Combust (A Hotter Than Hell Novel Book 6)

by Holly S. Roberts

  “You’re playing a bloody game with a woman in the balance,” Moon says with distaste. Life was so much easier when Victor made the big decisions and controlled the big dogs. My place was in controlling anything needing elimination. My solution is take it out of commission by killing it.

  See? Easy.

  “It’s not a game,” I say as calmly as possible. I don’t want to fucking involve Moon and I need him to stay out of this. For that to happen he needs the bare facts. I pour myself another tumbler of liquor. “Fernandez killed Victor and tortured Cindy. This is none of your concern.”

  “Victor was my friend,” Moon replies stiffly. “Fernandez has something I want and he’s willing to give it to me if I discover who has his sister and return her. He’ll also throw in twenty-five women for me to do as I please.”

  I laugh because that’s fucking hilarious. Moon takes down more human trafficking rings than anyone I know. It’s a huge no-no in his territory, and he runs his operation with an iron fist. Or, at least Gomez has the iron fist, and no one wants to fuck with Gomez. Yeah, the thought of tangling with Gomez myself holds a touch of excitement, but I don’t have a death wish either and I’m pretty sure one of us would end up dead if we went head to head. “When I’m ready, you can return the sister and reap the benefits. You have my word on that.”

  Moon’s voice goes even deeper if that’s possible. “Men like us don’t live with regret and we have few lines we’re unwilling to cross. Victor trusted and believed in you. His trust was earned. You need the same—someone who will put a hold on the things we tend to be rash about. Do you have such a person?”

  He’s asking if I’ve named my enforcer. He’s also saying that I’m not thinking this through. “I’ll give you a heads-up when I have that position filled. Until then I’m doing both jobs.”

  “Got it,” he replies quickly without argument. “If you need help you have my number.”

  He’s not happy and I can’t blame him. If Fernandez hadn’t messed with Cindy, this would be a straight up hit on him and his men. It’s how Victor would play it and as his right hand, I played his game how he directed. The rules have changed now and I am definitely not Victor. Vengeance doesn’t have a gender when it comes to putting the people responsible for Cindy’s murder in the ground. After dragging them through hell first. “I’ll call if I need help.” I push End and place my phone on the side table and glance at the bottle of whiskey. I need a steady hand, so I choose to abstain.

  I respect Moon, but he’s not in control of my territory and I’ll run this however I fucking want. And what I want right now is the Dragonfly in my hand and pliable skin beneath my fingers. I remove the tie I wore for an earlier meeting, toss it on the couch in the den, and head to the kitchen, where the basement door waits.

  I ignore my heart’s acceleration when I place my hand on the doorknob. Sometimes pain heals all wounds. Sometimes physical pain makes the internal ache easier. Sometimes pain is all you have. That’s my world and now it’s also the world of the woman downstairs. Pain changes so many things.

  Chapter Six

  Melina

  Sleep takes me far away from this living nightmare. When I finally wake, the cold has seeped into my body and my muscles ache. I don’t think I moved the entire time I slept. I stretch while trying to control the stormy sea of emotions rolling through me.

  The complete darkness keeps me from having any idea what time it is, which is disorienting. I inch my hand along the rough wall searching for the waste bucket. My fingers knock hard against the plastic and I’m surprised the damn thing doesn’t spill everywhere. Maybe if I coat myself with shit the asshole will stay away.

  I manage to squat on the damn thing and clean myself in the dark. It could be hours before he comes down. It could also be seconds. I fell asleep earlier playing the what if game. Sadly, besides pushups and sit ups, it’s all I have to occupy my time.

  What if I manage to kill him? I run and don’t go back to my brother.

  What if he kills me? It’s over and that’s okay.

  What if he returns me to my brother? Again I die, but that’s okay.

  What if I want to live? Fight and never stop.

  What if…

  The door opens and a small bit of light slides down the stairway before the overhead lights click on. Terror clenches my chest until I remember to breathe. I’m blinded for a minute and when I can finally open my eyes enough to see, Lord Asshole himself is standing over me.

