“He was trying to get into your head,” Matheson said grimly.
“Yeah. It was invasive. I didn’t like it. He’s not my dominant and I don’t have to give him anything.”
“Wait, you think he’s a dominant? Like Charlie?”
I hesitated, trying to find the best way to explain it. “Let’s just say he has some of those characteristics, but I’d never willingly play a scene with him.”
“Not attracted to him?”
“That has nothing to do with it, at least for me. I find more things attractive than how a guy looks. He’s okay in that department but nothing that necessarily screams at me for attention. But as a dominant? No way.”
“Why? Help me understand. I think it’ll help me work with him better as a partner.”
“There’s no trust with him. No safety. No respect. He doesn’t respect procedures, right? He doesn’t respect you as his partner. That’s very apparent even though I’ve only seen you interact once.”
“Yeah.” She drew the word out. “Working with women in general is a problem for him. It’s been noted in his file.”
“So now take that general lack of respect and multiply it by a million. That’s how bad it’d be for a submissive to give herself to him. Because he doesn’t respect her in the first place, let alone feel any gratitude for her gift to him. In his mind, it’s his due. Every woman ought to duck her head and scurry to do his will.”
“The hell I will,” Matheson said grimly.
“Don’t let him touch me again. Please. Don’t leave me alone with him. I don’t want him anywhere near me if I can help it.”
“And you never felt this way with MacNiall?”
“Never.” I shook my head. “He scared me at times, but it wasn’t... It’s hard to explain. He never made me feel less because I’m submissive, let alone a woman. What I gave to him, he treasured, every word and gesture and action. I gave him more than he asked for, because I liked it, and he tolerated it for me. He never took anything from me without my consent and I never doubted that I could refuse and he’d immediately stop. I had safety with him that I’ve never known with anyone else.”
“But not with Rusk,” Matheson said quietly.
“No.”
“Duly noted. So how can you tell that note didn’t come from MacNiall? Other than the pet name?”
“We had two major scenes. The biting scene and—”
“Hold on a sec. You only had sex two times with MacNiall?”
I snorted. “Yeah, no, we had lots of sex. But we only did two hardcore BDSM scenes. We didn’t play like that every single time he touched me.” I had a feeling that Matheson might be blushing. Evidently she was learning way more about BDSM than she’d expected to. “The first time, he bit me. The second time, he was upset, even angry, when he looked at the bite marks on me. He said they weren’t his. That he hated them, even though he loved how they looked on me.”
“The bites weren’t his,” Matheson said slowly. “His mark? His signature?”
“Exactly. I asked what he’d rather do.” I took a deep breath and gathered my courage. “He wanted to cut me.”
“You didn’t let him.”
“I did. He cut his mark into me. Did any of your other victims have any cut marks on them?”
“No, none. Why the hell didn’t you say any of this last night?”
“Rusk.” I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself. “I didn’t want him to know that about me. That I’d be willing to go that far.”
“What did he cut on you and where?”
Closing my eyes, I traced the shape on my thigh, though I couldn’t feel it beneath my jeans. My body remembered exactly where those healing cuts were. “The number two, on my thigh.”
“A two? Why?”
“It’s a poem. ‘The Second Coming’ by Yeats.”
“That’s different. I’ll have to look it up and see if it gives us any more clues.” Matheson paused a moment, as if her mind was racing a mile a minute. “You really don’t think MacNiall is our guy.”
“No. I don’t. He’s scary. He’s dangerous. When I told him that Tasker grabbed my arm...” I bit my lip, afraid I’d said too much. I had to remember she was here to put Charlie behind bars. She wasn’t my friend or confidante.
“He got angry, huh?”
“He said he’d kill anyone who hurt me.”
“So who wants to hurt you, Miss Killian? Why would he bite you, leaving that telltale mark for us to find, and then abandon you?”
I shrugged, then stood up so I could pace. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t think he’d hurt you.”
