by Keri Lake
“All your father’s brilliant idea. He figured since you suffered years of hallucinations with Jude, what was one more?” She sighs and mindlessly toys with a loose string on my shirt, making me lean away from her, eyeing the opposite side of the bed for escape. “Not like I’d ever let you run off with that dirty child molester, anyway.”
Breath stutters in my throat at that, and I look back to him. “Lucian?” He’d only ever mentioned that she’d taught him things, never that he was molested.
He offers only a quick glance toward me, not bothering to dispute her choice of words. “She was twenty-five. Half the age of my father when he fucked her. And at least I consented. At least she didn’t threaten me, if I refused.” His expression hardens again as he stares back at Laura. “You killed her, didn’t you?”
“How humiliating do you think it was, to know both my husband and son were fucking that filthy little harlot? Of course I killed her. And if I hadn’t stopped your father, he’d be fucking her, too!” She points a trembling finger at me. “He wanted a grandson to offer up so badly, he was willing to make one himself.”
“What do you mean, stopped him?” he says past clenched teeth. Bunched shoulders and the tension in his jaw are clues that he’s one second from snapping.
Laura’s dark chuckle is unfitting for the moment, leaving me to wonder if she’ll snap, as well. “The heart attack? Your father’s heart was as healthy as an ox, before I spiked his drink. Tell me life didn’t get better when he died. Tell me you didn’t feel free the moment Roark was no longer your responsibility.”
Subtle, to avoid snagging her attention, I scoot myself toward the other end of the bed.
“You made me believe I was crazy.” Lucian steps around the bed, his movements slow and careful, approaching as if she’s an animal that might try to escape him. “You let them pump me full of drugs and left me there.”
“A mother does what she has to. Tell me you weren’t better off without her in your life.” As I set my sights for escape, the cold, steel tip of a sharp blade presses against my throat. “Or this one, for that matter.”
I breathe hard through my nose to calm the racing of my pulse.
The murderous expression on his face is one I’ve never seen before. Not even when Boyd was shooting at us. “Put the blade down. Now.”
“I see it in your eyes, Lucian. The same look when you were fawning all over that French whore. Obsession. You’re obsessed, and we know what happens when you become obsessed with something.”
“I swear to God, I will kill you myself, if you so much as nick her skin.”
“Dr. Voigt said obsessions aren’t good for you. He told me it’s important to eliminate the sources of your obsessions. She is the source.”
“Mother, I’m warning you.” Lucian rounds the end of the bed, and with the burn of the blade’s edge peeling through a thin layer of skin at my throat, I don’t so much as swallow.
This woman is crazy, and one wrong move might leave me bleeding out.
“Did you ever stop to wonder if she’s even real?” She pets the top of my head, blade steady for a quick slice. “You know, there’s only one way to find out.”
Breath held, I smack her arm away, and the knife falls with a clang to the floor. I roll to the side, as she bends down to snatch it up, and at the sharp yank of my hair, a jagged light dances behind my eyelids.
Lucian lurches toward her, and she releases me. “I’ll see to it that you spend the rest of your life in a cage,” he growls.
Dodging her flailing, knife-toting hand, he backs her onto the bed, and I scramble for the other side to avoid the scuffle.
“I’d sooner die than be locked away like an animal!” Laura screams from behind.
A sputtering cough follows.
I hear the sound of a body falling to the floor.
When I turn back, Lucian appears almost paralyzed, where he stands with his palms up, shock blanching his face.
With blood on his skin.
Chapter 64
Lucian
A blinding light reflects off the hallways on my way toward the room at the end. The low droning sound of classical music plays over the speaker as, adjusting my cuffs, I come to a stop before the door. I open it to find my mother strapped to a bed, her hands and legs bound by restraints. She turns her head to the side, her expression softening at the sight of me.
“Lucian! Oh, I’m so glad you’re here, dear. I’m ready to go home now.”
I don’t say a word as I stare down at her. The wound at her throat, where she dragged the blade, has healed to a grisly scar. Dark rims around her eyes tell of little sleep, and the straggle of her unkempt hair makes her look like she belongs in a straitjacket.
At the approach of someone from behind, I turn to see Friedrich enter the room, wearing his white coat, hands tucked in the pockets. He stands beside me and sets a hand to my shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of her.”
My mother’s eyes harden to fear, her brows pinched tight. “No. No, please. I want to go home.”
With a light squeeze, Friedrich exits the room, leaving me alone with my mother once again.
“You tried to kill yourself.” The flat tone of my voice is as devoid of emotion as my heart when I stare back at her. “Why is that?”
Gaze shifting from mine, she seems to think about it for a moment. “The way you looked at me. I’ve never seen such a thing in my life. Not even from your father, as cruel as he could be.” When her eyes meet mine again, they flicker with fear. “Like death would’ve been better than what you intended to do to me right then.”
“And is it, mother?”
Mouth open, she trails her gaze over the mostly empty white room, and her lip trembles. “Is this death? Purgatory?”
“You tell me.”
Tears well in her eyes, and she breaks into a sob. “I’m sorry. For what I did to you. You have to forgive me. You have to. I’m your mother.”
