I want to bite off the scab and catch the fresh blood on my tongue before it spills down her chin.
“I might as well die when and how I say so. There’s no other way out as I see it. If there was I’d take it. But at least this will be my choice. Not yours! Not my father’s. Not his!” Her eyes dart to the corpse on the floor. She lowers her voice and straightens her shoulders. There’s a determination in her words that makes me think I’m losing this battle.
And I don’t lose.
“That’s where you’re mistaken. Is this how you want to go? Is this WHEN you want to go? Pulling that trigger is going to make you meet the dirt, that’s for sure, but you’re lying to yourself if you think doing it this way is dying on your own terms. It’s a coward’s way out,” I remind her.
“Then I’m a coward,” she says, closing her eyes again and taking a deep breath.
Shit.
Something inside me clicks. I don’t want to see this girl blow her fucking head off. I don’t want to see the fire in her eyes die.
What a fucking waste. I think to myself.
I can’t take any joy in getting my revenge on Frank if his daughter is the one who pulls the trigger.
Frankie’s lips are moving silently. She’s counting to herself.
Fuck.
One.
Two.
I’m on her just as she squeezes the trigger. The gun goes off, the bullet missing her and grazing my shoulder. I’ve got the gun, and I’ve got her back to the floor, her wrists pinned above her head.
Her gaze is its own kind of bullet, shooting hatred straight through me.
“Face your fucking end like a man,” I say, tearing the gun from her hands and tucking it in the waistband of my jeans. I’m fucking fuming because some chick I don’t know and should want dead wanted to kill herself. My confusion is just as fucking infuriating as the girl fighting against me.
“I should have just killed you!” she grinds out, trying to free her hands from my grip.
In a really fucked up way I’m beginning to admire this girl. She’s got balls bigger than a lot of men I’ve dealt with in this business. Her unwavering rebellion stirs something deep inside of me. Something unfamiliar. I write it off as irritation because god-fucking-damn-it does she irritate me.
She’s kicking and punching.
I hold her still. I lean down close. “Yeah you should have killed me, hellion. It would have been the smart thing to do. But I’ll admit, it’s kind of fucking cute how you think you can take me out that easily. Try something like this again, and I’ll make you wish that bullet would’ve hit the fucking mark.” I produce my blade and run the sharp tip across her collarbone, slicing into the first few layers of skin to show her how serious I am.
She winces but then corrects herself and stares up at me unflinchingly as if she can’t feel the pinch of pain or the scratching of the blade followed by the droplets of blood running down her chest, staining her bra.
“There she is,” I say.
My cock twitches.
I lift the blade and hold it down between her legs, pressing the flat side up against her pussy through her panties. “I’ll cut you up from the inside out. Your death won’t be a pretty one. I hold the control here. Not you. You’d be wise not to fucking test me.”
Her eyes widen, her breaths are short, quick.
“Why?” she asks, her eyes wide and determined. “Why are you doing this? Any of this?”
I chuckle because I can’t help myself. She’s trying my patience and testing my restraint. “Because I took you, hellion. You’re all mine. Only I get to say whether you live or die.”
“You’re a monster.” she whispers on a shaky exhale.
You have no fucking idea.
I withdraw the blade and tuck it away. I brush a lock of dark hair from her eyes, tucking it behind her ear, my fingers lingering on the delicate curve of her bruised and sliced neck.
“You’re right,” I whisper. “I am a monster.” Roughly, I grab her chin, forcing her to look me in the eye.
“I’m your monster.”
Chapter Sixteen
I wake up from a dreamless sleep and even though I hurt all over I’m grateful to be alive.
I don’t know what I was thinking by trying to kill myself. Actually, I do know. I felt scared and desperate and backed into a corner. That’s not who I am. I won’t make the mistake again. I’m going to write it off as a moment of weakness and concentrate on escaping.
I look around and realize I’m no longer in the cell. I’m in a bed. A big one. It’s soft and the sheets and blankets are simple but smell clean.
I’m also completely naked.
Fuck.
I sit up slowly, pulling the blankets with me to cover myself. The pain doesn’t hit me like a hammer although I’m still very sore.
Smoke appears in the doorway, naked from the waist up. His chest is broad and so are his shoulders. His abs flex from underneath the colorful tattoos that cover almost every inch of his skin. He walks past me, crossing the room, He opens a door in the far corner. He disappears inside, and I hear water running. He comes back out and rips the sheets from my body.
I’m naked, and his gaze is trailing over my body. I can feel his stare on me. His eyes grow darker.
“No!” I shout, pushing him away as he grabs me by the waist. I turn over on my knees and try to scramble from his grasp.
“You want a bath or not?” he asks.
I still and turn toward him, covering my chest. I search his face for any trace that this might be a joke, but I don’t find one.
I nod because there’s nothing in the world that sounds better to my aching muscles than a bath. He lifts me again into his strong arms as if I weigh nothing, and I breathe through my nose deeply and try to calm the urge to push off his chest and run.
Smoke is much larger than me, but I don’t realize how much until I’m cradled in his arms. He’s massive. Taller than me by a foot and outweighing me by at least a hundred pounds.
