by T. L. Martin
A cold wave of disappointment floods me as I look around. There’s nothing here. Literally. Other than a column running from the ceiling to the floor, it’s a vast expanse of nothingness.
Irritation gnaws at me. I risked getting caught over this?
I take in the room once more. Something doesn’t feel right. Why have a basement filled with empty rooms? And why would Adam be down here? After creeping further inside and still finding nothing, I exit and duck into one of the other rooms. This one is exactly the same, except there’s a metal table just a few feet from the column.
Slowly, I approach the table, intense curiosity pulling each footstep forward. A rectangular tray sits tilted in the center. My throat tightens as my eyes trace the sharp instruments laid out side by side. Reaching forward, I let my fingers graze the scissors from top to bottom, then I drift to the scalpel. My heart thumps a little too loudly, almost echoing against the hollow walls of my chest. I pick up the instrument, cock my head to one side, and lightly skim the thin blade along the inside of my index finger.
Strange thoughts seep into my head as I wonder how deep it cuts. If the red liquid it spills pours out in a rush, or if it trickles down, like in my paintings.
With a jerk, I drop the instrument and step back when a thunk sounds from down the hall. Heavy footfalls hit my ears, blending with the echo of the scalpel hitting the metal tray. Darting from the room, I race down the hall and up the steps, my pulse on overdrive, my breathing hard. Once I’m alone in the hall, with the basement door cracked beside me, I pause and rest against the wall.
As my breathing slows, my ears fill with Aubrey’s voice . . .
They have enemies.
And maybe a few trust issues.
“See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks.
I cannot contain it.
I cannot contain my life.”
—Sylvia Plath, Three Women
I pace into the basement and find Griff already in room three, where my tray lies prepped and waiting. He’s got our latest hit unconscious and halfway chained to the column as he works on the guy’s ankles.
I inhale the moment, letting it seep into my bloodstream as I wait for the calm to kick in.
This is it.
What I fucking needed.
My jaw ticks as uninvited images continue to devour me—Emmy’s naked body wrapped around me, her nails piercing my skin, my blood on her neck. I’m standing in front of my next kill, yet she’s still all I fucking see. A growl catches in my throat as I stare straight ahead—trying to will her taste, her body, her subtle hints of madness from my mind.
Andrew isn’t supposed to be here right now. I’m already pissed at having to move him up an entire damn month. After over a decade, I’m finally down to the last four people on my list. With the exception of Murphy, who we’ve been after for years, I need to preserve and savor them as long as I can. Because fuck if I know what I’m going to do once my list runs dry.
Raife and Griff have other plans—other lists. Enough to keep them at this for at least another decade, thanks to being dealt some shitty hands before winding up with Misha. It’s a fucking wonder the two of them never met before the studio. They’re both from the shadiest streets of New York, both survived things I never had to go through. They won’t call it rape, won’t talk about it, but that’s what it was. Griff’s abuse was from his own father before he got fed up and took to the streets; Raife never had a father, but their pasts before Misha are similar in ways only they can understand. So they have their own lists. It’s something we’ve discussed at length over the past year, along with some tempting offers they’ve made for me to join them.
But it doesn’t work that way. If the hit doesn’t have a stake in sucking my soul dry, then I gain nothing by taking their life. A random kill is useless to me.
With my hands in my pockets, I glance at the pathetic excuse before me—his balding head drooping, his scrawny frame limp. A coward who could hardly look at us when he slipped our food trays through the bars, day after day after day. Watching kids come and go, sustaining our caged lives until Katerina or Murphy decided our fates. This one, was perhaps the weakest of them all.
When Griff finishes, I tilt my chin toward him. “You staying?”
“Nah.” His lips curl. “Piece of shit’s not worth my time.”
I nod, and he paces from the room.
He’s right. It’s a shame I had to move this one up at all. My mind thinks I’m permanently blue-balled; my bones are screaming for any fucking fix I can get, and it’s a shit combination. I narrow my eyes on him, irritation coiling around my shoulders.
