Captive Beauty

by Natasha Knight

  “And now you’ve got it all, huh?” His expression changes, his eyes narrow, he leans back almost looking relaxed. “The house. The club. The status. The pretty girl.”

  Something about the way he says that last part bugs me.

  “Wouldn’t it be a shame if even one of those things were to be taken away.” He says the words taken away with special emphasis, his teeth gnashed together, like it’s a threat.

  I’m still processing when he continues.

  “What’s the matter? For the first time in our lives, have I got the last word, Cous?” he asks, standing.

  I hear the elevator doors slide open then. Surprised I turn toward it. Find Cilla standing there, her eyes wide as saucers.

  I take a step to her. “What are you doing?”

  She looks from me to Ben. “I heard—”

  Before she can finish, Ben leaps toward the desk, grabs the gun. I whirl around as he raises his arm, aiming the weapon at Cilla, cocking it. She screams at the same instant as the gun fires, as I tackle him to the ground, close my hand around his, the one that’s holding the weapon. But he’s cocked it again and it’s pressing against my chest. I manage to move just as it goes off once more, ripping flesh apart, sending blood and tissue against the walls, the desk, the carpet.

  I fall backward as I hear Cilla scream. I look to my shoulder, my jacket is shredded, there’s a deep gash in the skin beneath. It burns like fucking hell and when I turn to Ben, he’s staring at it too, like he’s more shocked than anyone.

  “Give me the fucking gun,” I say, not waiting for him to comply but taking it from him. He falls backward, he doesn’t even put up a fight. I stand, empty it of bullets and put it in the waistband of my pants.

  “I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m sorry.”

  “Stop your fucking rambling.” I look at Cilla who’s pressed against the far wall. She’s staring at the wound in my arm. I go to her. “Are you hurt?” She can’t seem to drag her eyes from the mess of my shoulder. I look her over, she’s not hurt. Just in shock. “You should have stayed downstairs.”

  I pull my phone out from inside my pocket, dial Hugo. He answers.

  “Where the fuck are you?” I bark into the phone.

  “Just pulling in. Fuck.” He must see Ben’s car.

  “My office. Now.” I disconnect the call, take Cilla to the couch, sit her down. “Stay.”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “It’s fine.” I turn to Benji who’s managed to get to his feet and is cowering in the corner. I go to him, take him by the collar of his shirt.

  “How dare you come in here threatening me in my own club, with my own fucking gun? How dare you threaten my girl? Aim a fucking gun at her?”

  “Cous—Kill, please.”

  “Did you watch it?” I ask, referring to what I know is on the USB stick.

  I know he did from the look in his eyes.

  “Fuck.” The elevator doors close, then a few minutes later, open again with Hugo. He steps inside, looks around.

  “Take him downstairs.” I need to figure out what to do with him.

  Hugo moves.

  “No! Get off me! You can’t do this!” Ben yells.

  Hugo drags him out. The doors close, leaving me with Cilla. She’s staring at me wide-eyed, her mouth open. She looks a mess, what’s left of her makeup is smeared, her hair half out of its twist, my blood on her dress.

  I realize I called her ‘my girl’ but she isn’t that. She never was.

  She could have been hurt tonight. Or worse. Her brother is lying in a hospital bed attached to too many machines after trying to kill himself. Is she better off for knowing me? Or is she in danger because of it? Is she a target for my enemies?

  I rub my face. My neck. I know what I have to do. There’s only one thing.

  “Are you…are you going to hurt him?” she asks.

  I don’t answer. What I need to do to Ben is separate of this. Separate of her. And if I wasn’t sure before, I am now.

  “You’re free,” I say.

  She looks at me, confused. “What?”

  “I’m releasing you from your contract. You’re free.”

  “I don’t—”

  But I think of something. “With one condition.” She stands. I go to her. “You stay away from The Black Swan.”

  I’m not breathing. Not blinking. I need to memorize her now because I have to let her go. I can’t ever see her again.