  His spread legs and hands on his hips irritate the shit out of me. He’s so damn beautiful even though evil coats him from head to toe. His white dress shirt is unbuttoned halfway with his smooth chest partially on display. His shirt is tucked into black slacks that must be custom-made because they cling too perfectly to his muscular legs. No tie. Too bad, I could strangle him with it. It’s either windy outside or he’s been running his hand through his short hair; it’s messy not nearly the sculpted perfection I saw yesterday. His green eyes haunted my sleep. They’re so fucking cold—glass shards without empathy or humanity. I hate his eyes most.

  “You want me to carry you again?” His voice startles me because as stupid as it seems, I’m fascinated by every facet he presents. The man who is challenging my brother. My stomach growls and I realize he didn’t bring food. That’s just fucking great. I check him out again and decide to take seduction off my list of ways to get out of here. This man can have any woman he wants. Even with his hair mussed and his cold eyes he has that bad boy attraction that women can’t resist.

  Resist, I tell myself.

  I almost laugh out loud. The last thing this man would do is look at me in a sexual way. He’s proved that by seeing me naked and not caring. Men usually find me attractive, so maybe he’s gay. Asexual? Who knows what this psychopath’s sexual orientation is.

  I stick out my leg so he can easily reach the lock. Good little kidnapee. I resist kicking him in the face while I have the chance. It would be foolhardy and most likely lose me the next meal and the blanket. It’s too damn cold in here to risk the blanket again. I’ll have one shot at escape and I need everything in place when I take it. I’ll be the cooperative kitten until I have the perfect opportunity to scratch his fucking eyes out.

  With a sweet smile for him, I enjoy imagining how it would feel to wrap the chain around his throat and pull tight. I’m a bloodthirsty bitch but hey, my fucked up life necessitates the fact. I swore for years I would never be involved in the violence my brother breeds, but it’s all I know and for once it could come in handy.

  My captor stands back when I rise, keeping the blanket gripped in my fingers. His hand comes out and I quickly lean away from him. The thought of his hands on me leaves a bad taste in my mouth. He only sweeps the air in the direction of the bed. Each step I take is like walking to my execution. It’s skin, only skin. I am not defined by what is on my body, only what’s on the inside and right now that’s hate.

  He turns away like I’m no threat and begins prepping his equipment. I take a quick breath and climb onto the bed. Comply, is my silent mantra. I wiggle a bit and pull the blanket up and over my back. I will not lie here with my back bare before he begins. I settle into the bed and close my eyes while listening to the sounds. The dread returns when the small noises stop.

  I’m surprised when he doesn’t strap me down. I guess we both know I’m no longer fighting him and it’s exactly what I want him to think. He gently lifts the blanket off my back, pulling it down until it covers only my ass and legs. A shiver passes over my skin and I hate myself for showing fear. With a repeat of yesterday’s performance, he washes my back with cool water and green soap. It burns slightly when he dabs the cloth over the fresh tattoo.

  I really should care what he’s marking on me, but do I really want to know? It can’t be pretty. It’s just a body and the one I have has done me no favors in this life. Would my world be different if I were born ugly or deformed? Probably not, but a girl can dream.

  He turns
the machine on and begins.

  My words blend with the steady hum. “My dog’s name was Feather.” I can’t believe I’m going to tell him this story but there’s this pull inside me and I need to fill the room with more than sounds of my torture. It’s been so many years since Feather and it still hurts like it was yesterday. I’ve never spoken to anyone about what happened. I’ve tried to bury this one with all the other bad memories. “Feather was a Yorkie.” I smile at the thought of his sweet puppy breath. “A Toto dog.” I hesitate, suck in air, and continue, “My mom bought Feather for me because I had no one to play with and she thought a dog would be a decent playmate. He was so tiny with dark eyes and soft, curly hair. I spent hours brushing him and he loved every second. I even painted his toenails and dressed him in frilly clothes no dog should be forced to wear.” I laugh slightly at the memory while my captor continues puncturing my skin.