When Emmy walked into our meeting this morning—her long hair swaying like it remembered me, her blue eyes wide and begging me to bring out the rest of her dirty secrets—it took everything I had not to drag her back to my bed.
Fuck.
Stepping forward, I smack Andrew’s cheek a few times to wake him. He stirs, struggling to open his eyes. That won’t be an issue in a moment.
I dig my knife from my pocket and toss it beside the tray. Squinting, I step toward the table.
The hell?
The scalpel is lying halfway on the tray, half off. I’m meticulous with my equipment, and my brothers know it. They wouldn’t have touched my shit. It’s rare that I use the instruments as it is; they’re mostly here for nostalgic purposes, and the scalpel was one of Katerina’s favorite tools.
Running the backs of my fingers down my jaw, I can’t help but recall a certain mouse trying to sneak in here.
“Wha—what . . .” I glance at Andrew as he comes to. “What’s going on?”
Finally.
I move toward him, stopping inches from his face and tilting my head as I watch the fear take over. His eyes go wide, his body shaking before I even introduce myself. Funny how quickly they realize something’s wrong with this picture when they’re the ones strapped down.
“Hello, Andrew.” I slip my hands into my pockets, closing my eyes for a second as I will the calm to wash over me. Usually, the adrenaline comes first when I enter the room and see them waiting. Lately, however, adrenaline is all I fucking feel, boiling inside me and threatening to split me open. I need to jump straight to the goddamn calm. “My name is Adam, but you might remember me better as Lucas Costa.”
Confusion wrinkles his forehead. I’d usually give them a minute for the recognition to sink in, but at the moment I couldn’t give a fuck. With my veins on fire and the pressure in my head steadily increasing, I’m a bomb seconds away from imploding. He’ll put the pieces together soon enough. Whether it’s before or after the cutting begins is up to him.
I’m about to go for my knife when I stop. Glance back at the tray. Pick up the scalpel.
It’s cold, showing no signs Emmy’s warmth touched it. But I know she was here. Bringing the instrument to my nose, my chest hammers as I slowly inhale. I try to picture her petite body in my kill room, wearing her little black dress with the silver blade in her delicate palm. Fuck me if the image isn’t flawless.
After taking a deliberate step toward Andrew, he whimpers as I lift the instrument, deciding where to start.
All it needs is a little red . . .
After a scalding shower, I dress and send a quick text to Aubrey. My fingers feel stiff as I type, my back tense and straining against my shirt.
Moving Andrew up was a fucking waste.
As soon as she responds with their location, I make my way through the halls and to the spa, trying to pretend my insides aren’t burning up. I find them with one of Raife’s secretaries—Carrie? Carol? Aubrey stands in front of the girl, putting stuff on her face, while Emmy is behind her with a hairbrush.
Working my jaw, I lean back against the wall. Then I just watch her.
Raife’s secretary’s giggles grate on my eardrums as she drones on and on. Aubrey is attentive, if a little annoyed. Emmy, on the other hand, isn’t here. Her hands go through the motions, but her eyes are absent. Lost.
I’ve seen that look before, when she was curled in a ball in her room.
At that time, I liked it. Now that I’ve seen, felt, her wildfire, it only aggravates me.
Because now I know she’s hiding.
“You’re needed downstairs,” I say to Aubrey.
All three of them jump, but I only really came here for one.
Surprise, mouse.
“Yes, Master.” Aubrey helps the blonde up and gestures to the door. “I’ll go now.”
After Emmy sets the brush down, she stares at me. She’s back, and her eyes are locked on mine, but something’s still off.
I think of my kill room, and my eyes narrow. “Enjoying your newfound freedom?”
Some of the fire returns as her lips tilt up. “Is that what we’re calling it? Sir.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “When you have the luxury of going on little adventures, yes.”