  When the elevator doors open again, Hugo steps into my office.

  I drag my eyes from Cilla. “Take her to her apartment. We’re done here.”

  Before anyone can speak, before I can change my mind, I step onto the elevator and I don’t look back when the doors close. I don’t look back when I’m downstairs or when I walk through the main room. Not when I step out into the bitterly cold, clear night and get to my car. It’s once I’m there I stop. I take a deep breath in, have to force it because the weight pushing against my chest doesn’t leave room for air. I force myself to move, to get in the car. To start the engine. To drive. I’m on autopilot, I can’t think. I drive. I head back to Rockcliffe House without her.

  Without her.

  25

  Cilla

  All I can do is stare at Kill’s back as he steps onto the elevator.

  He gave me what I wanted. Exactly what I asked for. So why do I feel like someone’s just knocked the wind out of me?

  “Ready?” Hugo breaks the silence. How could I have forgotten a man his size was in the room?

  “Y…yes.”

  He punches in the code, which I know from when Kill used it earlier to come upstairs, and we step onto the elevator. He doesn’t touch me and I take one last look around the office, at the blood splattered on every surface. Think about how Ben raised the gun and aimed it at me. How Kill took the bullet instead and saved my life.

  The doors slide closed. It’s an awkward ride down and, chilled, I hug my coat to myself. I don’t speak and barely breathe and Hugo escorts me outside and into a car—his, I presume—and we drive through the bitterly cold night to my apartment. He walks me upstairs. Unlocks my door. Enters it before me, walking through each of the rooms, turning on all of the lights, before setting my key on the counter and turning to leave. He doesn’t speak a word as he does all of this. He barely glances at me.

  Once he’s gone, I snap out of my daze. I pick up the key, lock the door. Lean my back against it.

  This place feels foreign. How can that be after only a few weeks? Even the smell is no longer familiar. I take off my coat and let it fall to the floor. My shoes come off next. Then the dress. The panties. I’m not wearing a bra. I leave it all as I go into my bedroom, switching off lights on my way.

  I wonder what would have happened tonight if Jones hadn’t done what he’d done. I can’t bring myself to say the words.

  When I get to the full-length mirror in my room, I stand before it. I’m naked but for the earrings. I wonder if he’ll want those back. I take each one off slowly, set them down on the nightstand. I’ll send them back to the club tomorrow.

  Tomorrow.

  But what if he changes his mind and comes for me?

  He won’t. I know he won’t. And the strange thing is, that’s the part that terrifies me. I won’t ever see Killian Black again.

  I follow the trail the tear that’s sliding down my face leaves. It’s a smear of pink where blood has dried on my cheek. His blood.

  He took a bullet for me.

  He called me his girl.

  But I’m not that anymore. Was I ever?

  I’m very tired suddenly. Like I can’t stay on my feet a moment longer. I draw the covers on my bed back. It should feel familiar, but it doesn’t. It’s like I’m lying in a stranger’s bed. What’s happened to me in the last two weeks?

  So much.

  So fucking much.

  I close my eyes. I want to shut everything out just for a few hours. I want to forget just for a little while. I entertain the thought of a
mnesia again. The hope of it. It’s useless, I know. Fantasy.

  When I wake up the next morning, I don’t feel any better. In fact, it’s like I didn’t sleep twelve hours straight. I’m so tired and heavy, I can barely drag myself out of bed and into the bathroom to shower. I stand under the water for a long time watching water pool at my feet. It’s pink at first. I didn’t realize how much blood was on me, in my hair. I should change the sheets. I should do a lot of things. But I can only manage to dress myself and sit on the couch with the phone in my hand.

  I dial the Dover Recovery Center and talk to a nurse there. I think she’s the one who was there the first day I’d gone in because she seems to recognize me.

  “How is my brother doing?”

  “He’s awake, woke up early this morning.”

  “But how is he?”

  She sighs. “The doctor is in with him now. Shall I ask him to call you after his meeting?”

