by T. L. Martin
Rope burns my skin as he ties my wrists behind my back, but I barely register the pain. His words are trapped in my head. I know they’re bullshit, yet my voice shakes with uncertainty. “Don’t talk about my mother. You don’t know anything about her.”
He laughs, grips my tied wrists, and yanks me to my feet. “Where do you think she went the day she left you? On holiday?”
“Shut up,” I whisper, but my knees are weak while he pushes me toward the mattress. “You’re a fucking liar.”
He shoves me onto the bed, and I wince as I twist around so I’m facing him. Ignoring the throbbing in my ribs, I use my legs to scoot up and sit with my back against the wall. Red scratches mar his cheek, and his nose is crooked. Blood spills over his lips and teeth, spatters his immaculate clown suit. I want to feel triumphant, but all I see is blood, blood, so much blood.
He disappears into the bathroom and returns with a wad of toilet paper held over his nose. “I’m many things, but a liar isn’t one of them.”
“Stay the hell away from me.”
He takes a step in my direction, and I tense. “Tell me, little girl. What kind of business do you think I run? How do you think your parents met?”
My stomach rolls, and I shake my head in denial.
“Your father bought Valentina from one of my men. When he couldn’t make good on what he owed, I came to retrieve her only to discover he’d knocked her up. Valentina wouldn’t abort, which left them with two choices: pay the fucking debt, or give me a replacement. Your father privately chose to replace her with you, once you became old enough to groom. Children are risky—the law is relentless with them, and you never know how they’ll turn out. But they often sell for more, and since your own parents would be part of the transaction, no one would search for you. So I accepted. I returned six and a half years later to collect you.”
Six and a half years . . .
“Why can’t I come, mommy? I want to come.”
I can’t breathe.
“Come to find out Valentina hadn’t known about the revised arrangement. She offered herself in your place.”
“I know you do, sweetie. But where I’m going isn’t safe for a child.”
Her hands shake as she throws another shirt inside. She won’t look at me. Why won’t she look at me?
I swallow, but the painful burn in my throat only grows. My voice is hardly a whisper when I beg, “St-stop. Please, stop talking.”
“She promised to be good, and if she hadn’t already proven her obedience in the past, I wouldn’t have agreed. As it was, she was beautiful, docile, and I knew my men would want her back. She was a solid bid. So I sold her, and for a while, she held fast to her word.”
Tears threaten to spill, and I shake my head harder.
Stop. I don’t want to know.
“See, I think of myself as a fair businessman in terms of finding creative solutions when a problem arises. There was history between the three of us, trust, and too many amended deals, so when Valentina fucking hung herself, it pissed me off.”
No.
My weight sinks against the wall, and I look away. My lips tremble, but I force the tears to stay at bay. I can’t let this monster see how much he’s hurting me.
“Your father was back in debt. When I came for him, I saw you, sound asleep on your mattress by the couch. Of course, he offered you as a replacement, but no. For all of the damage he had generated, I decided he would give me everything he owned, and I’d keep you for myself. You, presumably obedient and docile like your mother, were to be my gift for the trouble your parents had caused me.”
His gaze crawls over the side of my face, but I stare sightlessly ahead.
“You were supposed to be a good little girl.” His voice turns colder than ice. From the corner of my eye, I see him slowly unwrap the scarf from his neck. “Instead, you were a fucking cunt. I gave your father a whole year to find you, and when he failed at even that, I had him hung. It only made sense to bestow on him the same punishment he gave me in lieu of your mother.”
Faux Italian loafers pad across the carpet, then he’s in my line of sight. I stare through him.
“Congratulations,” I say tonelessly. “You drove a grown woman to suicide, you’re a businessman who can’t collect payments, and you’re so desperate to get laid you need to tie up underage girls. You must have the world’s tiniest balls.”
A slap whips my head sideways, and I shut my eyes at the sting.
