagant, way too extravagant for a woman about to die. And how is it possible that he knew exactly what my clothing size is? I can’t understand why he went to such lengths, unless he lied about his intentions.

  The thought sours the coffee in my stomach and makes me put the mug down on the vanity. I must stop letting my imagination run wild and find out the truth. Brecken Wade brought me here for a reason. I intend to find out what that reason is, and staring at these clothes is not the way to do it.

  An emerald cowl neck sweater grabs my attention, so I reach for it and am not surprised by the soft feel of cashmere under my fingers. I pair it with jeans and ankle boots. Walking back into the bedroom, I stop at the dresser and pick out a matching bra and underwear in dark green before going into the bathroom to shower.

  It feels weird to shower two days in a row, even if yesterday was not by choice. The shampoo smells of vanilla and hibiscus. It’s pretty. I take my time, letting the water massage my tense muscles and the scent of the products relax me. All the
grime washes away, and I start to feel... human. It’s a feeling I had almost forgotten.

  As I turn the water off, a sadness washes over me just thinking of stepping out into the air. The thought of moving away from the warmth of the confined space I’m in and into the cold overwhelms me, and for a moment, I can’t move. Naked, I stand with my arms wrapped around myself, hugging myself and willing the nerves to go away.

  When I begin to shiver, I finally break free of the paralysis of fear, open the frosted glass door, and step onto the cushiony rug. My toes curl into the softness as I grab a towel, wrap myself into the cottony softness, and breathe a sigh of relief at its warmth. It’s crazy how I skip moods so frequently. I think I’ve gone crazy.

  I try to shake off the mood by physically shaking myself, but the lingering doubts about my sanity hover as I dry off and get dressed. What kind of person willingly goes with a stranger who offers to kill them? Who goes to dinner naked in front of a man she doesn’t know? And why would any sane person not shower for weeks on end when she could smell as nice as I do now?

  I smile as I sniff myself, thinking I may have to do this showering thing a bit more often. Well, at least as long as I’m alive. As I rummage through the drawers of the vanity, excitement runs rampant as I find a lotion to match the scent of the shampoo. I quickly pull it out and lather my face and hands.

  Unable to help myself, like a child in a store, I go through the other drawers. When I come across makeup, I think no, as my hands pull it out and start putting it on. I haven’t worn makeup since Abe’s death. It’s weird to see color on my face. Weird and beautiful.

  Does that make me beautifully weird? Or maybe weirdly beautiful? I wish someone still thought I was beautiful. I miss Abe.

  Caught up in the euphoria of seeing a woman I had long forgotten, I grab the blow-dryer and a brush and begin drying my dark hair. Within minutes, long waves hang over my shoulders. My hair is shiny, and my green eyes are bright. I don’t recognize the women reflecting back at me. I haven’t seen her for a while.

  A tear falls, and I swipe it away, not wanting my makeup to run. I don’t know when I’ll have the courage to do it again. I give myself a smile and walk out of the bathroom.

  I’m about to leave the bedroom, but I stop. There’s one thing in the closet I didn’t look in. A floor-to-chest jewelry stand. It seemed too personal, so I ignored it, but I spent all this time getting ready. I should complete my look, right?

  Necklaces, earrings, and bracelets of all styles await me. I don’t know what to look at first. It’s all stunning. What stands out most is a simple teardrop necklace that has matching earrings. They’re perfect. I slip them on and take a final glance at myself in the full-length mirror.

  I don’t think Brecken can say I’m not presentable.

  Butterflies swirl in my stomach as I descend the stairs. I want Brecken to notice me, but more than that, I want him to see my compromise. I’m trying to do what he asked, so maybe he can do what I asked.

  The smell of coffee hits my nose, and I sigh. I can really use the pick-me-up. Brecken sits at the dining room table with a newspaper in front of him. He puts it down as I enter, and his deep blue eyes go wide when he sees me. A smile starts slowly and spreads wide on his face. He’s rather handsome and not as intimidating when he smiles.

  “Good morning,” I say, hoping to start the day off better than our night ended.

  Good morning,” he replies. “Did you sleep well?”

  “I did, thank you.”

  “What would you like for breakfast?” I hadn’t realized he was waiting on me for it to be cooked. I wouldn’t have taken so much time. “It’s okay, Willow. Anything you like, it will be made.”

  “Oh,” I say, stupidly. Then I chuckle. “Chocolate chip pancakes.”

  I figure he’ll say there’s not a chance in hell, but he says, “As you wish. Jamal, would you make us chocolate chip pancakes, please?”

  “Yes, sir,” comes from the other room.

  I sit as I ask, “You’ll eat that?”

  “It’s one of my and Jamal’s favorites, actually. I’m sure you just made his morning.”

  Hmm. Not at all the response I expected. Brecken Wade does not strike me as the chocolate-chip-pancake type. But while he’s being so forthcoming, maybe…

  “How old is Jamal?”