The tears, the weakness in her voice, the frailty of her appearance, like she might snap any moment, they have no effect on me. Not when all I can see is my son’s sleeping face, lips blue with the death she gifted him. The truth is, had she not slit her own throat, I could’ve very well done it myself. “I’ll never forgive you for what you stole from me.”
“I’m better now, though. I’m not angry anymore. Lucian, please take me home.”
“This is your home now.” There isn’t an ounce of empathy left in me for this woman. That she could so easily snuff an innocent life without a hint of remorse proves it doesn’t take unsightly facial scars to make a monster. “Don’t worry. Dr. Voigt said he’ll take good care of you.”
Eyes wide, she pants, tugging at her binds. “What did you tell them? What did you tell them about me, Lucian?”
“What do you think I told them, mother? That you’re a child killer.”
I sit across the desk from Friedrich, watching him jot notes into my medical chart.
Adjusting his spectacles, he looks up, holding the pen poised. “For years, we’ve watched you very closely. You neither show interest, nor choose to participate in any sessions. You’ve shown no history of abuse, as far as we know, and the maid you hired to fulfill your sexual needs reported no deviances, or unusual requests.”
“Perhaps the gene for sadism only extends over a certain number of generations.”
“Or perhaps you haven’t been pushed far enough. Be careful what you choose to mock.”
“My apologies.” I’m only playing along for Isa’s sake, nothing more.
He lifts his glasses and reads from the file in front of him. “It seems you requested the murder of Franco Scarpinato, but you didn’t directly carry out this session. Instead, you solicited your bodyguard to torture him on your behalf.”
“I wanted only the best to carry out his punishment.”
My apathy must finally be getting to him, because he eases back in his chair and huffs, eyes appraising, as always. “You fear becomi
ng your father.”
“I’m sure I’m not alone in that thought.”
“Of course not. But your fears are concerning, as it relates to our study. If you won’t be honest, you could end up being a danger to yourself and others. We exist to provide an environment for you to carry out those sadistic tendencies. Unburdened by society, or morality.”
Just send me to hell already. If I was back at the office, I’d be on my second drink by now. This guy isn’t going to give up for as long as I have to be a part of this shit-show. That’s how it works with these scientists. They’ll beat a dead horse until it’s nothing but a mangled piece of flesh, if it means proving their theories. “I’ll confess that I have urges sometimes.”
Sitting forward in his chair, he sets the file aside and entwines his fingers. The intrigue on his face is what I’d expect of a priest getting offered a free hand job by a nun. “What kind of urges? Sexual, like your father? Or non-sexual?”
“Non-sexual.”
“And how do you deal with these urges?”
“Sometimes, I’ll cut myself. But mostly, I just … try to think of something else.”
“Would you be open to participating in a session? Nothing too involved. We have an older gentleman who comes in every so often. We think he might be developing an affinity toward some of the abuses. In exchange, his rent gets paid every month.”
I probably just signed over my human rights for a guinea pig with this confession. “How light?”
“A few cuts. Nothing too deep.”
Cutting myself has always been for the high, much like holding my breath under water, but Friedrich has always sought to turn it into something malicious and perverse. I don’t get off on watching other people bleed. The innocent ones, anyway. “I’ll consider that.”
“Excellent. Then, we’ll continue to observe. For now.” Sliding my file open again, he jots a few notes, underlining one that leaves me inwardly groaning: observation. “I have to give you credit. Considering all you’ve been through, and the history of sadism in your family, you demonstrate tremendous restraint.” Crossing his arms, he shakes his head. “How?”
“It can be a struggle at times, but I keep myself occupied.”
“Any sexual thoughts that might be considered more violent?”
My thoughts slip back into the night before, when I was buried deep inside Isa, the only violence in me from thinking what I’d do if anyone laid a finger on her, and going so far as to imagine severing said finger. “Not at all.”
He snaps the folder closed and places my chart on the desktop. “It’s a shame things didn’t pan out with Mr. Boyd. That he would offer his daughter for study, then just take off with the girl without any word. Doesn’t make sense. Never called. Never contacted us again. It’s been months now.”
“Shame. Perhaps he changed his mind about the program.”
“Perhaps. Obviously, his interests were never aligned with our own.”
“I guess not. Maybe we’ll hear from him again one day.”
The elevator door opens up onto the dark hallway of the catacombs, lit only by the few floodlights that line the hallway. Drink in hand, I stroll toward the room on the right and set my key in the lock to open the door. I whistle the notes of the song I wrote a while back, the one Isa plays for me on the occasions she tries to seduce me, and I flip on the lights.
Whimpers bounce off the walls as I make my way toward the cage that’s against the far wall, within which Boyd sits hunched over himself, naked and bruised from torture. Parts of his skin show patches of burns, and when he tips his head back, the stitching over his empty eye socket looks red and swollen.
“You’re picking at it again.”
“S-s-sorry.” His body trembles at my approach, and when I crouch down beside the cage, I tilt my head to the side and find bugs crawling over his last meal.
“Not hungry?”
Gaze lowered, he looks away and shakes his head.
