by Keri Lake
He breaks away from me, his hand sliding back down to plant on the ground beside me. Flickers of remorse or shame, I can’t tell, are punctuated by the stern pinch of his brows. The mask of his drunken stupor lifting to the sobering reality beneath it all.
“Lucian?” I reach up to cup his face, and he pushes off me, falling backward against the wall behind him. Sitting up from the ground across from him, I watch him silently chide himself through the shocked and disgusted expression on his face.
I don’t know what’s worse: the way he looks right now, brimming with regret, or the arrogant smirks the boys in school used to wear when they were finished with me.
The thought of them leaves me frowning, as well.
“I’m sorry.” Lucian’s voice draws my thoughts back to him, where he’s slouched with his shirt opened, his tie undone, clutching his skull with one hand. Completely disheveled and tormented.
“You regret kissing me?”
“I regret wanting to. It was wrong.”
Wrong. Wrong to kiss me.
No. I won’t let him cheapen the moment and turn me into some kind of mistake.
“Maybe for you.”
His gaze slices to mine, the darkness in his eyes burning with intensity, but he doesn’t reveal whatever is spinning inside his head. There’s something sinister there, regardless of his apology. Something devilish. Dangerous. A duality that exists within him, like two personalities trapped in one body, both vying for control. I felt it when he kissed me, the shift from desolation to aggression, ferocity, an animal waking from its slumber.
Starving for something.
Clambering to my feet, I hold his stare and back myself to the door. Perhaps it’s not regret that he feels in this moment, but the realization that I got a small peek of the man he hides beneath his business suits and indifference. I just had a taste of the passionate man underneath those scars. One who’d probably never admit that he makes love harder than most.
In fact, I’m pretty sure he just bared his soul in a single kiss.
“Goodnight, Mr. Blackthorne.”
Cool satin sheets slide over my legs as I writhe across the bed, my view trapped behind the pitch blackness of a blindfold. Soft, silky bands tighten at my wrists, when I tug my arms to no avail, while quiet, indiscernible whispers of a man fill my head, as if spoken in another language. A palm slides over top of the sheets, and the sensitive tickle at my thigh, only dulled by the thin barrier, tells me I’m naked beneath.
“Please.” Exhaustion weighs heavy on my voice while I plead with my captor. “Let me go.”
“Shhh, Isa Bella.” The deep timbre of Lucian’s voice skims across my skin like a feather, and I shiver, dizzy with the sensation. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“We want to watch.”
“We?”
The veil over my eyes is lifted, and I glance to the side, catching sight of my arm tethered to the bed by silk ties. Lucian stands alongside me in my room, wearing a half-buttoned white shirt, and he brushes his knuckles over my cheek.
A hand glides across my belly, and I look to my right. Lying beside me is a second Lucian, this one wearing a black shirt, his hands rough, demanding, as they slip beneath the sheets.
I snap my attention back to the first Lucian, who leans in for a gentle kiss along my jaw.
“You belong to both of us, Isa.”
A finger travels down between my thighs, over the sensitive cleft there, and I arch up, pulling my knees together.
“Relax, Isa,” the gentle Lucian breathes. “Don’t fight him.”
My knees are pried apart, and the Lucian beside me settles closer, keeping my leg tucked against him. “He’s going to make love to you, Isa. But I’m going to fuck you.” His jaw hardens at the same time that he thrusts his fingers hard up inside of me.
I shoot upright on a gasp, fingers curled tight around the bedsheets that I hold to my chest. Quick pants of breath fail to fill my lungs. I search my surroundings for the two of them, finding only the curtain softly fluttering across from me in the otherwise still room.
Sliding my hand beneath the pillow, I prod the pocketknife there, the cold metal a comfort against my fingertips, and exhale a long breath.
I raise a trembling hand to my forehead, mentally noting none of my limbs are tied down, and pat down my chest and legs to find my sweats and T-shirt from earlier in the night are still in place.
“Just a dream,” I murmur, resting my forehead against the heel of my palm to catch my breath.