She swallows. Her chest rises and falls beneath her tight, little dress, and it drags my eyes downward.
I push off the wall, and she runs her tongue across her lip. Apparently that’s all it takes for my cock to stand at attention these days. Fucking great.
Gritting my teeth, I warn, “Be careful where you step, little mouse. There are some holes too deep to dig your way out of.”
“She’s a strong cup of black coffee in a world that is
drunk on the cheap wine of shallow love.”
—JM Storm
God, I need my paintbrush. I feel it burning.
The craving.
The need.
It itches in my fingers, and it burns in my chest. I close my eyes and think of the colors I would use. Dark shades, blue and black, blending with white to create a brilliant chaos. Then I’d dip my fingers in cherry red and drag them down the center.
It looks just like him.
My master who won’t have me.
When that doesn’t help, I focus on forming a plan to return to the basement. Then I remember the scalpel, the way my heart thumped when I held it and the morbid colors that ran through my mind.
I don’t understand my reaction. But I’m not so eager to go back.
With every moment that passes, my worries for Frankie intensify. I watch everything the Matthews do, yet I still don’t feel any closer to finding her. If I don’t find a clue that makes sense soon, I might have to resort to Aubrey. She’s just as loyal as the others here, maybe more so, but there’s also something rebellious about her. I have to hope it’s enough for me to trust her.
But so much could go wrong.
It’s against the rules to even discuss previous hires. And if she rats me out and they discover I was never supposed to be here, I could be sent home on the next available flight. Then there’s the possibility the Matthews are somehow behind Frankie’s disappearance—and asking Aubrey about it would be my downfall.
“Ouch!”
I cringe as the naked secretary before me shrieks, squeezing the sides of the massage table beneath her.
“Sorry. Still new to this.”
Not exactly reassuring, but Aubrey only showed me how to wax yesterday. Who knew it’d be so easy to get lost in thought while hunched over a woman’s private parts?
There are things I can’t assist Aubrey with, and ever since Adam caught me snooping—again—two days ago, she won’t let me go on breaks without her. This morning she’s in the basement, so she sent me up here to work in the spa.
So far, I’ve seen all the brothers but Felix pass through there. Raife, though, spends most of his time in the front mansion. When I asked Aubrey about that yesterday, she said any business meetings and Skype calls take place there, so he spends more time in that house than this one.
The secretary scowls at me while she dresses. Maybe I should care, but I don’t. I just want to be left alone so I can finally search the space. The second she leaves, I’m at the front desk. Aubrey’s desk. With a quick glance to my right and left, I pull open each drawer one by one, my fingers trembling against the handles. Snooping is a lot more nerve wracking when it’s Aubrey or Adam’s personal space.
Frustration builds under my skin as all I find are useless supplies. When I open the last drawer, my eyes narrow. There’s a journal. Pulling the drawer back further, I keep the book tucked inside as I flip it open. My shoulders fall forward, and a quiet grumble escapes me when I see what notes fill the pages. Waxes, facials, other appointments. It’s just a goddamn log book. Flicking through the pages faster and faster, my heart rate picks up with every second that passes.
I almost miss it when the name jumps out at me. My stomach leaps to my ribcage, and my fingers still.
Francesca. Full body wax and sugar scrub exfoliant.
I grip the book, pulling it out of the drawer and searching for any other details. There are no last names. No dates either. Based on the number of pages I went through before finding this one, it had to have been at least two months ago, maybe three.
I trace a fingernail over the letters of her name.
Was this you, Frankie? My eyes fall shut as I hold the book to my chest. God, where are you?
“Forgot my scarf.”
“Shit.” My whole body jerks at the voice, and the log slips from my fingers before crashing to the floor.
When I look up, the secretary from earlier is standing right in front of me. She glances from me to the book on the floor, and her brows furrow. “What are you doing?”