  “Yes. Please.” I give her the number of the landline and wonder where my purse is. Where my cell phone is. As I hang up and as if on cue, the doorbell rings. My heart races as I go to answer, not sure who I expect to find, but still surprised when a courier is standing there with a box.

  “Priscilla Hawking?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sign here.”

  Absently, I do. I then take the box and he leaves. Inside, I find my laptop, my purse, wallet. Nothing else though. I’m not sure what I expect there to be. What would there be? A fucking note?

  I stand and decide instead of waiting for the doctor to call me, I’ll go see Jones myself. I’ll have to make some arrangements with them anyway. Neither Jones nor I can afford a place like that and I’ll assume they’ll want him out once they figure that out.

  When I get outside, I realize my car must still be at Jones’s apartment. I grab a taxi and take it there, and find it in exactly the place I’d parked that night and soon, I’m outside the Dover Recovery Center. I head inside and decide to bypass the reception desk but as I take a few steps down the hall, I’m greeted by the same nurse as the first time Kill brought me here. She seems surprised to see me.

  “Ms. Hawking?”

  I stop. Turn. “Yes?”

  “Didn’t Dr. Moore call you?”

  “Oh, maybe.” I had given him the landline. “I’m here though and I’d like to see my brother.”

  “Just a minute please. I’ll call the doctor to come talk with you.”

  “What? Why?”

  She looks almost embarrassed and a moment later, two men come around the corner discussing a file.

  “Oh, there he is. Dr. Moore?” The nurse is visibly relieved.

  I recognize the doctor and he recognizes me. He closes the file, excuses himself from the other man and heads toward us.

  “Ms. Hawking, I left a message.”

  “I didn’t get it. I’d left the house. What’s going on? Is Jones okay?”

  “He’s fine. Let’s go into my office, shall we?”

  “Where’s Jones?” I ask, refusing to budge until he tells me.

  “He’s in the same room as last night and he’s with a nurse.”

  “Okay.” I follow him into his office which is small but neat. I sit. “What’s going on?”

  He takes a deep breath in. “Jones has finally opened up about things.”

  I clear my throat, look away for a moment.

  “I think it’s in his best interest if you give him some time to work through this.”

  “Time?”

  “Ms. Hawking, I think it’ll be damaging for him to see you right now. He feels quite protective of you, and at the same time…” he trails off as if searching for the words, but I don’t want to hear it. I can guess.

  “He doesn’t want to see me?” I can’t push this. I don’t want to because in a way, I understand.

  “His mental condition is…fragile. I know it’s not what you want to hear, but my priority is my patient. Please understand.”

  “When then? How long until I can see him?”

  “Give it a few weeks. I’ll stay in touch with you. Mr. Black has asked me to keep you apprised of Jones’s progress.”

  My heart leaps at the mention of his name. The doctor clears his throat and opens a file.

  “Mr. Black is providing for the best possible care, Ms. Hawking.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He looks confused. “I mean he’s hired the best doctors.”

  “Jones and I, we can’t afford…”

  He puts his hand up. “Mr. Black is taking care of the expenses.” He checks his watch. “Now if you’ll excuse me?”

  I rise. “You’ll call me…”

  “Daily.”

  I shake his extended hand, although I’m still uncertain.

  “Thank you for understanding.”

  I walk out of the building feeling deflated. It’s a blustery day, clear and windy, truly winter, and it looks like snow is coming. I get to my car, look back at the room I think is his with the big bay window. I’m tempted to go back inside and see him just once, but I understand what the doctor said. Why he said it. Jones needs time away from me. I’ve known it for a long time.

  26

  Cilla

  The next four weeks creep slowly past without incident. I still haven’t seen Jones although his doctor does call me daily, as promised. Kill kept his word. I’m free from my contract. I half expected him—wanted him—to come back for me, to change his mind and forcefully take me back to Rockcliffe House, but he hasn’t. I haven’t seen him or anyone associated with him.

  In fact, it’s almost like those two weeks didn’t happen at all.

