Ravished (The Teplo Trilogy #1)

by Ayden K. Morgen

  "You look like hell," Marita said instead of answering his question.

  "And you're as lovely as ever." Tristan shot her a half-hearted smirk, though the statement was true enough. The good doctor was gorgeous with those bright green eyes and stunning smile. In her mid-forties, she looked closer to thirty.

  Marita laughed and turned back to the computer. "Still as charming as ever. Jason requested that you call your cousin when you're finished here."

  Yeah, that wasn't going to happen. He'd made a point to avoid his cousin when he retrieved his car this morning, simply because he didn't want Zoë meddling because she was bored or whatever reason she'd have, and she would have a reason. She always did.

  "Glower at someone else, love." Marita's fingers raced over the keyboard. "I'm just the messenger."

  "You also wield the bone saw." His retort lacked heat. "What do you have?"

  The doctor glanced up from the computer screen, her eyes narrowing on him. And then she sighed and pointed to a manila folder. "Elizabeth James, age eighteen. We've notified the family, and they've already come by to identify the body, said she had no significant medical history, which autopsy confirmed. I've sent tissues and blood samples for toxicology, but…." Marita slipped an evidence baggie off the desk to hold it up. Inside were two pressed pills and an empty, used syringe.

  "Dammit," Tristan swore. The hospital had said they sent the drugs with her body, but fucking hell, it pissed him off to see them. If the girl had been popping pills and shooting up too, they'd never be able to prove her death wasn't a straightforward overdose.

  "As near as I can guess, time of death was somewhere around midnight. Why they transported her to the hospital instead of calling the coroner on the spot, I don't know. It was obvious she was beyond help."

  Tristan felt sick to his stomach at the realization that the girl had died while he'd been with Lillian. Fury rolled through him faster than before as images of the lovely brunette spread out for him threatened to intrude. He pushed them away, slapping up walls to keep them back so he could focus on more important things. He could beat himself to death with those damning images later.

  "I figured your guys would want to test these." Marita dropped the bag on the desk and tapped a finger against it. "I can send them through the crime lab if y'all don't have time to run them in your lab, but I'm going to guess whatever these are will match toxicology."

  Tristan knew it would, just like every other time.

  "She scratched her arms up pretty good," Marita said, giving him the rundown. "We found tissue and blood under the nails of both hands. The polish chips in the scratches appear to match what she had on her nails. I've sent samples to get a definitive match, but I'm willing to go out on a limb now and say it'll all come back as hers."

  Yeah, he would too. The fourth victim had done a similar job on herself when the candy-trip headed south. God only knew what they were trying to get off. Spiders, monkeys, fire-ants, bats, carnivorous pink elephants? It all amounted to the same thing: shit there only in their drug-induced delusions.

  "How are you listing it?" he demanded, lifting his eyes from the baggie to Marita.

  "Pending toxicology," she said carefully. "Once we get the results back, we'll go from there." She couldn't keep the case pending forever. Once toxicology results came in, she'd have to classify it as an accidental O.D. since there was no evidence of homicide.

  The rules Medical Examiners were forced to play by were just as stringent as those governing Tristan's own actions. Just because Marita thought it was homicide didn't mean she could rule it as such. As with everything else, she had to have proof to list it as a homicide, and proof was lacking all around.

  Thanks to Lillian Maddox, that might never change.

  Tristan closed his eyes and raked a hand through his hair, fighting for calm.

  "Talk to me, Tristan," Marita said. "What's going on in that pretty little head of yours?"

  For a minute, he considered telling her just how badly he'd fucked up the case. Considered looking into her eyes and telling her the eight people she'd taken apart in the last few weeks would be forever classified as accidents because he'd taken to thinking with his dick. He even opened his mouth to say it, but the words stuck in his throat.

  Marita had been up for who knew how long, working this case as a priority because she liked him enough to start it as soon as the body came in when anyone else would have waited. No need to tell her that he'd wasted her time and blown the case until he had to.