“Not like that. He did hurt me. He cut me. He bit me. I’ve still got bruises. But it was consensual, all the way. He never did anything to me until I fully understood what he wanted and gave my consent. He would never kill me.”
“So you’re telling me in those dark scenes, with a knife, blood and pain, that you never thought you were going to die?”
“Not exactly. I was afraid. That was part of the scene. He’s dangerous enough he could kill me. I know that. But he trusted me and I trusted him.”
“Why would he have to trust you? He was the one with the knife.”
Looking in the mirror over my delicate white dresser, I didn’t recognize the woman looking back at me. Two years ago, I’d moved home a broken shell of myself. I’d been listless and so severely depressed I hadn’t been able to get out of bed without constant nagging and considerable pharmaceutical assistance. Yet here I was, day one at my parents’ house yet again, but I was upright, pacing and working to keep Charlie out of trouble. I was sharing things about myself that I’d never dared tell anyone before. I understood myself more than ever before.
And what I saw, I didn’t hate. Not anymore. I’d worked too hard to understand myself, and better yet, protect myself. The past two years had been a hard, miserable journey, but I’d made it. I’d survived.
“He trusted me to stop him. The ultimate trust for a sadist with his kind of kinks.”
“What are his kinks?” When I hesitated, Matheson turned on the full charm of her good-cop routine. “Please, Ranay. The more I know, the more I can help him.”
I repeated what he’d said he wanted that very first night. “He wants to scare me. He wants to hurt me. And then he wants to fuck me so hard he’s hurting and scaring me all over again. Even better if I bleed.”
Matheson gulped. “Bleed?”
“Yeah. That’s his main kink. He wants the blood.”
“And you still don’t believe he’d kill you.”
“Not on my life.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Wagging her tail, Sheba sat at my feet, patiently waiting while I unlocked the front door. With her by my side, I wanted to be back in Charlie’s house. Nothing would get past her. She looked a little odd with the bare patch shaved on her shoulder, but Dr. Wentworth was so pleased with her recovery that she’d let me bring her home after two nights’ stay at the clinic. Sheba brushed past me into the house, trotting quickly through every room. At first, I thought she wanted to make sure no one had broken in again, but when she returned, she laid down on the rug, stretched out her paws and lowered her head to the floor. Whining, she stared at the door.
Waiting for Charlie to come home.
Blinking back tears, I squatted, then stroked her head. “I know. I miss him too.”
She lifted her head and stared at me expectantly. The longer I hesitated, the more anxious she became. Her ears flickered up and down, her tail swishing on the floor, only to stop, stiff, like a brush. She cocked her head, waiting.
A command. She wants a command. But what?
She’d been shot and almost died. I’d done nothing but worry about Charlie and deal with the police. She had to know we were in danger. I stroked her and crooned. She whined and licked my chin, but kept staring at me, her large eyes locked on my face.
“I miss him too, girl. I want him to come home so badly, I can�
��t bear it. I hate being alone. I wish it were all over. Everything. Done.”
She whined again, her ears drooping. Disappointing my Master was bad enough, but disappointing his dog? Ugh. She wanted something and I had no idea what. I ran through all the commands I knew. The easy ones, like sit, stay, come, ball, food, outside, lie down, rollover. Any well-trained dog knew those.
But Sheba also knew guard. Probably attack too, though that had been her instinct. This was something different. She was sad, whining, needing something. Missing the master, like me.
He would have known this day would come.
That made me drop to my knees and cup her head, searching her doggie face. “What is it, Sheba? What did he teach you?”
She gave a little bark, short and brief, her ears perking. Yeah, I’m on the right track. Damn it, I wish she could talk and tell me what’s going on in that furry head of hers!
What other words had Charlie taught me? Strike. That was close to attack.
Then it struck me. Red. He’d taught me red first. If I’d failed that safeword test, none of this would have been possible. Red, my need for him to stop. My emergency word.
Emergency.