He carries me over to the bathroom while I try and keep myself covered the best I can with my hands over my chest and my legs crossed at my thighs. He sets me on my feet beside the tub but I’m weaker than I thought. My legs shakier. I stumble.
Smoke catches me. His arm around my waist. He dips his hand into the water to check the temperature.
“I’m surprised you even check. Imagine what joy you could get out of tossing me into scalding hot water.”
“Don’t fucking tempt me, hellion.”
I look around at the white tile and high window. “Where are we?” I ask. The last thing I remember is the prison cell.
“We’re still at the same place,” he says. “This is the warden’s house. Or at least, it used to be. I figure I can keep a better eye on you here.”
The small bathroom doesn’t look anything like the abandoned prison. There’s no graffiti or peeling paint. Everything in it is at least twenty years old, but it doesn’t appear to be abandoned at all. The white tile lining the bottom half of the walls and covering the floor is clean and the claw foot tub, although rusted at the drain, is otherwise intact.
Smoke, seemingly satisfied with the temperature of the water, lifts me again.
I brace myself to cringe from the contact against my bruised skin but he’s surprisingly gentle as he sets me down in the tub.
Why the hell is he bothering?
He’s been a brute. Rough. Now he’s suddenly Florence fucking Nightingale? I think I liked the aggression better. At least, it wasn’t confusing.
I hiss through my teeth as I sink down in the warm water as it makes contact with my wounds. It’s only a temporary sting. After a few minutes, my muscles begin to relax. I moan out loud. I’m so far gone, lost in the wonderful sensation I drop my hands from my chest and almost forget that I’m not alone until Smoke speaks.
He’s looking down into the water. “That guy in the cell, did he…was I too—”
“No!” I cut him off, re
peating my answer. “No.”
“Good,” he says with a curt nod. His lips turn up in a snarl like he’s remembering what had happened.
“Why do you care?” I ask.
Smoke crouches down next to the tub. “Because you belong to me. Your fear, your anger, your fury, your fucking defiance. It all belongs to me. And nobody fucks with what’s mine but ME.”
I gasp, his words twisting my insides into a mess that can rival the tangled vines of the prison yard.
ME, not Griff, the man he’s supposedly working for, the man my father stole from. His one eyebrow, the one with a scar through it, twitches. He looks down into the water. There’s more to this situation than he’s letting on.
Much more.
I remember my nudity and cover my body to shield myself from his gaze.
He chuckles. “Who do you think is the one who undressed you? Hate to tell you, hellion, but I’ve already seen it all. Every inch of your bruised and cut flesh.”
He might have a point, but I refuse to uncover my body. He may say he owns me, but it’s a lie.
I own me.
No one else.
I close my eyes as if to block him out in every way I’m capable of, but they spring open again when I feel a sting at my lip. “Ouch!”
Smoke is holding a cotton ball to the corner of my mouth, a medical kit open on the side of the tub, a bottle of rubbing alcohol open on the floor. He’s cleaning my cuts. I’m about to ask him why but choke down the words. I can’t think of a single positive outcome that will come of that question so I ask him another one.
“Who was that guy? The one in the cell?” I ask.
“An asshole sent to check up on me by an even bigger asshole,” he grates out.
“He doesn’t work for you?” I ask.
Smoke shakes his head. “No. I work alone. At least, I do now.” I can see the regret on his face the second the words are spoken.
I remember Dr. Ida’s rules. Relate to your captor. “I’m better by myself, too,” I say.
Smoke raises an eyebrow and moves the cotton ball to a scrape on my shoulder. That’s when I notice the gauze covering the top of his right shoulder and the bloodstain underneath from the bullet I meant to shoot into my own head.
Smoke stills and turns his head to the side. There’s an unspoken question lingering on his lips.
“What?” I ask. “You think you’re so different from everyone else in the world? You’re not. There are a lot of people out there like you. Hell, I’m even more like you than you think.”
“That’s not fuckin’ possible,” Smoke mutters, closing the kit.
This is the first time I’m attempting to relate to him in a non-panicked state so I take a moment and choose my words wisely.
“Well, you’re a lone wolf. Just like me. Governed by nothing and no one except his own fucked up set of rules and morals, and believe it or not, that’s just like me.” I meant to lie to him, but the words I’ve spoken are the truth. I am alone in this world and so is he.
“You think that matters?” Smoke asks.
“Yes. I think it does.” I argue then decide to stretch the truth a bit. “We both use what we’ve got to make others do what we want. I use my looks to get the guy from the grocery store to make deliveries by promising him things I’m never planning to go through with. I get the neighbors to fix the door hinge or rewire the stove by offering hints of a friendship I’m not capable of giving them. You do the same except you use your intimidation to get what you want. It’s your own brand of manipulation. So, you see? We may have our differences, but there’s a lot between us that’s the same too. And I have a feeling that you’re just as lonely as I am.”
“Maybe,” he says calmly.
I’m taken aback by his agreement. Stunned.
This might actually work.
Smoke washes my body with a washcloth. He’s gentle and careful. His face twists in concentration as he maneuvers around the worst of the road rash on my arm.