“You think you’re here because I need to get laid?” he seethes. He grips my hair and slams the side of my face into the wall. Pain cuts through my cheek, my jaw, ricocheting in my ears, but I don’t make a sound. His lips touch my forehead, and something cruel shakes his words. “You’re here because you hurt me. And now, I’m going to hurt you.”
Easton
“Five minutes,” I tell Alejandro over the phone and exit the freeway. “You there?”
My palms are raw from clenching the steering wheel so tightly. The first hour on the road, impatience shook my grip. By the second hour, my vision turned red. Now, three and a half hours in, the only thing keeping me sane enough to see the road is knowing the fucker had to drive the same distance to get Eva this far. He couldn’t have arrived much earlier than I will.
“I was in California when you called. It’s not easy to arrange air transportation at the drop of a hat,” Alejandro says. “You’ll get there a little ahead of me.”
“Where exactly is there?” When he texted me directions, I didn’t ask questions. I just drove.
“The apartment Eva grew up in. Paul owns thirty-two complexes, and as of three years ago when Eva’s dad died, that includes this one.”
My jaw clenches, and I slow as I near the address. 4615 Bunker Road. “You’re sure she’s here?”
“I don’t make mistakes.”
Before today, I knew Eva had been dealt some shit hands, but I had no idea just how shitty or how many. When we first spoke, Alejandro filled me in on who Paul is. The sick fuck has another thing coming if he thinks he’s getting out of here a free man. I turn onto Bunker Road, where a wall of apartments blocks the rest of Detroit. My shoulders tighten as I take in the graffitied doors and rotting stucco.
“Wait for me when you get there,” Alejandro says. “We’ll go in together.”
I roll past a few tweens smoking joints, approach a faded blue building, and pull over across the street. My eyes narrow on the barred windows, then slide three stories up. Apartment 312.
“Easton. Did you hear me?”
My pulse ticks, my breathing heavy. She’s in there. Alone, with him.
Initially, when I told Alejandro I planned on calling the cops the second he texted me the address, the asshole decided to send me step-by-step instructions instead. He didn’t send me the actual address until five minutes before I called to check his status. I contacted the cops first, then him, but they’re not here yet. I am. Tension ripples down my back, and I pull the keys from the ignition and unbuckle my seat belt.
“I heard you.”
There’s a pause. Then a sigh. “Why do I get the feeling you’re doing the opposite of what I asked?”
I lock the car behind me, gaze set on the third story as I cross the street. “I appreciate your help getting me this far, but there’s no way I’m gonna just sit in my car while she’s across the fucking street.”
A frustrated breath seeps through the line. “Just try not to get yourself killed before I get there, yeah? Eva can’t afford to lose anyone else.”
My chest tightens as I step onto the sidewalk and head up the cracked concrete stairs on the side of the complex. A yelling match vibrates behind one of the barred windows, a dog barks behind another. My pulse rate picks up, and I climb past the second story. I’ve felt adrenaline before. I’ve felt rage. But nothing compares to the violent frenzy pulsing beneath my skin right now.
“I gotta go.”
“Right behind you.”
Reaching the third f
loor, I hang up, slip my phone into my pocket, and scan the doors. 306, 308, 310 . . . Red spots cloud my vision when 312 appears in front of me. I check the knob. It doesn’t budge. It’s going to take a lot more than a locked door to keep me from Eva.
I back up a few steps.
Adrenaline rushes through my veins, buzzes in my head. I lunge forward, and the side of my body collides with the door, forcing it open. Breathing heavily, I stand in the doorway.
The apartment is quiet—too quiet.
The empty living room before me is a run-down blur, my gaze locked on the open door just beyond it. Bracing myself for any scenario, I cross the living room. The edge of a mattress comes into view as I step inside the bedroom, and blood rushes to my ears.
Eva.
She lies limply on the mattress. Shirt ripped, curls matted with sweat and tangled around her arms. The only obvious sign of life is the faint rise and fall of her chest. A burning sensation grips me, closes my lungs, and I carefully move closer.
“Eva.” Her name scalds my throat because she doesn’t look like Eva. Cheek resting on the mattress, gaze sightlessly locked on the wall opposite her. Standing in front of her, I kneel so we’re eye level.