  “Nineteen or so.”

  Brecken folds his arms and places them on the table, the full weight of his gaze focused on me. Just like that, he’s intimidating again. Breathe, Willow. He’s just a man.

  “How did you meet him?”

  His eyes go to the table, and his shoulders slump. He blinks a few times quickly, and it looks like he’s breathing faster. I’m not sure why what I’ve asked is upsetting, but he is clearly not happy. As if Jamal can sense Brecken’s mood, he walks in with a rolling tray with mugs and a pot.

  “Would you like coffee, Miss?”

  “Willow,” I remind him, and he nods with a smile.

  “Coffee?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Jamal goes to work making my coffee just as I like it. I want to ask him how he knows, but Brecken still appears in distress over my previous question, so I remain quiet, allowing Jamal to finish the task before him.

  “Thank you, Jamal.”

  He smiles and walks back to what I assume is the kitchen. Not having toured the house, I have no idea where anything is. Maybe I can get one of them to take me around today.

  The silence between Brecken and me is suffocating. I don’t know if I should say something else. Maybe tell him to forget the question I asked. Tell him something about myself. But what would I say?

  “Yo—”

  “It was the night my wife died.”

  His words are so quiet, I want to say I heard him wrong, but I know I didn’t. I read all the articles. I was obsessed with them, actually. I wanted to write a book based on his story, but his story didn’t turn out the way it was reported. He’s alive.

  I have so many questions about why he never told the authorities he’s alive. Is he the one who killed her? He didn’t need the money, so I can’t see that being a reason. Maybe she was unfaithful. Maybe he was. So many possibilities filter through my mind, but they all fizzle out at the grief in his eyes.

  This man lives the same hell I do.

  “I’m sorry about your wife.”

  Brecken raises his eyes and just stares at me, almost as if he can’t believe I gave him my condolences. Has no one else? Does no one besides Jamal and me know he’s alive? The thought sends a chill down my spine.

  Why is he hiding?

  9

  Admitting the Truth

  Brecken

  One question is all it takes to send me spiraling into the past. Willow simply asking how Jamal and I met has me feeling the pain of the knife wounds, the heat from the fire, and the water filling my lungs. I struggle to breath as the memories take hold.

  The salt water burns my open wounds, and I worry about all the blood seeping out of me. This water is riddled with sharks. If I don’t get to shore and hide from Sebastian’s men quickly, I’ll be food for the wildlife.

  I try to swim, but my clothing is so heavy, and my body doesn’t want to move. I just want to close my eyes and go to sleep. Sleep sounds wonderful. My head dips under the water, and I sputter as I take in a mouthful.

  Voices sound close by as I struggle to stay afloat, but I can’t see who was speaking in the darkness of the night. Muffled words reach me, but I can’t hear what is actually being said over the waves.

  It pisses me off.

  I’m not that far out from shore, but far enough I can’t get information that might help me find out their plans. And I need to know more about these bastards, so I can take them down. Each and every one of them.

  So focused on the voices, I don’t pay attention to my waning energy. The time I’ve spent treading water and not trying to get to shore has cost me. Air is harder to suck in, and my arms no longer help
to pull me along. It’s only a matter of time before my legs give out too.

  No, I think to myself. I can’t die. I have to avenge Emery. Anger fills me up, and I begin to push forward, but I quickly run out of steam. My body fights against me instead of working with me. A light shines across the water, and it’s the last thing I see before I sink into the darkness.

  “It was the night my wife died,” I answer, my words coming out so low, I’m uncertain if she can hear me but too emotional to speak them again.

  I don’t want to rehash the details of her torture--of her death—with Willow. I don’t want to tell her how I was so weak I would have drowned if not for Jamal’s father pulling me from the water.

  Kazeem drags me into the woods where Jamal is lying, beaten and bloody. His face is cut, open to the bone from one of Sebastian’s men. They beat him, horribly disfigured him, and then left him there believing he would die. They didn’t think a teenage boy had enough spirit to pull through.

  He might not have if his father hadn’t found him. I know I would have died had Kazeem not found me. He stitches Jamal and me up with fishing line because it’s all he has at his disposal and washes our wounds with rum and salt water.

  After getting our wounds closed and making sure we are in a safe location, he goes in search of food. I’m not sure how long the two of us lay there, not moving... not talking, just praying for the pain to subside.

  Eventually, Kazeem comes back, dragging a cooler of food. He tells us the bad men have left the island, but not before killing everyone who lives here, making my guilt skyrocket for renting the entire island for my honeymoon, and my need for redemption greater.

  I’m not going to kill Sebastian just for what he did to Emery. I’m going to kill him because he chose to burn people in their homes, simply so they couldn’t speak of what he’d done.

  Kazeem starts a fire and creates a broth, which he forces us both to drink. He takes care of us until we fall asleep. We wake early the next morning to Kazeem dead next to us from a stab wound neither of us were aware he had.