Hope Restrained (Estate Series)

by M. S. Willis

  His eyes were heavy, his breathing slow and his body protested the simple motion of his lungs expanding and contracting. He was left lying in a puddle of his own blood and sweat.

  Even more tortuous than their fists were the words — the lies — that they spoke.

  “She lives …”

  It was impossible. He’d seen her eyes left empty and dull, her body cut and broken, hanging from a wall. Her sister, the one thing she’d cared to save, becoming the person who’d delivered the blows that took her life.

  He heard her scream, the memories — hazy and crude — the drugs still working their way through is system delivering back fragments of images, the spark of light off the chain, her tears that fell, the blood that ran in rivulets down the scars across her body. She’d lost control of herself, her body finding a release from the pain, her mind being torn apart to take pleasure in the depraved act of the men that held her.

  The scream echoed in his thoughts and his heart pounded to hear it, blood curdling and strong.

  “You’re screaming now, bitch, aren’t you?”

  The sound was muted, unreal. He never said that — Patrick never said that. Hope had never given him what he wanted, but then …

  The scream. Anguish and pain, heartache and loss, it went on for what felt like forever and it tore at his heart. It couldn’t be real. She never gave it to him. She fought until the end. Even when her body was forced to act in opposition to her mind, when the one bit of light she had was used to deliver her to darkness, she never gave in. But the scream he heard — whether it was memory or reality — it was the sound of her soul shattering, of her limits finally being pushed.

  Xander’s blue eyes opened. Crusted blood blocked the clarity of his vision and he reached up to wipe it from his face. His heart pounded harder, his wounds aching under the sudden pressure pushing through his veins. The wet trails that dripped along his skin, seeped harder and faster, the puddles beneath him rippling from the drops falling from his skin.

  “Show me how much you like it, bitch! Fight against me now!”

  Another muffled phrase and he shook his head to chase away the confusion.

  The scream again, louder — even louder and his fists clenched, his jaw ticked, his entire body came alive to hear it. It had to be impossible. It couldn’t be true.

  The sound of a table moving, a rhythmic pounding against a wall; he looked up.

  “Fuck you, you sick son of a bitch!”

  His heart stopped, his entire body froze, but his spirit was reborn. That sound — those words — it couldn’t be, but it was.

  Hope still existed — she lived — and she was fighting against the bastard still. How long had it been?

  Chains shook when Xander moved his arms and legs and he felt around his body. His guns had been stripped, every weapon removed and taken. He slipped a finger along the inside of his belt and smiled to feel the thin bit of steel that still remained hidden beneath the thick strap of leather. Hope’s blade — the one she’d used to stab him when he’d first captured her. It was a tiny, unnoticeable weapon. So easily concealed that even searched, they hadn’t found it. She’d told him it was her favorite — a hidden surprise that had saved her ass in countless fights and now, it remained tucked away and within his reach.

  He pulled the blade from beneath the belt, still listening to her screams. Anger raced through his veins, feral rage exploding within his heart and mind.

  The pounding, it was angry and raw. The walls shook from the other side, the guttural moans of one person satisfying every vile and depraved urge that his bloodthirsty mind had dreamed up.

  Pulling his hand over his body, forcing the broken bones to still work within his fingers, he used the thin blade to pick at the locks on his chains.

  Click …

  It released the metal shackle slipping from his wrist — her screams driving him to keep going.

  Click … The second shackle fell.

  “I’ll fuck you bloody bitch — just how I know you like it!”

  Xander’s eyes widened. His body shaking with unbridled fury. She screamed again — this one punctuated by the shame of her orgasm. He knew she absorbed it, gathering the energy inside her, combining it with years of abuse, years of training, years of turbulent wrath. He worked faster at the chains, the links clattering against each other, his body jumping when the broken bones moved — but he wouldn’t stop.

  It was faint when he heard it: men screaming, shouting and arguing. He stopped for only a second and when the gunfire erupted, his breath caught in his chest. Hope’s screams stopped and it was quiet for a moment.

  And then hell broke loose.

  Down, two stories below him, but so loud, it sounded like it was in the hallway on the opposite side of the door: men dying, torn apart by bullets and blades. Shot after shot after shot, guns were fired. Screams and cries, madness and chaos.

  Xander smiled.

  A door opened and slammed closed on the other side of the wall. Hurried and heavy, the fall of boots on the floor, running. The sound of another door and the room was left in muted symphony of the war taking place below him and laughter — Hope’s laughter. He laughed to hear it and worked harder at the chains, desperate to free the shackles at his ankles. The blade cut into the tips of his fingers, but he wouldn’t give up. He needed to reach her. He needed to place his hands on her and find that the warrior was still alive inside her.

  Click …

  Metal falling against the tiled floor, once more.

  Footsteps up and down stairs, walls shaking from the bodies hitting against them. They’d reached the second floor. He worked faster, blood now dripping along the blade he used to pick the lock …

  Click.

  Relief flooded his body. He pushed up and fell back to the floor. His body was weak, electric pain shooting along his nerves with his movement, but he pushed up again until he was standing on unsteady legs. Using the walls to support his weight, he moved through the room, reaching the door and finding it unlocked. His breath rolled over his lips, hot and heavy, his blood pounding through his head. A thundering rush of adrenaline finally forcing its way through his body and he was out the door.