She doesn’t blink.
“Eva . . .” I reach up, stroke her hair. My hands shake with rage, torment, and I try to steady them for her sake.
Her slow blink crushes my chest. Finally, she drags her gaze to mine. “You’re here.” Her voice is as hollow as her eyes.
My fingers trail her pale cheek. “I’m here,” I say coarsely. “I’m always going to be here.”
She stares at me, and I check over my shoulder to make sure we’re still alone before scanning her body in search of injuries. My jaw tightens hard enough to snap teeth when I notice her hands tied behind her back. Forcing my movements to appear calm, I gently work the rope until her arms fall free.
Her gaze, blank and lost, never leaves mine.
My thoughts darken, conjuring images of what that piece of shit could have done to steal her light so quickly. I’ve never known what it feels like to want to kill someone, but right now, the urge sweeps through me so violently black spots appear in front of me.
My words feel like sandpaper against my throat. “Are you hurt?”
She blinks, slowly shakes her head.
“I’m going to pick you up now, all right?”
“He’ll be back.” Her ghostlike voice sends a shiver up my spine. “He always comes back.”
Venom eats at my chest, and I carefully tuck my arms beneath her, cradle her body toward me. “Yeah, well. So do I.” She leans into me, her head rests against my chest, and her eyes fall shut. “And so do you,” I whisper against her hair.
I clutch her tightly as I stand. It’s not until I’m upright that I feel it—sticky, wet, beneath my fingers. Turning her slightly, I lift my hand to reveal the back of her upper arm, where her shirt is torn. Blood is smeared across her skin, almost concealing the jagged cuts beneath. My veins boil, breaths uneven, as serrated letters take shape.
S-O-L-D.
The floor creaks, a shadow stretches across the carpet. Something violent thunders within me, and I slowly look up. Paul stands in the doorway. Behind him, the apartment door across the living room idles open. Gone is the forced smile he wore at the anniversary party. He stares at Eva, his face flushed with displeasure, cheap button-up stuck to his skin with sweat. He’s average-sized but soft, and a lot smaller than me. My gaze lingers on the gruesome scar knotted on the side of his neck, angry white lines sewn into patches of red skin. A silver glint pulls my attention down to his hand.
His knuckles whiten around a kitchen knife already marked with red, and my grip fastens around Eva—her eyes still closed, breath slow and calm, the opposite of mine.
Tension locks my muscles tight. “I’d think twice before coming any closer,” I warn quietly.
Lips curl with disdain as he examines the way I’m holding her. “You’re really living up to the protective big brother role, aren’t you?” Sarcasm drips from the words.
His eyes, fixed on Eva, are deadly. He doesn’t want to scare her. He wants to kill her.
I take a steady step back, hoping to set her safely on the bed to free my arms, but there’s no time. Paul charges toward us—toward Eva. My pulse roars in my ears. He pulls his arm back, bracing the knife. I swing around half a second before the blade pierces my back. My ears ring, a wave of dizziness rushes through me. My jaw clamps shut as a burst of adrenaline mixes with pain, and I throw my elbow backward.
I hear a crunch, a curse.
Eva’s eyes flutter open, her breath quickens.
I turn around and kick the fallen weapon out of reach. He’s adjusting his nose when I slam my head into his. My vision temporarily clouds, but I’m far larger than he is. He stumbles backward, falls to his knees.
Eva watches him, swallows, and clutches my shirt. “He’s—he’s here—”
Wincing, I set her carefully on the mattress. “Eva,” I pant. “Look at me.”
She does.
“No matter what happens, I need you to stay right here.” Desperation strains my voice, willing her to listen. To be selfish, to not worry about anything but her own safety. But she doesn’t respond, and I don’t have time to wait for her confirmation.
I turn around just as Paul lands a punch in my gut.
Eva
Whore.
Cunt.
