by Dori Lavelle
The wait brings nothing, and soon, fear thickens inside my veins once more. I’ve run out of options.
Running a thumb over the cool blade of the knife, I try to accept that I have to die. It’s just not going to be the way Damien planned it. That could be a little victory on its own. He stole my freedom, but in the end, I can snatch it back by making one last choice he can’t control. I will be the one to choose when I take my final breath.
Armed with that knowledge, I’m a little less afraid of the pain that will surely accompany what I’m about to do.
I wait a few minutes more. When all I can smell is damp earth, fabric, and wood, and all I can hear is silence and the beating of my own heart, I grit my teeth and bring the knife to my wrist.
The first cut is the hardest, the pain so severe it almost knocks me out. But I move on, slicing into my flesh over and over.
I don’t see the blood, but I feel it draining out of me—warm, thick, sticky—along with my life. In my mind’s eye, I picture it staining the fabric, which I can’t see, but imagine to be white or cream.
I scream out in agony, but I don’t stop pressing the blade into my skin. With each cut, I pray for a quick death. Finally, as my mind grows foggy, I drop the knife. Soon, the pain fades into the distance. My body lightens as life gathers me into its arms and places me into the welcoming hands of death.
Epilogue
Damien Steel curses under his breath as he downs his last glass of whiskey. In the dark room, he glares at the empty bottle on the table in front of him, the glass illuminated by the light of the four screens in front of him.
As planned, the tiny night vision cameras he’d had installed inside the coffin give him a view of Ivy from every angle. He doesn’t even need to zoom in to see the fear swimming in her eyes as they widen at the same time her mouth forms a circle. He turns the volume off so he can’t hear her screams—he doesn’t want to. But he feels them vibrating through his body, slicing at his heart, drawing blood.
It’s too late now. There’s no going back.
He runs a rough hand through his already disheveled hair and leans forward. He picks up a bottle of pills, his escape from reality. He pours a few into the palm of his hand, then picks up his whiskey glass and lifts it to his lips, only to remember it’s empty. Enraged, he hurls it against the wall behind the computers and watches the shards of glass rain to the floor of his office.
“How many more sleeping pills can you swallow? You can sleep, but you’ll always wake up to face reality.”
Damien crunches the pills with his fist. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to see this is not what you really want. I know it’s not my place, but I can no longer sit back and watch you self-destruct.”
Damien fills his lungs with stale air and releases it in a puff. “You know what, Adrian? You’re right about one thing. It isn’t your place.”
“That’s too bad.” Adrian moves further into the room and pulls out the second leather chair. His gaze is on Damien as he takes a seat. “I’ve been silent long enough. I won’t be able to forgive myself if I keep my mouth shut. I know you’re my boss, Damien, but you feel like a son to me… like family.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I want you to stop this madness. You’re out of control.” Adrian glances at one of the screens, then back to Damien. “Let the girl go before it’s too late. Let go of your anger. This act of revenge is hurting you more than you’re admitting to yourself.”
Laughter bursts from Damien’s chest and pours out. He kills it. “So you think this is simple, do you? You think I can just let her go.” Damien shakes his head. “And have her run to the cops? What do you think I am, a fool?”
“So what if she turns to the cops? With all the money you’ve got, you can disappear, start over anywhere else in the world.” Adrian places a heavy hand on Damien’s shoulder. “You have to stop this, or—”
“Or what? You’ll turn me in?” Damien narrows his eyes.
“I could never do that to you. I owe you too much. I’d be dead if it weren’t for you. What kind of employer gives his employee a liver?”
“Why do you keep bringing that up? I told you I didn’t expect anything in return.”
“Exactly. Deep down, you’re a good man. You’ve had a rotten life in many ways. Your first wife’s betrayal and death broke you. But you can let go of the anger now, the poisonous revenge, and start living again. Damien, let the girl go.”