As my heart rate settles, I touch my fingers to my lips, recalling his kiss from earlier. When I returned to Laura’s room, and Nell finally arrived, I swore Lucian’s scent was embedded in my clothes, that forbidden kiss written all over my face for her to call me out. Even now, I can still feel his skin on mine, the warmth of his breath. The flavor. A small chiding voice inside my head says it was wrong to let him kiss me like that. An older man. My boss, no less.
As if I had a choice!
That same voice tells me to forget the kiss, it was nothing but a drunken mistake. Forget him and go back to sleep. Except, that voice isn’t mine. It belongs to my aunt and everyone else who thinks they know what’s best for me.
I can’t forget the kiss that's now permanently seared within me. And even if I never get the opportunity to kiss Lucian again, I’ll never forget how wonderful it felt.
At a cracking sound, like the shifting of walls, I startle out of those musings and scramble for the lamp beside me, switching it on to find nothing there.
But I know there’s something there. I can feel it.
Something about this place slips beneath my skin when I’m not looking. It’s subtle, but ever present, easily mistaken for a fine stray hair, or a thin web. A tickle of imagination that toys with me every time I close my eyes. The same peculiar feeling I get when I’m around Lucian.
Lucian.
Visuals of those pale amber eyes drilling into mine as he stared down at me earlier, an infernal promise of wicked pleasures, cast a shiver down my spine. I don’t know why I find the man so darkly intriguing in a way that draws my curiosity like nothing else. The same curiosity that lures me into dreams that are as delusional as the shadows crawling about the room each time I wake, shaken and unsettled. Questioning my sanity.
Maybe that’s the reason they call him the Devil.
Because the madness that breathes within these walls is as real as the man who feeds it.
Chapter 24
Lucian
Fifteen years ago …
I find comfort in darkness. The only place they can’t see me. In the light, I’m bare, naked, exposed, but here, nothing can touch me. I’m invisible. A silent observer.
Knees bent to my chest, I sit in the corner of my room, staring through the window at the moon. Three weeks ago, I was lying strapped to a bed, with no idea whether it was day, or night. There was only light and darkness, and in the darkness, I found peace.
Where I stayed for all those weeks was no hospital. The place where my mother discarded me like a bag of old, unwanted clothes was a farce. A lie.
It looked like a hospital. Smelled like one. Was cold, and reeked like suffering. But beneath all the sterile veneer and medical equipment was something sinister and wrong. Something designed to slip inside my skull and rearrange the synaptic connections inside my head. To take what I learned to perceive as thrilling and exciting, and turn it into something I fear. Something I associate with pain and loathing. Panic.
Only problem is, none of the so-called doctors who attempted to cure me have ever really walked the line between life and death. If they had, they’d know panic and fear doesn’t exist there.
The buzz of an insect tickles my ear, and I bat it away. It flies past again, the vibrating hum louder than before, and I flinch. The hum turns to hissing. The incessant hiss of the moths in their cages. So loud. I slam my palms against my ears, screwing my eyes shut to bl
ock it out.
The squealing intensifies turning to screams. They’re screaming. High-pitched torment raking through my eardrums.
I open my mouth to call for help, but I can’t. If I do, they’ll think I’m not well again and send me back.
“Stop,” I whisper. “Please stop.”
The hisses die down inside my head as I imagine the black moths settling back to the corner of their cages. I open my eyes in search of them, certain they’re here with me, while I breathe through my nose to calm the rapid thrumming of my pulse.
There’s nothing but darkness—until the door clicks, and the light from the hallway slices into my room.
My father’s silhouette fills the space, where he stands half in and out the door. “Feeling better?”
Of course not. I’ve had things done to me that will never leave my head, all in some grand scheme to reprogram my brain. To make me forget Solange and everything she taught me.
I don’t tell my father this, just shrug and nod. “Getting better.”
“Good. I want you to come with me.”