Holding my breath, I whispered, “Red.”
Sheba raced to the back door. We couldn’t go out that way, not with the plywood still covering the door. I zipped my coat up and grabbed my keys, just in case we needed to drive somewhere. I opened the front door and she ran out, pausing on the porch steps while I shut the door. Then she led me around the house to the backyard. Without hesitating she went to the outdoor shed and sat in front of the door, waiting for me to catch up.
Paint faded and peeling in the elements, it looked like a normal shed, even on the inside. A lawnmower sat over in the corner. The smell of gas, oil and grass clippings filled my nose. A red metal toolbox sat against the other wall. A few empty pots were stacked in the corner. Charlie didn’t strike me as much of a gardener.
Sheba went to the middle of the small storage room and scratched at the old green outdoor carpet covering the floor. I pushed the carpet back and found a trapdoor. Where the outside of the shed appeared as old as the house, the wood covering the floor looked brand new. Maybe because of the protective carpet, but I had a feeling Charlie must have altered it. Adrenaline made my hands shake, but I grabbed the latch, pulled the door up, and laid it back. An old, rickety-looking set of steps led down into the darkness. Sheba jumped down into the hole without hesitation.
Me, I hated dark creepy places. It smelled old and dank, like a grave. I could only imagine the spiders and creepy crawlers and snakes.
Sheba yipped at me, trying to hurry me along. Sighing, I pulled out my phone and used it as a flashlight so I could scan the sides. An old root cellar. There were ancient shelves on the walls, still loaded with petrified home-canned jars. As gingerly as possible, I climbed down the few steps, automatically ducking and cringing to keep from touching the nasty cobwebs draped like rotting curtains over everything.
The space was small, six or seven feet long and barely a foot over my head. I couldn’t imagine coming down here in case of a tornado, but at least this time of year, all of the bugs and snakes were dead or hibernating. The only thing not coated in thick dust was a silver box sitting in the middle of the floor with a heavy-duty flashlight on top of it. Sheba sat beside it, wagging her tail and looking extremely pleased with herself. I think she was smiling.
I squatted down in front of the box and flipped on the flashlight so I could put my phone away. The box was the shape and size of a briefcase with a three-digit dialing lock holding it shut. Great. I had no idea what the code would be to open it. Unless... I tried 222, the same number he’d used on his bank account, but the lid wouldn’t open. I looked up at Sheba, her goofy, grinning dog face with her tongue hanging out. He would have made it easy, right? And he would have known Sheba would be with me. I wouldn’t have found this old cellar without her.
I crawled closer to her and ran my fingers around her collar, looking for her tags. She wore two: one had Charlie’s name and address on it, and the other had her rabies shot information. The rabies number was too long for the three-digit lock. I flipped the bone-shaped tag with Charlie’s information on it over. Engraved on the back: 883.
Fingers shaking, I shifted the dials to those numbers and the lid clicked. I held my breath and opened the lid. A stack of papers lay on top. I unfolded the first one and tipped it toward the light so I could read. It was the deed to his house. In my name. My house is your house.
Stunned, I set it aside. The other papers were account statements. One I recognized by the balance, the one he used to pay the bills automatically for the house. The numbers blurred together, so large they didn’t make sense to me. I set them aside too. The right-hand side of the case was loaded with stacks of cash. I’d never seen so much in one place. The other side had another small case, a coil of delicate silver chain and a phone.
A phone. I grabbed it and hit the power button. It was a no-name disposable phone, but heavy and substantial. The battery still held its charge, and once it powered on, there was only one contact listed.
Charlie.
I could call him. I could talk to him.
If I wanted. That was my Master all the way. Tears pooled in my eyes, but I didn’t hit Call yet. I had to know everything.