“That’s too bad.” With a sigh, I rise to my feet and nab one of the long metal poles that’s hanging on the wall beside other tools. When I grab the mag torch from the counter, and light it to warm the end of the rod, his whimpers intensify, and he moves toward the opposite side of the cage. “A while back, when we first began these little sessions, you called me a sadistic bastard. Remember that?” In the blazing flame, I twist the end of the rod, until it begins to glow orange.
“I’m sorry. I’m …. I didn’t mean to.”
“No, no. It made me think. In fact, I’ve been thinking of what you said ever since. Tell me, Patrick. Do you know the difference between a sadist and a psychopath?”
He shakes his head, his bare feet scraping against the cement as he kicks himself farther back.
“I didn’t, either, at first. But in recent weeks, I think I’ve finally come to understand. The difference is very simple: empathy.” I set the torch on the countertop and dial off the flame. With the end glowing hot, I make my way back toward the cage and crouch down beside it. “I didn’t think I had it in me to personally kill another man. My father made it sound so easy, and I was certain, my whole life, the bastard was a psychopath. But that’s the thing. It’s not about empathizing with the victim. In this case, it’s empathizing with your victim, Patrick. All I have to do is imagine Isa tied to that filthy fucking bed. Your hands on her. Your breath in her face. Suddenly, I have all sorts of fucking feelings. Deep-seated feelings. Anger. Rage.”
The tremble of his body rattles the cage against the stone wall.
“So, here’s the deal. I’m going to give you a choice this time. We can keep this up for as long as you like, or I can plunge this rod right through your throat and watch you sputter for breath for the last time.” I click the end of the rod against the cage, smiling when he twitches. “Your choice, Patrick.”
It takes a few minutes before he finally looks up at me, and when he does, the decision written all over his face makes my heart swell.
Epilogue
Isadora
Four months later ...
Blindfolds are the most frustrating thing when at the mercy of Lucian Blackthorne. I never know what I’m in for.
Who am I kidding? I never know what I’m in for, even without the blindfold.
The leather seat, warmed by the heater, is a welcomed comfort, with the temps having taken a dramatic nosedive in recent weeks. What I’d guess is the Bugatti’s engine hums along at speeds I couldn’t begin to calculate. Which is probably a good thing, with Lucian behind the wheel.
My stomach twists from the force of acceleration pressing down on my body. “Why the blindfold, though? I’d at least like to see death before it hits me.” I squeeze the edge of the seat, desperate to hold onto something.
The sound of his chuckle is one I’ll never tire from. Dark and wicked, it seems to have a direct link to the muscles in my thighs and prompts me to cross them all the time. “I promise it’ll be worth it.”
“Death?”
He chuckles again, twitching my thigh. “The blindfold.”
“If you say so.”
Ten minutes later, I can hardly stand it anymore. My temples itch with the silky fabric tied tight enough to keep me from peeking.
Thankfully, the vehicle rolls to a stop. His hand slides out of mine. The car door slams. In seconds, a blast of autumn air hits my side, and at the warm grip on my arm, I climb out of my seat. A gentle tug prompts me to step cautiously, one hand out in front, while the other remains imprisoned in his grasp.
We come to a stop, and something is curled into my palm. Cold and metallic, with teeth along the edge. I’m guessing it’s, “A key?”
The blindfold slips away, and I focus past the floating objects, my vision coming into sharp focus on the sign overhead.
Vellichor.
I glance down to the key again, and to Lucian standing beside me. “What is this?”
“Yours.”
A cold, tingly sensation slithers beneath my skin. Confusion render
s me momentarily dizzy, and I stumble back a step to be caught by his arm. I open my mouth, my throat tight, trapping words inside my chest.
Shock, I’m guessing. Icy, numbing, can’t-spit-out-a-single-word shock.
“I finalized the paperwork with Rhea the other day.” His words add to the confusion, spinning in my head like an alphabet hurricane.
“Rhea?”
“The day I accompanied you on errands. You went out to the car. I told her if she was interested in selling at any point, I’d like first refusal.”
“So, you ... you … bought this? For me?” I swallow hard at the first sting of tears. Trembles settle in, and I exhale a shaky breath. Any minute now, I’m going to wake up. This will all have been a dream. Lucian. Laura. Blackthorne Manor. All of it.
Don’t wake up. Please don’t wake up!
“If you’re not interested in running it, we can hire management staff. Whatever you nee--”
Before I can stop myself, I leap into the air, wrapping my arms around his neck, and he catches me. Tears swell in my eyes, which I fight to hold back, because why the hell am I crying when I’m happy?
He sets me down on the pavement and seizes my lips in a kiss. “This place brought you comfort, when everyone shunned you. I’d have paid twice as much. For you.”
The blur in my eyes sharpens to his face as the tears slip down my cheeks. “I can’t believe you did this. Thank you.”
He thumbs the moisture away and tips his head, staring at me as if he’s searching for any sign of doubt. “I take it that’s a yes? You’re interested?”
With a chuckle, I nod. “Definitely.” I rise up on my tiptoes and kiss him again.
“So, then, are you going to stand out here in the cold, kissing me all day, or are you going to open the door to your bookshop?”