  I don’t allow his lack of acknowledgement to keep me quiet. “In my house you had to be good at hiding and Feather was the best. When my dad or brother would go on a rampage, Feather and I would hide together. We played the silent game and somehow Feather understood how important it was to stay quiet.”

  Memories of Feather flash through my head. His velvety tongue when he licked my hand, his silky fur on the underside of his belly that he displayed when he wanted belly rubs, and the look in his eyes when he watched me. I was his world, his protector, his salvation.

  My hesitation is longer than before. I need time to control my thoughts and finish this story. The hum of the tattoo gun and the dull pain unexpectedly soothe me. Is that fucked up?

  It surprises me that my captor doesn’t listen to music while he works. Maybe I should be thankful he doesn’t. Talking over music and the continuing buzz would be difficult. Keep going, I whisper inside my head. No matter the hurt, keep going. “My mom was ill most of my childhood. She had a rare blood disorder and she was always sick with some kind of infection. She died when I was thirteen. It was a horrible day. It was also one of the few times my father behaved like a human being. He allowed me to cry and not once did he tell me to stop.”

  There, that wasn’t so bad. I can tell this story and speak of the bad things. Their ghosts only haunt me, they won’t kill me. I fist my hands at what happens next. “My father was a horrible person. My mother knew it but there was nothing she could do. She was as trapped as I was, and my father held me over her head. He called me and my brother into his office the day after her death. Feather followed me everywhere right at the heels of my patent leather shoes.” My voice drops and my breath hitches as more images flood my brain from that day.

  If I stop telling the story again, I won’t be able to continue. “I heard Feather squeal and I turned around to my brother. He held Feather in his arms with one hand around his neck. I looked at my father and he shrugged, offering no help. Another squeal made me panic. Feather’s eyes stared at me in pain. ‘Quick or slow?’ my brother asked. I could only shake my head and whimper when he began twisting his neck. Feather’s terrified scream and then the final pop filled my ears. I didn’t comprehend what I saw until my brother tossed Feather at my feet. All of this happened while my father watched. I even remember his chin nod and how it showed pride in his son.”

  I can’t stop the tears that slide down my cheeks onto the plastic. They continue flowing, giving me the release I need. Feather’s story has stayed locked away for so long. I jerk the slightest bit when his fingers splay out across the unmarred part of my back. I would swear it was a caress. He doesn’t mean anything by it, but the relaxing of his hand against my back comforts me.

  I lay silently when he begins again and almost fall asleep to the steady hum. He turns off the tattoo gun and the quiet makes me open my eyes wide. He rubs ointment into my skin again and covers his art with plastic wrap.

  “Must you stop? I was almost asleep,” I say drowsily. “The tattoo gun has that effect on me.”

  “Not a gun, it’s a tattoo machine. Up,” he says and places his hand out. I take it and absorb the warmth of his fingers over my cold ones. I fight rolling my eyes over the wrong vernacular.

  I grab the blanket with my other hand and try to sit and step down without my breasts peeking out. I actually notice the corners of his lips tip up at the absurdity. It doesn’t matter; I need the blanket like I need air. I spent years being compliant while hating my father and brother. I can do it with this man too. Until my chance comes. I’ll get out of here even if I need to kill him. I know he wouldn’t think twice about killing me.

  “You behaved, so I have a treat for you.” I stare at him without comprehension. This is the second longest string of words he’s put together since I arrived. “You’ll get one chance at this. If you blow it, I won’t take you out of here again. Or, I should say until I take you back to your brother.”

  The intense look in his eyes tells me he can’t wait to send me back. “I’ll be good.” My voice breaks slightly. Fuck me. Will I be good? This could be my one chance at escape. “I promise,” I add because he just keeps staring at me with those same cold eyes that say he could break my neck just like my brother did Feather’s.

  He gives me the slightest nod. “Follow me.” He turns and heads up the stairs.