Damien raises his feet onto the table and tilts his head to the side as he watches Ivy pull something out of her back pocket. Distracted, he looks back at Adrian. “You didn’t answer my question. What will you do if I don’t let her go?”
“I’m out. I’ll work anywhere else for you. I’m sure they could use an extra guard at Steel Enterprises. But I will no longer be able to get my hands dirty.” He sighs. “And I can’t keep lying to my wife. Hanna is starting to ask too many questions. She’s not stupid, you know. She doesn’t believe Ivy is mentally ill anymore.”
Damien grinds his teeth silently, the back of his throat throbbing with anger. “Don’t you dare say a word to her.”
“I’ll keep my mouth shut if you let Ivy go. This started out as an act of revenge, but you’ve fallen in love with her. I know it. You don’t really want to hurt her.” Adrian rises and plugs his hands into his pockets. “Don’t turn into him. You’re not a monster, Damien.”
Damien squares his shoulders and folds his arms in front of his chest. “Has it ever occurred to you that I might enjoy being a monster?”
“I find that hard to believe.” Adrian walks to the door. “I’ll be at the office if you need me. I’ll always be there for you, but as I said, I can no longer get my hands dirty.”
“That’s fine. You’re right. You’ve done enough.” Damien swivels his chair so he’s facing Adrian. “I’ll finish the job alone. It’s too late to turn back now. It’s time for her to die.”
END OF BOOK 2
Midnight Rain
Book 3
55
My arms stretch out on both sides of my body. A dull ache throbs in both my wrists. The pain is close, yet I can’t grasp it. I want to lift my wrists to see what’s wrapped around them but I’m too weak.
I breathe slowly, quietly, until I can muster up enough energy to lift my head from the pillow.
Damien is sitting in a leather armchair by the window, scribbling in a notebook.
Watching him, an intense sense of déjà vu washes over me.
My mind returns to the time I woke up inside his cabin in Alaska, after he’d kidnapped me, to find him sitting by the fireplace, gazing into the flames. His chiseled jaw is tight, but he’s still as handsome as he’d been that morning, the highlights in his dark hair brought out by the light flooding the room from the window, the sprinkling of gray at his temples glinting.
My heart sinks as my head falls back to the pillow. I’m alive. Instead of succumbing to my self-inflicted wounds inside the coffin he had buried me in, I’m right where I started—stuck inside my worst nightmare.
I lift my head again but it hurts to hold it up. I groan and sink back into the pillows. He hears me and rushes to my side, lowers himself on the bed next to me and places a hand on my forehead. I’m too tired, defeated, and in pain to move away.
“Thank God you’re okay.” There’s a gentle softness in Damien’s tone. “You scared the shit out of me.” He plants a tender kiss on my forehead, his warm lips linger for a moment on my skin. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he actually cared about my wellbeing.
I blink in slow motion as anger boils in the pit of my belly. What the hell? He must be out of his rotten mind. Why would he be worried if he was the one who buried me alive? Why did he even rescue me? Why hadn’t he let me die as he had planned?
I want to hurl all those questions at him and more. What would satisfy me most is to strike him with an object. To hit him hard over and over again o
n the head until he bleeds to death. I want him to feel the pain he has caused me. The thought of being pushed into another round of captivity—into my dark dungeon—brings the adrenaline inside my veins to boiling. If only my body would catch up. Every piece of me is sore—my head, my brain and other parts I can’t see or touch. My body still hasn’t recovered from the shock of being buried alive and coming so close to death’s door.
I don’t fight him as he lifts my upper body and puts more pillows behind my back. I don’t object when he lifts a cup of water to my lips. I don’t fight him because I can’t. I lick the cool liquid off my lips and turn my face away from him.
The glass makes a tap as he lowers it to the bedside table. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” Damien’s brows draw together. “I didn’t . . . I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.”
If he’s waiting for a reaction, he doesn’t get it. My head remains turned away from him.