Clearing my throat, I bend to pick it up. “What do you think?” I flip to the most recent page, where her first name Anabelle is written, and grab a pen from desktop. Checking her name off, I keep my tone casual. “I’m filling in the log, of course.”
She crosses her arms over her chest and looks me up and down, but I pretend not to notice as I tuck the journal back into the drawer. I don’t relax until her footsteps fade toward the waxing rooms.
When she returns a second later, she stops and watches me as she ties the blue scarf around her neck.
I rest my hip against the desk and arch a brow. “Is there something else you need?”
“You headed to lunch?” She places her hands on her waist and glances at the clock behind me. “It’s five past.”
“Oh, um . . .” I wipe my palms on my dress and push off the desk. “I’ll be there soon. I should probably get Aubrey first.”
She shrugs. “Okay.”
Relief blows through me. We walk out together, then break off in opposite directions as I head down the hall toward the basement. Leaning against the wall beside the door, I wait for Aubrey to come out and think back to my sister.
Sugar scrub exfoliant. That doesn’t sound so bad, right?
After a few minutes pass without seeing a soul, I slide to my butt and sit on the ground.
More time passes and another blond secretary comes clicking down the hall toward me.
She frowns and looks at me funny, stopping at my feet. “You okay?”
I nod. When she doesn’t move, I add, “Waiting for Aubrey.”
“Oh, you’ll be waiting for a while. She was sent out on an errand.”
I let out a groan. “Thanks.”
I’m about to pull myself up when the door opens. A shadow looms over me, and I slide my gaze upward.
A flock of tiny birds take flight in my stomach as I stare up at Adam’s hard eyes, unshaven jaw, and the vein popping in his neck. He was buttoning his shirt cuffs, but stopped midway.
With my chin angled to see him, I place my palms flat on the floor to push myself up, but his expression distracts me. I blink when his dark eyes cloud over. It’s the strangest thing, like he’s looking straight through me. Sitting here with his large form shadowing me, I’ve never felt so much like the mouse he always calls me.
I suck in a breath as he stares at me, his brows crashed together and his entire body tight like he’s brimming with restraint. After a moment, he squints, scrubs a hand down his face, and stalks past me.
The air whooshes from my lungs while I watch him le
ave me.
Again.
“Damaged people are dangerous.
They know they can survive.”
—Josephine Hart, Damage
I turn on the bathroom faucet and splash cold water on my face. After shutting it off, I grip the edge of the marble counter and stare past my haggard reflection.
All I see is her. Sitting on the floor with her sky-blue eyes blinking up at me. She looked exactly like her. So small, with her knees bent and her long black hair blanketing her little body.
I shake my head and rub my eyes. Fucking Emmy. Even in her absence she’s climbing under my skin and lighting a match. She’s stolen my sleep, consumed my thoughts with images of her, deprived me of the calm my kills are meant to bring, and now she’s got me seeing things I didn’t ever want to see again.
But fuck, I swear I saw Sofia flicker through those eyes.
(Fourteen years old)
“Let’s jump back to more recent times,” Katerina says. “Tell me about the alley on 5th Street. Specifically, I’d like to hear more of the sexual violations. I don’t imagine it’s easy, sacrificing a piece of yourself for security.”
The scrawny teen tilts his chin and twists his lips, like he’s thinking seriously about her question. I shake my head. After thirty minutes of this, I’m surprised Katerina’s let him go on this long.
He mutters, “No, I don’t imagine it is. And how does that make you feel? Knowing the price you pay for sacrificing your sanity?”
She exhales slowly, her patience wearing thin.
My lips twitch. At least he’s entertaining.
“I’m going to give you one more opportunity,” she begins calmly, “to open up for me. I’ll make it easy for you. Why don’t you pick a topic or incident, and we’ll build on it from there?”
He chuckles. “How thoughtful.”
A clink across the room pulls my eyes to Sofia. She’s still handcuffed to the cage. She’s pulled her knees up to hide behind them, but I can tell she’s peeking between.