  "Nothing," he lied instead and popped his eyes open wide. "I want to see her."

  Marita shook her head, a frown forming. "You've got to stop doing this to yourself. It doesn't help anything."

  He shrugged a shoulder, knowing damn well what she was talking about, and knowing damn well he wouldn't listen. Especially not when Elizabeth James, age eighteen, sat in a mortuary freezer because of him. If he couldn't deliver justice for her, the very least he could do was open that freezer and let hers join the parade of chalky, gray faces running through his mind. He owed her that much.

  The doctor stared across the desk at him for a long time before shaking her head. "She's in freezer three." She tossed him the little evidence baggie, which he put in his pocket, and slid across an evidence slip, waiting until he signed it. "I'll call Jason when we get the results back. Don't take this the wrong way, but I hope I don't see you in here again anytime soon."

  "Yeah, I hope I'm not back in here anytime soon, either."

  "Tristan?"

  "Yeah?"

  "If you ever want to talk about what happened to your parents-"

  "I don't," he said, shutting her down before she could go any further. The last thing he wanted to talk about was his parents' murder. Wouldn't bring them back or change anything. No need to rehash that shit now.

  Marita sighed, but didn't push.

  Tristan retraced his path back into the autopsy suite. He ignored the table and cabinets filled with a whole host of equipment used to take apart the dead, slipped on a pair of gloves, and walked right up to the freezers. He didn't even bother preparing himself mentally. It wouldn't make a difference anyway.

  He was right about that.

  As soon as he unzipped the body bag and flipped back the sheet to reveal the girl's face, the truth hit him hard. They were the cause of this. Anton, Paulo… Lillian.

  This little brown-haired girl, fresh out of high school, had overdosed and died on a sidewalk alone while he had his head buried between Lillian's legs, lapping up her juices as if his life depended on it. He'd gotten his rocks off with a murderer. A manipulative, cold-hearted bitch.

  Rage and defeat boiled like lava through his veins as he stared down at the dead girl, memorizing every line of her face, and making promises he'd find a way to keep. "I'm sorry," he whispered before covering her up and returning her to the freezer.

  When he was done, he walked out, one thought running through his mind.

  Lillian.

  She would pay for him and dreams as much as for the little dead girl in the freezer.

  Chapter Six

  "Forget it," Lillian muttered to herself, pacing in awkward circles around her living room. "Forget about him. You're not going this time." Her gaze darted to the window and the neon sign flashing like a homing beacon across the street.

  Familiar, trance-like beats echoed from the converted building, daring her to slip into her shoes and walk across the street. As soon as the music had started up an hour earlier, her resolve to stay away had crumbled like a paper house in a windstorm. Her mind shouted that she couldn't do something so reckless again, but her body wasn't on the same page.

  It remembered grinding against the bulge in Tristan's jeans while he whispered naughty things in her ear, commanding and challenging her to respond. Already, heat built between her legs, begging her to embrace irresponsibility just once more.

  And why shouldn't she?

  She was twenty-two years old, and had traveled t
he world, dancing for thousands. She'd had a grand total of two sexual partners in her life, three if she counted Tristan. She'd dedicated her childhood to learning ballet, and her teen years to perfecting it. At seventeen, she'd put the rest of her life on hold to dance with the Pacific Northwest Ballet Company. She'd been a soloist at eighteen and a principal less than a year later. At twenty-one, she'd lost it all… her hopes and dreams, and her independence.

  Now, she had nothing to show for a lifetime of sacrifices except the money she'd tucked away over the years, and the restitution forced on her by the courts. But money didn't keep her warm at night. It didn't help her drag herself from bed every morning either. Truth was… she hung on by a thread quickly fraying beneath her fingers. Everything she'd ever wanted was gone, ripped away without her consent.

  So why shouldn't she walk across that street and meet Tristan?

  She had no answer, and perhaps that was answer enough.