He lays a hand on mine but I withdraw from his touch. “You have every right to be angry. Asking for your forgiveness will be too much. But after you recover, let’s talk, okay?”
A long pause settles between us then he clears his throat and speaks again.
“You were unconscious for a couple of hours due to blood loss. But you received a blood transfusion. The doctor said you’ll be okay.” He eyes the IV bag suspended on an elevated stand next to the bed. “I’ll make damn sure you’re well taken care of.”
Damien gets to his feet and disappears from the room. I’m surprised that he leaves the door unlocked. Maybe it’s because he knows that in my weakened state, escaping would be the last thing on my mind. Or it could be that he’s confident there’s nowhere I can run where he won’t find me. What baffles and creeps me out was the gentleness in his voice. What happened to the devil I saw on the train to Guadalajara?
He returns with his cell phone pressed to his ear, fingertips massaging his forehead, conversing with someone in Spanish. He glances at me and moves to the window, looking out. For the first time, I notice that he looks less groomed than the last time I saw him, his blue shirt as rumpled as his hair which sticks out in all directions.
He hangs up and comes to the bed, brushes flyaway hairs from my forehead and kisses my forehead again. His lips are hot against my skin. “The doctor is on his way. I thought it was best for you to recover at home, where I can care for you, not in some sterile hospital. I’m sure you agree.”
Laughter swirls inside my chest but I keep it contained. Does he think I’m stupid enough to believe he’s keeping me here out of concern for my wellbeing? I know the only reason I’m not in a hospital is so he can keep me from anyone I can confide in. The truth is, he wants to keep his dirty little secret hidden. I wonder how much he paid the doctor to keep his or her mouth shut.
The sight of him angers and disgusts me so I close my eyes to shut him out.
I hear static as he pushes a hand through his hair. “Ivy, I know you’re hurt. But I promise you that the man who did all those horrible things to you is not who I am. I’ll explain everything to you later.”
The doctor arrives half an hour after Damien called him. He finds Damien failing at getting me to drink a glass of apple juice, wiping away drops of it that spill down my chin. A few minutes ago I tried telling him to fuck off but only croaks left my mouth. I finally quit trying to talk.
The doctor is a forty-something, petite woman with raven hair pulled back so tight her long forehead looks as though it went through many rounds of Botox shots.
“Hello, Ivy. Good to see you’re awake.” Her English has no accent whatsoever. “Let’s see how you’re doing, shall we?” As she places her bag on the floor and bends over me, I catch a whiff of Chanel No 5.
I blink in response because there’s no strength in me for anything else.
Her voice is soft and gentle as she checks my heart rate, my blood pressure and everything else she deems important to determine my health. She gives me a bright smile and tells Damien something in Spanish. His shoulders sink as he sighs with what looks to be relief.
After the doctor leaves, he kneels on the floor beside the bed and takes my hand in his. “The doctor said you need a lot of rest but you should feel like your old self again in no time. Then we’ll celebrate with a little surprise.” He gets to his feet.
The last thing I want are his damn surprises. I’ve had enough of those in the last couple of weeks to last me a lifetime and beyond.
Before he leaves the room, I part my lips and try to speak again. This time I can get a single word out. “Why?” It’s a whisper but he must have heard it as he returns to the bed and gazes down at me.
“I thought killing you would be easy. I couldn’t imagine you out there, living a life without me. I couldn’t handle your rejection.” He squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Then I realized, almost too late, that the thought of you not being in this world at all is murder to my heart.” His emerald eyes cling to mine, pleading for forgiveness. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes. I know I broke you. Now I want to put you back together.”
56
A knock on the door disturbs my thoughts of fury and pain. I know it’s him but, as usual, I don’t call for him to enter. He walks in anyway, a wide grin on his face. He’s wearing navy shorts and a polo shirt that strains against his hard chest. “Morning, Rosebud.”
He gets no response from me.