  Almost.

  Except that I can’t forget them. Can’t forget how they made me feel. How he made me feel. And I can’t help but wonder if he walked away because of what he found out when he went to Florida. Because he said as much, didn’t he? Not only heard but saw.

  The news reported Judge Callahan’s disappearance three weeks ago, but the story isn’t a headliner anymore. People move on. They forget. At least these sort of things, they do.

  Turned out Kill was right about one thing. It doesn’t make a difference to know that he’s dead. That he suffered when he died. It doesn’t make any difference at all because the dragons, they’re inside us. Inside me and Jones.

  Having mine slain didn’t make a difference in the end.

  Almost having a hero didn’t matter.

  Almost doesn’t matter.

  I shut the lid of my laptop and look around my dark apartment. I can’t work. I haven’t been able to since everything happened. I think about Jones and wish I could talk to him. Just hear from him that he’s okay. Even though I know it’s for his own good, it still hurts to stay away.

  It’s late and I didn’t bother to turn on any lights. The sounds of the city fill my apartment and street light filters in from between the slats of the blinds. I get up, go to my bedroom, switch on the lights there.

  Tonight, I’m going to go through with it.

  Tonight, I’m going to take back my power. My control.

  Tonight I’m going to put Killian Black out of my mind, even if it means breaking the one condition he gave me.

  From inside my closet, I find one of the dresses I used to wear when I went to The Black Swan. After stripping, I put it on and look at my reflection. The little pink dress is too short and too tight. Too cheap. It exposes too much of me. It says that I’m available. That I’m on the prowl.

  I pull my hair into a ponytail and apply makeup. Heavy makeup with dark lipstick. The makeup, too, matches the dress. It sends the same message.

  Not bothering with stockings, I slip on a pair of fuck me pumps. They hurt my feet, but I need that too right now. I don’t stare too long at my reflection. I don’t want to do this but I have to. This is the only way I’ll be free of him. I just need to go back to the way things were. To a time before him.

  I put on a long coat and head out to my car, which is parked around
the corner. This is the third time I’m going to The Black Swan, except that this time, I’m determined to enter the bar. The last two times I turned around and drove back home. Like I’m keeping my end of the bargain. My promise to him. Tonight though, I’m going through with this. My time with Kill is up anyway. He can’t expect me to never fuck again. I’m sure he doesn’t care at all who I fuck, actually. If he did, he wouldn’t have walked away.

  I arrive too quickly and I have to force myself to get out of the car. The parking lot is full and lights flicker inside the building. It’s run down, outside and in, the wood looking like it’ll collapse at any time and maybe that’s part of the appeal for me. I get to the doors, pull one open. I’d forgotten how the scent of cigarette smoke mixed with that of cheap whiskey. How it clung to your clothes and hair for days.

  I see the eyes that turn my way when I step inside. Scanning the room for my prey, I make my way to an empty stool at the bar. That’s how I look at the men here. Prey. That’s all. They will serve a purpose. Feed my need.

  “Whiskey neat,” I order, not sure why because I’m not a whiskey drinker, but tonight, when the bartender sets the chipped glass in front of me and pours, I swallow it all and signal for a second.

  The liquid burns my throat. It’s not like Kill’s whiskey. The burn of the good stuff is different. But that doesn’t matter. I swivel around in my seat, lean my back against the bar. As I scan the eyes of the many men here, I zero in on one. A tall, blond, and not so handsome stranger.

  He’s standing against the wall with one hand in his pocket, the other holding a half-full beer. He raises his glass when he sees me looking.

  I cock my head to the side. Finish my drink. Stand.

  I’m still wearing my coat, but I unbutton it, slide it off as I turn and walk toward the bathrooms. I don’t have to look back to know he’s following.

  The ladies room door opens and a woman stumbles out, gives me a nasty once over as she lets the door drop rather than passing it to me. She can go fuck herself. I enter, go to the farthest stall. It’s the biggest one.