There was a time those words terrified me, but I’ve since grown numb to things like that. Words. As many times as he’s punished and humiliated me, they can’t compare to the pain that has now become a permanent part of me. A layer of flesh on the outside that I won’t let penetrate my skin. Instead, I stay anesthetized to it all, and it’s as if it never happened.
I follow my father to the elevator, where he uses his ring as a key to access the catacombs. We arrive at the door of the same room he took me to before, only when we step inside, my guts twist on finding two men waiting for us.
One, I’ve never seen before. He lies strapped to the dentist-looking chair, his eyes blindfolded, body stripped down to nothing but his boxers and socks. I guess him to be late forties, or fifties, judging by his salt-and-pepper hair.
The sight of the other man sends a tremble through my body, and every muscle tenses up when my father nudges me toward Dr. Voigt.
“I’ve told you of our study, Lucian. Now you’ve met the good doctor. He’s the leader of Schadenfreude. A highly respected expert on the topic of epigenetics.”
The familiar man’s lips stretch with a smile, and he opens his arms as if to welcome me. Only weeks ago, he wouldn’t spare me so much as a simple explanation for the torment he put me through, treating me like nothing but a lab-rat, but now, it’s as if the bastard is happy to see me.
“Ah, Lucian, my boy. You’re looking healthier.”
Healthier? I’ve not had the energy, nor inclination, to do anything more than stay in my room all hours of the day.
“The pain you’ve suffered will carry with you into the next phase of our studies,” he adds, clasping his hands together as if this is exciting news for him.
“Next phase?” Gaze flitting toward the man on the table, I notice the quiver of his arms that rattle the metal fasteners of his restraints. It wasn’t long ago that I was strapped down like him, uncertain of what I’d be forced to face that day. What torments the ‘doctors’ and ‘nurses’ would inflict.
“This is Robert Tackas.” Dr. Voigt stands behind the headrest, looking down on the man. “Tell us why you sought out the collective, Robert.”
His tongue sweeps over dry, cracked lips, and his Adam’s apple bobs with a swallow. “I, um … have debts. I need cash, or I’m going to lose … my home.” Mouth quivering, he’s obviously trying to hold back tears, but the wobble in his voice betrays him. “My family.”
“We’ve agreed to pay him the sum of money he’s requested at the end of his session today. With it, he will be able to pay his mortgage, buy food for his family, get back on track.”
“What session?”
Dr. Voigt lifts his chin while staring down at me, and the urge to turn away from him throttles my courage and tells me to cower. But this is my home. In spite of the fear hammering through me, I hold his stare, as he backs himself to the wall behind him. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he grabs one of the objects from the wall: a long stick with leather, knotted braids spilling from the tip of it. I recognize this tool as one of many he used on me in my time at the institute. A flinch of my eye echoes the memory of those braids cracking against my skin, bruising my very bones.
Striding back toward us, he runs his fingers through the braids and smiles.
“Cat o’ nine. Nine braids, nine lives. Do you know how it gets its name?” Allowing only a brief pause, he continues, “Egyptians believed that when beaten with cat hide, a victim gained virtue from the whip.” He shoves the object into my chest, and with a frown, I shake my head. “Your father thought this might be a good opportunity for you to learn our ways.”
“What ways?”
He jerks his head toward Robert. “Fifty lashes. As hard as you can.”
“No.” Looking back at my father only weakens my resolve, as the man stares down at me, his lips peeled back with disgust.
“I’d hate to think you’ve grown soft since our therapy sessions, Lucian. You know firsthand what this whip feels like against your flesh. You survived.”
“With not even half the lashes.” My gaze flits to Robert, who seems to tremble even more, and back to Dr. Voigt. I remember every strike that came down against my skin. The way it bruised and cut into me. “I won’t do this.”
“We’ve watched you over the years. Every fistfight at school. Every expulsion afterward. You bear this inner battle between good and evil, but what if this is your calling, Lucian? What if you are genetically primed for this behavior?”
“Every fight was self-defense. I don’t go out of my way to hurt others. I won’t.”