I’ve spent two weeks after he rescued me from death’s grip drifting in and out of sleep. Although my wrists itch, a good sign the wounds are healing, I can’t seem to find the energy or will to live. I’m finding it hard to climb out of the deep, dark abyss of depression. I’m not even sure I want to find a way out. My body has escaped the coffin but my mind is still there, trapped six feet under, clothed in darkness.
Damien promises that once I get back on my feet everything will be great again, that we’ll have a fresh start. He swears he’ll never hurt me again, whispers those words to me at night when he holds me till I fall asleep, and repeats them first thing in the morning when I awaken. I recoil at every promise which lands on my ears. I want to believe him, but it all seems too good to be true. How can he change so drastically from monster to saint?
“Time for your bath.” He comes to stand at the side of the bed.
Despite his smile, the light in his eyes is dim, and the shadows under his eyes are darker than they were yesterday. Can it be he really does regret his actions and wants to make things right? After all, he rarely leaves my side—spending most hours of the day feeding me, reading to me, combing my hair, and even bathing me.
Four days ago, the first time he attempted to undress me in preparation for my bath, my old fighting spirit briefly flared. I put up such a fight that he quit. No anger or frustration flickered in his eyes, only sadness. He left me alone for two days before trying again. He kept trying patiently until I gave up the fight and he undressed me and gently washed my body. He never tried to have sex with me, which I had feared.
Today, like every other day I allow him to remove my clothes—a simple cream night gown and black cotton panties. But when he moves to lift me off the bed, I hold out my hands to stop him.
“I’ll do it myself.” Despite my conscious effort to harden my voice, it comes across as shaky.
I find enough strength to cover myself with a bed sheet and walk unsteadily to the bathroom. I close the glass bathroom door behind me and lean my back against it, heart thudding.
After catching my breath, I run the bath and carefully lower myself into the warm water. It’s hard to wash myself without getting the bandages on my wrists wet, but I refuse to ask for his help.
He’s watching me through the misty glass while ordering lunch from a restaurant. My stomach groans with hunger. For the first time in days I look forward to a meal.
After only fifteen minutes in the tub, I pull my dripping body out and pat myself dry. I throw on a bathrobe and exit the bathroom.
Damien perches on the edge of the bed, his c
ell phone in his hand. “You can’t imagine how happy I am to see you on your feet again. You look so much better.”
I don’t know how to answer him. I can never find the right words.
I head over to the dressing table and open the first aid kit, ready to attempt changing my own bandages.
“I wish you would talk to me.”
I find my voice then and shoot him a blazing glare. “What exactly do you want me to say? You wanted me to be your slave. I’m here. What more do you want?”
He drops his head before he looks back up. “I never wanted that . . . I wanted you to be my wife.” He stands and comes to kiss the top of my head and proceeds silently with helping me change my bandages.
When he’s done, I return to the bed to lie down. He joins me, spooning me with his body, weaving his hands through mine, his heart slamming against my back.
“I’m not a monster. You don’t have to be afraid of me ever again.” His warm breath hits the back of my neck. His touch is both comforting and revolting. “I didn’t have an easy childhood,” he continues. “I was pushed into doing things I’m not proud of.”
I’m aching to ask what sort of things but I don’t want to disturb him. He’s letting me into his complicated mind, unravelling it for me to take a peek inside, to see the damaged parts of him.
“My father—stepfather—owned chains of brothels across the globe. He introduced me to my first sexual encounter at fifteen, said it was time to turn me into a real man. Since his plans for me were to eventually join the family business, he wanted to ensure I understood every aspect of it.”
I take a quick breath, astonished by what he could be implying. “He forced you to sleep with prostitutes?”
“He made me do all kinds of things with them . . . to them. As the years passed, the sick son of a bitch forced me to see women through his eyes. As nothing more than objects. Once I slept with them, they became mine to do with as I wished. Nothing was off limits”