This man is a lot more complicated than I initially thought.
He washes between my legs, never taking his eyes from mine. He drags the washcloth up, dragging it lightly over my nipples then lingering over the cut below my collarbone where he stares down with an expression of awe.
A LOT more complicated.
Smoke blinks rapidly, dropping the cloth into the tub. With a small plastic cup, he rinses my hair, careful not to get any water in my eyes. “There is one major difference between us you’re forgetting about. The most important one.”
“And what might that be?” I ask, as Smoke helps me to stand and wraps a towel around my shoulders.
Something cold and hard juts into the base of my spine and trails up the bone until my entire body is taut.
Smoke’s lips move against the tip of my ear, his voice rolling through me like thunder.
“I’ve got the balls to pull the trigger.”
Chapter Seventeen
Frankie is a shit actress. She’s worse than Rage because even Rage was convincing, at least for the first twenty minutes before you realize there is something very off about the blonde with murder written in her blue eyes.
But Rage was Meryl Fucking Streep compared to Frankie’s pitiful getting-to-know-you performance.
I toss her one of my large black t-shirts. It’ll be enormous on her but I’m exhausted and don’t feel like rummaging through the storage bins in the other room to see what other clothes might be there.
Frankie goes to put it on but winces when she raises her arms above her head. I walk over to her and steady the shirt helping her pull her arms through and then get back in bed. I go to remove a set of handcuffs off my wrist to tether her to the bed again.
“No! Please. No!” she begs, holding her already bruised and cut wrist.
It’s the first time I’ve really heard her beg. It sparks something within me, making my cock jump to attention.
I’m too fucking tired to do anything about it and I’m too fucking tired to think things to death. There will be time for all that shit tomorrow.
I secure the cuff back around my wrists. I kick off my jeans and can practically feel her panic as I get in beside her. I pull her back against my chest, wrapping my arms around her tiny body, resting my hands on her flat stomach. She smells like the lavender shampoo I just used to wash her hair. I begin to relax with my chin on top of her head when I feel her tremble against me.
“What are you doing?” she asks with a shaky voice.
“It’s this or the cuffs,” I tell her. It’s aggravating to even feel like I should explain why I don’t want to fuck her right now.
No matter how beautiful her trembling is. No matter how hard my cock swells as she takes a deep breath to steady herself, but doesn’t stop shaking.
Defiant little hellion.
“I fucking can’t sleep with you trembling like a frightened Chihuahua,” I scold.
“I just don’t know what you…I don’t want you to…” she says.
I sigh. “What you want doesn’t matter. Your ‘no’s’ don’t fucking matter. YOU don’t fucking matter. Now get some fucking sleep, before I cuff you, strip that shirt from your body, and show you first hand that you belong to me.”
“No. Please. I’m in high school,” she whimpers. “I’m seventeen. I’m too young—”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t give a shit how old you are, even though I know you’re twenty-two.”
I don’t know why I feel the need to defend myself.
Especially to her.
She stops trembling and eventually falls asleep, making a soft snoring sound through her dried blood clogged nose. She’s small and warm and I find myself nuzzling my nose and lips into the crook of her neck inhaling the fresh scent of the bath soap.
“Tell me where your old man is and I’ll make this all go away,” I tell her even though she’s sleeping. It’s not true either. If her old man came to the fucking door right now and turned himself in it’s not like I could j
ust let Frankie go. She knows and has seen too much.
She’s mine now.
I close my eyes, not expecting her to answer. I get one anyway. To my ears her words sound and feel like the beginning of the end.
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
Chapter Eighteen
I’m lying on my side in a grassy field. Various rocks and pebbles stab into my back as I try to move. It smells like sour milk and rotten meat. I hear the crackling of fire along with echoes of screams in the distance.
Then nothing.
Slowly, I raise my head only to find that I’m surrounded by thousands of bloodied bodies. I sit up and realize I’m on the top of a pile directly in the center. Not just a mound of bodies. But parts. Men and women, all in various stages of death and decay. All bent in unnatural positions. Grayish skin sagging from broken bones. Thick red turns to black as the blood on their clothing dries before my eyes.
I scramble to my feet. My stomach rolls but there’s no time to get sick, there’s only time to run. I stumble between limbs and torsos as I try to climb down, lifting my knees high. I free my sunken foot by pressing my hand onto hard cold flesh that contains what feels like teeth, but I don’t look to see what I’ve touched.
My feet finally hit the ground, and I’m free of the pile. I freeze. There are more bodies than grass on the field where I'm standing. As far as I can see. I can’t process what’s around me because the need to flee is stronger than the need to contemplate their mortality or even my own for that matter.
I navigate the field the best I can, jumping over human obstacles like they’re land mines and not corpses. I try not to stare too long at the bulging eyes staring up at me, or the mouths frozen-open in deadly screams, but I can’t help it. I look then quickly turn away, but it’s too late. Now, I can hear them. Their screams. Their last pleas for their lives. Begging that went unanswered.
It’s too much. It’s all way too much. I move faster. Push harder. But I’m too fast. I trip over a leg, and when I brace myself, my hands land on a severed head. Not just any severed head.
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