  Before she could talk herself out of going, she brushed out her hair, slipped her ballet flats on, and followed the sound of music across the street. A frustrated groan tumbled from her lips when she spotted the line awaiting entrance. It was longer than when she'd stepped inside the previous two nights. The stench of marijuana floated in the air, a big cloud of it rolling from the group in front of her. Panic began whispering at her, but she forced it away, refusing to run and hide.

  "Breathe," she reminded herself, falling into line behind the crowd.

  Within moments, Tristan stalked toward her from somewhere near her house. Just like the previous two nights, he wore jeans and a dark blue button-down. His hair was an even bigger mess than usual, his jaw somehow sharper and more defined despite the stubble growing there.

  Her breath caught in her throat as he moved in her direction. The people stumbling toward the end of the line stepped out of his way. Heat seemed to crackle from him as she watched him striding in her direction, so confident and sure of himself, he never broke stride or looked anywhere but at her.

  Her stomach flipped. She shivered as he drew close, her eyes falling partially closed in relief, in appreciation, and in anticipation. She had no idea how the night would unfold, but she really hoped it ended a lot later than the last two had.

  Tension radiated from his body and sparks flew through his blue eyes when he stopped in front of her, so close they almost touched. Familiar energy whipped around them, bringing to life the same reckless desire that had flared when he'd touched her the first night.

  "Hi," she whispered.

  "Lillian." His velvet voice washed over her as he reached out and latched a hand onto her wrist.

  Before she could respond or even fully appreciate the electric hum of his fingers on her skin, he pulled her away from the crowd. His expression was hard, and his grip on her wrist harder as he led her across the street, toward her home.

  "Tristan, what are you-" she tried to ask, caught off guard by the murderous look on his face as much as by the rough, almost careless way he handled her. He didn't hurt her, but his hand was like iron around her wrist, unyielding.

  "Don't talk," he snarled at her.

  Anticipation turned to concern and then into the first inklings of fear as his tone registered. He wasn't happy. In fact, he sounded downright furious.

  Her confidence began to wane.

  "Tristan, what-"

  "Don't. Talk," he snapped.

  "Then let me go before you hurt me," she said, stumbling to keep up with his long-legged pace.

  Tristan immediately let go of her wrist, almost as if she'd burned him with her words. He lashed an arm around her waist, lifting her from the ground. Without so much as a word of apology, he hauled her the last few feet across the cracked blacktop of the street.

  "Open the door," he demanded, lifting her up the steps to her front door before setting her back on her feet.

  Lillian stared up at him, confused. For the first time, she began to comprehend just how little she knew about him. He could be a serial killer, a rapist, or any number of things. The anger flashing in his eyes drove that point home quite well.

  Fear crept back into her heart.

  "Lillian, open the damn door."

  Her mind screamed warnings at her.

  If he got her inside the house, he could do whatever he wanted to her. Five minutes before, she might have welcomed that thought with arms wide open, but not any longer. She glanced around, weighing her options.

  He'd outrun her in a minute, but maybe if she screamed loud enough….

  Her gaze darted toward the crowd milling across the street.

  "Don't bother," he said, his voice soft and lethal as he guessed her plan. "Even if they hear you, they won't give a damn, just like they didn't give a damn about what I did to you last night or the night before."

  She knew he was right before he finished speaking. Even if she did manage to put enough volume into her scream to be heard over the music, there was little likelihood anyone in that line cared enough to intervene, including the bouncer who'd let her in the last two nights. They were there for one thing and one thing only. Lillian doubted they'd risk the police descending before they got it, not for the sake of someone they didn't know and didn't care about.

  "Promise you're not going to hurt me," she demanded, far more boldly than she felt. She knew as well as Tristan did that she wouldn't be able to stop him if he really wanted to hurt her. Even so, she was proud of the fact that her voice didn't waver.

  "Open the fucking door, Lillian," he said again, dark amusement in his tone. The way his upper lip twitched did nothing to calm the angry storm clouds raging in his eyes though.