  Chapter Thirty

  Hope laid on the table, chained down, the crimson drips formed trails that slid alongside the links, which pooled and flooded the ground below her. Death teased her, sitting closely, watching her, but not approaching, refusing to grant her oblivion.

  Her skin was scored, the cuts not deep enough to bleed her out entirely. Wounds made to damage but not kill. She stared the beast down as he hurt her — the blindfold removed when he’d returned. He wanted to see her pain — her fear. She didn’t give it to him.

  But, even in her abject refusal, he pulled her screams from her body, bathed in the pleasure of a woman who couldn’t resist the bite. Her body betrayed her, but her mind remained strong. She focused on his death, kept the image of his body ripped apart and bloody in her mind. It pushed her through the worst parts, created a barrier behind which she could escape his loathsome amusement.

  Her throat was raw and her muscles would twitch randomly across her body. Waves of euphoria flowing through her, pouring over her, delivering her to the darkness, were awakening the demon inside her. One focus — one objective — she vowed to make his death slow.

  She heard the gunshots, felt the tremors in the walls of the house from a fight transpiring beneath her. Patrick face turned white when he finally heard it as well — when he recognized the sounds of fighting. She laughed when he ran, half in satisfaction, half from insanity; her laughter followed him out of the room and down the hall where he ran scared from what was coming into the house.

  The door opened, the blinding light from the hallway pouring in. A large silhouette broke through, bent over and practically dragging. She couldn’t see his face. The skin around her eyes was swollen from where her cheekbone had been broken. She blinked her eyes, forced them to acclimate to the light. He stepped
forward and the light from the candles reflected in his eyes.

  She couldn’t breathe suddenly, and her heart raced while her entire body froze. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she pulled at her chains, not because she sought freedom but because she was desperate to go to him — to touch him — to know that it was possible that he still lived.

  He reached her, his face bruised and bloody, his eyes as swollen as hers. The warmth of his palm was immediately on her cheek and her body shook violently with her sobs. Reality splintered again, but came back into focus. The sounds beneath them disappeared, nothing existing outside of the room. His touch was the only thing she could feel; each broken bone, each slice across her skin, each and every wound silenced by the warmth of his hand.

  “You’re not real. You can’t be real. I watched you die.” It was a breathless whisper that pushed past the fire in her throat and over her broken lips.

  He grinned. “No, Sunshine. It’s you who’s not real.” The candlelight caught a tear that ran down his cheek and she cried harder, overtaken by emotions she never dreamed she could feel. He leaned down and brushed his mouth over hers — the simple touch sending her spirit soaring. Redemption was held in that kiss, a wish finally come true. Fate had never been so kind and she smiled against his lips.

  When he finally pulled away, he pulled something from his sleeve and held it up. She grinned to see her blade held in his hand, the same one she used to hurt him, the same one she’d demanded he carry on him when they first walked into this nightmare.

  “It’s very useful for picking locks.” He grinned back at her.

  One by one, he removed her chains and helped her sit up on the table. He examined her wounds, ensuring himself that she would survive each and every one. “Can you walk?”

  Moving her arms and legs to see if they moved, she pushed herself off the table, testing their strength. Her gold eyes met the deep blue of his. “Yes.”

  The sounds below them grew louder and she noticed the satisfaction that flitted across Xander’s expression.

  “Please tell me that the cavalry has arrived.”

  He grabbed her, pulling her body against his. Looking down at her, he responded, “It appears that Aaron has found us.”

  A short burst of elated laughter escaped her. “It’s about fucking time.”

  She pushed away from him and turned to pick through the knives and tools that only moments before had been used to torture her. Selecting a few blades, she turned back to Xander. “We need to find Patrick. Aaron better not kill him before I have the chance to do it myself.”

  Xander chuckled. “If you’re intent on killing him, then you’ll have to get to him before me.”

  Her swollen eyes narrowed at his words, the skin on her face protesting the motion. He laughed while reaching over his head and slowly pulling the shirt from his body. With each movement he made, she saw him grimace, pain obviously shooting like lightning through him.

  “How badly are you hurt?” It was her turn to look over the different bruises and wounds that covered his once perfect skin. Cuts ran across the broad expanse of his chest and down along the muscles of his abdomen. Bruising blossomed out over his ribs and swirled with angry green, red and blue marks. She was surprised that he could still move with the injuries he’d suffered.

  “Bad, but I can still fight.” He held the shirt out to her. “Put this on. It’s sweaty and bloody and nasty, but I can’t stand to let another man see you.”

  Taking the shirt from his hands, she pulled it over her body. “And here I thought you were more concerned about allowing me my modesty.”

  He smirked. “Modesty is the last thing a woman like you worries about. I’m not a fool.” He leaned over and kissed her again. “However, I don’t have time to stab every man’s eyes out who looks at you when we cut through the crowd.”

  The walls shook again, more footsteps climbing the third flight of stairs. Xander turned his head towards the sound. “We have company.”