I picked up the silver chain, trying to decide what it was. It was two separate pieces, one longer with rings on either end, and another shorter one attached in the middle with another ring. An open lock fell off in the dirt. I fished it out and held it up in front of the flashlight. My wicked subbie mind could come up with all sorts of wonderful things to do with locks and chains. It wasn’t his collar, the big, thick heavy leather one. This chain was more delicate. Maybe for delicate nether regions? The silver chain, wrapped around my waist, with the shorter one just tight enough to slide deliciously against my pussy with every single step. Locked around my waist. No key. Naturally.
It was all I could do not to strip down and slide the chain into place. But that’d be stupid since I didn’t know how long he’d be gone. To make it a good chastity device, it wouldn’t be comfortable for bathroom visits, at least not for long. I dropped the chain and lock to the opposite side and turned my attention to the small case.
No lock. It opened easily, but the gun inside made me gasp. I snapped the lid shut as hard and quickly as if a cobra poised inside, ready to strike.
All my hopes and dreams, and all my fears, packed away inside this one briefcase. I could call him. But he’d also reminded me exactly of who and what he was.
A killer. That wouldn’t ever change. Not if his secret stash contained cash and a gun. He’d always be prepared to pick up and disappear. I’d have to be willing to live like that too if I wanted to be with him. I’d have to say goodbye to my family, Dr. Wentworth and her clinic, my friends on the forum. I’d have to get used to seeing him with guns and knives. To know that he killed people. Maybe not good, innocent people, but people.
The man I loved was a murderer. An assassin for hire, who was so good at his job that he had left me stacks of cash, a house and over twenty thousand dollars in that one account.
But he was still Charlie. My Master. He already held the key to my heart. He’d already locked me to him.
On my knees on the dirt floor of the cellar, I hit dial and waited to hear his voice. Tears trickled down my cheeks. I ached so badly to hear his voice. To know that he was okay. That he still wanted me. That he thought about me, even a little. That this wasn’t a horrible nightmare. He was real. What we had together was real.
One ring. Two. Three. Oh God, he’s not going to answer. It’s just a cruel joke. He’s gone. I should have known...
The phone clicked and my heart stopped beating. Breathlessly, I waited.
“Good girl, kitten,” his rich voice purred over the phone, burning all my fears to ash. “I knew you could do it.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
; “Charlie,” I whispered, closing my eyes so I could imagine that he was here with me. “Master.”
And then I was babbling. “The FBI thinks you’re a serial killer and Sheba got shot, but she’s okay. She’s here, obviously, because she helped me find this stuff, and—”
“Ranay.” His hard, intent voice cut through my chatter and I stilled, clutching the phone. “He’s approached you by now. Someone you don’t trust. Someone who scares you. Who is it?”
“Rusk. One of the FBI agents. He said he’s your old partner.”
He was silent for several long moments. Even though we were only connected by a phone call, I could feel an icy rage building in him. I huddled against Sheba for warmth.
“Don’t...” His breathing rasped harshly. “Don’t let him touch you. I’ve seen what he’s capable of.”
“I won’t. Not again.”
He went still and silent, the cold intensifying. “What did he do?”
“He made me look at him. Only a touch on the chin. But I didn’t like it.” I swallowed hard. “He tried to make me accept his will. Like he thought he could step into your place and take over.”
“If he tries to make you look at him like that again, stab him in the eye. You’re carrying a blade now, yes?”
When he’d first taught me those moves, it’d made me sick to think about hurting someone. But if Rusk tried to touch me again, absolutely. “Yeah. I’ll get him.”
“Good girl.”
I’d never dreamed that he’d praise me because I’d promised to stab a man in the eye. “He shot Sheba.”
“Then he must be the man who tried to come in through the sliding glass door. She remembers his scent. He’s the real serial killer. He’s the reason...”
The bottom of the world suddenly fell out and I was cast adrift, drowning in an endless frigid sea. “He’s the reason you found me.”
“You’re the perfect bait, Ranay.” His voice echoed with sorrow, regrets and broken dreams. My broken dreams. “You’re my perfect bait. That’s why I knew he’d come after you too.”
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