I stare at the scene unfolding before me, but it looks strange. So far away. Like a thick sheet of glass separates me from Easton and the monster. Easton’s fist pummels into the monster’s already bloody face, knocking him against the wall. The movement is trapped underwater, a blur in slow motion.
You deserve to rot, rot, rot, just like your mother.
The weight of his hand, cold and rough, still lingers on my cheek, presses my nose to the mattress. The feel of his legs locked around my back, keeping me on my stomach, as he cuts, carves, terrorizes. His words won’t quiet; they drill into my ears, scratch my soul raw, and I wish I was underwater with them so it would stop.
Daughter of a whore.
I own you. Remember?
My chest hurts. I wish I could drown in numbness. I want to disappear.
You were sold, cunt.
You’re mine, mine, mine—
At the word, another voice stirs my consciousness. It’s low, gentle, a soothing caress around my heart. “If you’re mine . . . that means I’m yours too.”
I inhale . . . exhale.
Red blurs into view, and a cloud of confusion floods me. I tilt my head, trying to make sense of the chaotic picture. I know blood is on his face, but it’s Easton’s back in front of me. I shouldn’t see red on Easton’s back. Except I do. So much red . . . seeping through his shirt.
You’re damaged goods, little girl, tries to pull me back into the nightmare.
Defective, defective, defective—
Why is Easton bleeding?
“I remember the first night I saw you. You were unbreakable.”
My lungs constrict.
Unbreakable.
Unbreakable.
Unbreakable.
A hairy-knuckled fist collides with red, so much red, and Easton doubles over. He stumbles backward, bumping into the mattress before he slowly rights himself. The monster closes in on him, and I see Easton waver. His stance is unsteady, a wobble in his step.
You’re nothing, nothing, nothing—
“You’re the most stunning thing I’ve ever seen.”
My heart thumps in my ears. My eyes sting with sadness and confusion.
Easton . . .
My gaze slides to the carpet, where rays of sun highlight the fallen knife just right. It glints silver beneath the red, so much red. I reach up to touch the jagged edges carved into my skin.
S-O-L-D.
Over and over, he repeated the word as he carved it. The sting from the wound is nothing compared to the eternal loop of his voice burning into my
brain, and I wonder which will be more permanent.
“All this for her?” He spits, snapping my gaze back to them. “Believe me, she’s not fucking worth it.”
Easton’s eyes are so dark, so lethal, I hardly recognize him. He kicks the monster’s legs out from beneath him and grips him by the hair until he’s forced to meet Easton’s gaze.
When Easton speaks, his words are quiet but rough, and they ring of conviction. “She’s worth everything you’re not. You’re just a piece of shit too weak to recognize it.” Easton knees the monster’s already broken nose, and Paul coughs up blood.
I can’t stop staring at him. Not the monster—Easton. He stands tall, towering over the monster, but his skin is too pale. Breathing too fast, too hard, he stumbles against the wall, using it for support. Easton . . . strong, selfless, resilient. But he’s only human. A crack creeps up the glass that divides us.
I look at the knife, then at the monster.
Knees on the floor, he’s panting harder than Easton. Red covers his face, sweat and blood soak his shirt. I search and search, but there are still no claws, fangs, or horns. Because maybe monsters are only human too.
The glass cracks, a spider web of fissures, then it shatters.
Paul lunges toward Easton, and my heart stops. I’ve never seen anyone so white. Easton blinks slowly, one palm on the wall to keep himself upright, and it’s too easy for Paul to lock his arms around Easton’s neck like a snake. Adrenaline surges through me, and I will my body to move. I slip off the mattress, crawl on my hands and knees to the knife. Shaking fingers curl around it. It feels foreign, too heavy in my hand. A form at the doorway flickers into my line of sight, but I don’t pause. I don’t think. I lunge.
I shove the knife deep into Paul’s side.
He hisses, falters, and his arms drop. But I don’t let go. I shove the blade deeper, deeper. I hear a scream, raw and broken, but I don’t register it’s mine until hot tears burn my cheeks—I twist the knife until his legs give out. We go down together, the monster and I, but still, I don’t let go.