Dr. Voigt’s lips flatten, and he sets a hand on Robert’s bare shoulders, causing the man to twitch at his touch. “I’m sorry, my friend. We can’t help you.”
The man shifts as if his body is suddenly possessed by panic. “Please. I’m begging you. Please do this. I need the money. My family needs this money.”
A snaking sensation crawls beneath my skin as I listen to the man plead for his punishment. Like I’m the bad guy, all of a sudden, for not wanting to dole it out. I frown down at him, my head swimming in confusion, right and wrong clashing inside my skull.
“It’s disgusting, isn’t it? How we’re willing to suffer for something so common as the paper and the ink that separates the wealthy from the poor. You wouldn’t know that feeling, Lucian. From birth, you were born into wealth. You know nothing but comfort and security. You’ve never known hunger. What it feels like to do whatever it takes to feed your starving family.”
“Why not just give him the money, then?”
“Do you have any idea how many of them come to us? Begging for mercy. A handout? What makes him any more deserving than the others?” He rubs his hands over the man’s shoulders. “This way, we get something in return, at least.”
“By torturing him?”
“This is a study. One rooted in science. Evolution. He’s merely a catalyst. A variable to test.”
“He’s a human being.”
“Who came to us. We didn’t seek him out. He was well-informed of who we are and what we do.”
“Enough of this! You will do as you’re told, or by God, I’ll throw your ass back into that institute for another week.” My father’s voice thunders behind me, skating down my spine. “I’ll not stand by and--”
Dr. Voigt holds his hand up, silencing my father, and for a moment, I wonder if Griffin Blackthorne will strike out at him, the way he does to anyone who threatens his pride. Instead, he lowers his head.
“The boy chooses for himself,” Dr. Voigt says. “Dole out this man’s punishment, and we’ll pay him what he’s asked for. He’ll walk away with more money than he earns in a year. Or tell him you refuse.”
The man’s jaw quivers, as if he wants to cry, but I won’t do it. My choice. I won’t let them turn me into a monster.
“I refuse.”
Two days have passed, and my father has
made a point to avoid me. He hasn’t punished me for what I’m certain he views as insolence. It’s as if I don’t exist, at all.
Until today.
I sit in one of the chairs across from his desk, hands in my lap so he won’t see my fidgeting.
Across from me, he holds a rolled-up newspaper, tapping it against the top of his desk, as if in taunting, while he stares back at me.
I wonder if he’ll strike me with the thing.
In answer to my thoughts, he tosses the paper in front of me, and it flips open to the front page, where a headline reads: Boston Man Dies Horrifically After He Throws Himself From Overpass Onto Busy Traffic.
Nausea gurgles in my stomach when I catch sight of Robert Tackas’ name in the body of the article.
“Tell me, what do you think would’ve resulted in less suffering?” My father’s taunting words only twist the blade stabbing at my conscience.
“It’s not my fault.”
“Not your fault? Imagine if he’d walked out of here with the money he requested?”
“I won’t let you blame me for this.”
“I don’t have to. You blame yourself. It’s written all over your face.”
Tears spring to my eyes, the anger and guilt pulling and stretching, growing inside of me. “You could’ve given him the money.”
“Nothing is free, Lucian. Nothing. Including you.” He pushes up from his desk, and maybe it’s just the shadows behind him, but he seems larger than usual. More intimidating. As he rounds the desk, my pulse hastens, my hands balling to fists, waiting for the moment I’ll have to defend myself. “This world is made up of strong and weak. It’s believed that nature decides who thrives and who perishes, based on certain genetics we’re bestowed with at birth. But that isn’t true. Your great-grandfather, and his father before him, were starving fishermen. Men who couldn’t afford to feed their families. By all accounts, he should’ve perished with the weak. In suffering, in pain, he found strength, and that strength changed his fate.” He reaches for a half-smoked cigar balanced on the edge of an ashtray and lights it up. “One day, this company will be in your hands. And I fear it will perish there. Generations of work and toil--”