  He’s really taking me out of the dungeon. Shakily I make my legs move. I lift the blanket higher so I don’t trip. He opens the door and looks back at me while holding it. I keep climbing until I walk out of the door into a large kitchen. I was raised with money, ill-gotten, dirty money but still lots of money. This place is different. It speaks class, which my brother is in very short supply of. There’s a nook with a table in the corner with large bay windows. He points in that direction and I take a chair facing him while sneaking covert glances out the window. It has a California feel, so maybe I’m still in state. The grounds are open grass surrounded by a six, or maybe eight feet tall brick fence. The openness gives nowhere to hide.

  He adds an extra roll to his shirtsleeves and begins pulling items out of the six feet wide, three door refrigerator. He’s comfortable in the kitchen, which surprises me. I stare without catching his eye because even though I know he’s aware of every move I make, he’s paying me no attention right now. There’s a sizzling sound as he drops bacon into a hot pan. The smell follows a few minutes later and my mouth waters. He turns away and takes two short glasses from a cabinet, filling them with orange juice. I’m still staring at him when he brings one to me.

  I should be more ladylike, but it’s impossible. I need the juice, the sugar, and the calories. I drink it down in one long swallow. His eyebrows go up before he picks up the glass, carries it back to the kitchen island, and refills it. “Thank you,” I say this time. I take a small sip and rest the glass on the table. “Do you have a name I can call you in place of ‘the man’ or ‘my kidnapper’?” I know it’s a stupid question but I need to establish a connection with him. I watched it in Silence of the Lambs, so it must work.

  He stays quiet while staring at me like I watched him minutes ago. He turns away and goes back to the bacon. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out he won’t answer. I’ve never been around a man who has so little to say. My home with my brother is never quiet. If he’s not throwing a tantrum over some small transgression, his men, or should I say gang members, rowdy voices fill the rooms. This man is still as stone, only using precise, necessary movements to do everything. Slow and methodical is his game. But there’s nothing slow about his mind. I swear I can actually feel his brain whirring when he’s quiet.

  I take another sip of orange juice and stay silent while glancing around the amazing kitchen. I admire the marble counters and shiny chrome of the over-the-top appliances. His voice startles me when he speaks. “You can’t take a shower because of the ink, but you can clean up and wash your hair in the sink if you wish.”

  My face must reflect my confusion when I glance at the sink in the spotless kitchen. “You can use my bathroom.” He lowers the temperature on the
stovetop and walks to the walkway that leads out of the kitchen. I stand, adjust the blanket once more, and follow. My feet are bare, but the taps still echo down the long corridor. We pass several rooms as he leads me to the back of the house. I catch short glimpses of furniture covered in drapes, which seems odd. One room is filled with boxes. Does no one actually live here? He enters a sitting room with double doors to the side, leading to the master suite. The only thing in the bedroom is the biggest bed I’ve ever seen. It’s raised at least two feet off the ground with a huge carved wood headboard. My feet stop moving until I hear him give a slight growl. “There’s nothing in the bedroom or bathroom you can use as a weapon. Don’t get my ink wet and don’t screw this up.”

  Shivers pass over my skin at his harsh tone and the crystal cold nothingness he has for eyes. He could literally dissect someone with his gaze. I nod and enter the bathroom. Wow, it’s modern and Victorian at the same time. To my left is the largest walk-in closet I’ve ever seen. It’s mostly empty with only a few dark suits and white dress shirts. Is this actually his home? From the covered furniture to the sparse clothing it only confuses me more.

  I turn suddenly at the sound of his voice. “No shower. Do not get the ink wet,” he says one last time before closing the door behind him. I wait a few minutes to see if he’ll stick his head back in, but he doesn’t. Shampoo and conditioner are on the counter along with a new, still-in-its-package toothbrush. Pure heaven because I can’t even imagine what my breath is like. Going by the fuzz on my teeth, I could kill birds at a hundred paces just by opening my mouth. After brushing my teeth to the point of making my gums sore, I look longingly at the shower. It’s so damn tempting to step in and turn the knobs. The back side of the shower is glass and opens into a fully closed-off atrium with skylights and plants. There’s even a small waterfall to add to the ambience. No, I shake my head. I won’t blow this. I find towels and washcloths in a linen closet opposite the walk-in closet.