  They could hear the doors being thrown open as the men poured down the halls. Gunfire still punctured the air, the sound of metal against metal, the rattle of men choking on their own blood. The door opened and Hope readied the blades in her hand, her body falling into a fighting stance despite her injuries.

  “Aaron! He’s in here!”

  Their heads swiveled in the direction of the door to see Aaron stalk in, his expression blank and unreadable. He stilled when he entered the room and Hope noticed the blood that ran over his face, dripped from his hair; the blades held in his hands that were stained in a glistening crimson.

  Nobody spoke, three people staring at each other as if they were ghosts. Suddenly, Aaron’s feet moved, heavy boots falling across the tiled floor and his arms surrounded Xander, pulling his friend into an embrace that was flooded with relief and concern. Xander flinched from the pain and Aaron released him immediately, holding him by the shoulders looking over the wounds that Hope had earlier examined. “Can you fight?”

  Xander nodded, his voice deep and gritty when he responded, “You better fucking believe it.”

  The corner of Aaron’s lip turned up and he pulled a gun from the back of his pants. Handing it to Xander, he said, “Well, then — let’s do this.”

  Aaron turned to walk out the door and Hope yelled after him, “If you find Patrick, don’t you dare fucking kill him. That asshole is mine.”

  Aaron looked over his shoulder and smiled. “I’ll be sure to let my men know.”

  Surprise overtook her. Xander grabbed her hand and squeezed it to get her to look at him. “Stay at my back.”

  She squeezed his hand in return. “No, you stay at mine.”

  Entering the halls, Hope allowed the numbness to cover her, pulling from the pain of each injury on her body, she rushed into the fray, twisting and weaving through the men, her blade catching their throats or burying itself in their hearts. The blood sprayed from their bodies, spreading across her skin, bathing her in vengeance and reprieve. She came alive, each small movement of her body an instinct to survive and to destroy. She could feel Xander behind her, could hear the sickening crunch of their bodies broken by his fists. The sound of gunfire blasted behind her and she felt his back against hers, men falling to the floor around them as they turned.

  The strong iron scent of death and destruction wafted around her, men bleeding out and writhing on the floor. She’d become a machine as she cut threw them, her eyes open and searching for the one man she wanted most of all.

  When they’d cleared the hallway, Hope and Xander followed Aaron and his men down the stairwells, throwing open doors and tearing apart any man they found inside. Hope searched the faces of the dead, not recognizing most of them. Her body was tired and the pain became too much as she continued to move. Xander dragged at her side, and when enough of Patrick’s men had been slaughtered, Aaron and his team took over, allowing Hope and Xander to follow behind. They held onto each other providing support when the other became too weak to move forward. If not for her rage, she wouldn’t be able to walk, but she had to find the sick and depraved bastard who’d enslaved her sister and who sliced up Hope’s body while he raped her.

  Reaching the bottom floor, the house had become eerily quiet. Dead bodies littered the floors and Hope had to step over them and between them to look at each face and determine that Patrick was not amongst them.

  Calling out to Aaron and his men, she asked, “Have you found my sister? Any of the women that they held?”

  Aaron looked over at her from where he knelt down, graciously ending the life of some poor bastard whose stomach had been split open in the fight. “No.

  Xander commented, “You need to check the basement. Most of the captives were held there. From what I saw when we arrived, not many of them will be alive.”

  Aaron nodded and stood up. Looking at Jason, he motioned towards the back of the house that led into the dark and dank basement beneath. Jason followed without question, but both men stopped sudden
ly when Hope shouted, “Wait!”

  Their heads swiveled in her direction, watching as she stood up and walked over to join them. “If there are men hiding downstairs, can I trust you two to kill them and watch our backs while Xander and I search for the women?”

  Aaron’s brow arched over his eye and he smirked. “You are either very brave or very stupid for the way you think you can speak to me.”

  She shrugged. “You’re not royalty.”

  Xander grabbed her arm and forced her to step back from Aaron and Jason. “You’ll have to excuse her, she’s had a bad couple of days.”

  Aaron’s blinked.

  Xander grimaced. “Let’s go finish this.” His fingers dug into her skin, holding her still to allow Jason and Aaron to enter the room first. She heard fighting almost immediately when they passed the doors.

  She attempted to move forward but Xander pulled her away from the door. “I want to know if you’re ready for what we might find in there. I know your sister was kept in one of the smaller rooms downstairs. It has to have been two days since …” His expression fell and it was obvious to Hope that he was remembering what had occurred when they arrived.

  She nodded her head, swallowing down the lump in her throat that had formed from her fear. He kissed her on the forehead and placed an arm around her shoulders, his chest glistening with sweat. “After you.”

  She moved forward and after descending the stairs, she stepped over the bodies of the guards that Aaron and Jason had killed when they’d entered. Hope looked down at their faces, once again searching for one particular man.

  “Hope. Get in here!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Xander moved behind Hope towards a small room to their right. He recognized the room instantly as the one they’d led her sister out of earlier. Aaron and Jason stood by the door and Hope ran inside, immediately shouting her sister’s name when she found her on the floor.