  "No." She shook her head, praying he didn't lash out at her for refusing. But there was no way she was opening the door for him without a fight, not with that thunderous look on his face.

  "Fine." He shrugged a shoulder as if it didn't matter to him one way or another, contempt stamped across his face, and then took a step backward.

  She watched in horror as he lifted his foot from the ground and took aim.

  The old door didn't stand a chance when his booted heel connected with the wood beside the doorknob. A sharp crack sounded, the dark wood splintering. The locked door caved beneath the force of his powerful, well-aimed kick.

  He forced it open before she processed what he'd just done, let alone gathered voice to scream and hope someone in that line gave a damn after all. He plucked her up and carried her inside before setting her on her feet and kicking the door as close to closed as he could. And then he spun on her, rage in his blue eyes.

  She cowered against the wall between the living room and front door, away from his livid expression. Her leg ached from the way she locked it in place. Intense shards of pain radiated up and down her thigh and into her hip and calf as if to remind her how helpless she truly was.

  "How much do they pay you, Lillian?" he asked, flicking his gaze up and down her body. The contemptuous look in his eye made her blood run cold.

  "W-what?" She swallowed, trying not to enrage him any further as she held onto the wall to keep herself upright.

  "The club. How much do they pay you?"

  He thought she worked for a club? Teplo?

  "I'm not a stripper!" she huffed. She hadn't seen strippers there, but maybe she'd missed them. It's not like she'd wanted to see what went on in there once she knew what kind of place it was.

  "No?" He arched a brow, his expression cold. "You were certainly willing enough to let me help you play one last night, weren't you? Do they pay you to fuck random men or was I special, Lillian? Was I the only one who got a keepsake?"

  She flinched as if he'd slapped her. "How dare you accuse me of being a whore when you did the same thing? You were just as responsible as I was! If I'm a whore, then so are you!"

  "You and I are nothing alike," he snarled, the angry lights in his eyes intensifying. He clenched his fists at his sides. "I don't help kill people. What did they offer you to sell your soul for them? Money
? Power?"

  She gaped at him, caught between fury and confusion. He made no sense, calling her a stripper one minute and then accusing her of killing people for money and power the next. She had plenty of money and she'd never cared about power. He was-

  She gasped and pressed herself further away from him as realization set in. "Are you high?" The question came out breathless and full of horror. She didn't want to believe it, but it was the best explanation she had for his behavior. He was high, a druggie like everyone else in Teplo. Of course he was!

  Right on the heels of that realization came another wave of panic. Memories popped up, unbidden.

  Pain.

  Fear.

  The murderous look on Marc's face when he'd thrown her to the ground.

  The way she'd screamed when her leg snapped beneath the force of his attack.

  The audience sitting in their seats, watching….

  Lillian's stomach heaved at the invasive, painful memories.

  "I'm not high," Tristan snorted. "Not all of us are desperate enough to take the shit your bosses make."

  "My bosses?"

  Now her bosses were making drugs?

  Confusion returned, intensified.

  The painful memories began to blur, blotted out by more immediate concerns.

  The vestiges of panic retreated. Her stomach began to settle.

  "What in the hell are you talking about, Tristan? What bosses? Are you insane?" she asked, suspicion rife in her tone. If he wasn't high – and who knew why, but she believed him when he said he wasn't – he had to be crazy.

  "I'm not insane." He chuckled, his eyes flashing. "I'm not drunk or otherwise mentally incapacitated either. I am curious though. Why me? Out of everyone in the club, why sink your claws into me? Did they know why I was there?"

  "What are you talking about?" She had to shout to be heard over him as he continued to spit questions at her, not even bothering to wait for her to answer between one question and the next. It wasn't like she had an answer to any of them anyway. Every question he asked was more senseless and confusing than the last.

  "The Vetrov family, Lillian," he said. "What do you do for them? Do you just fuck people for them, or do you do something else? Do you help mix that shit? Hand it out?" His jaw pulsed where he clenched it.