by Trisha Wolfe
With Visions of Red
Broken Bonds, Book One
Trisha Wolfe
Contents
Copyright
With Visions Of Red
Free Book
Quote
Prologue
1. Scene One
2. First Contact
3. Lovers’ Waltz
4. Flame
5. Unbind Me
6. Want
7. Becoming
8. Hush-hush
9. Wreck Me
10. All of Her
11. Tracers
12. Masterpiece
13. Finding Blood
14. The Heart
15. Echo
16. Suspend
17. Unknown Subject
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Also by Trisha Wolfe
Acknowledgments
Sample Chapter: The Darkest Part
About the Author
Copyright © 2015 by Trisha Wolfe
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
With Visions Of Red
Broken Bonds Series
A Dark Romantic Thriller
By
Trisha Wolfe
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Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. When you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss gazes back into you.
~Friedrich Nietzsche
Prologue
Ten Years Ago
The stench of rotting meat permeates the cool, dank air of the basement. A rotating air purifier in the corner does nothing for the smell, only blasts my sweat-slicked skin with a chilly, stale breeze, causing gooseflesh to rise along my exposed skin.
My pink tank top clings to my body, saturated with old and new sweat, dirt and filth. My legs remain bare—my boy-shorts the only guard against the elements…and him.
I nudge the plate of uneaten food aside with my knee, my shackles rattling from above. The chains tighten, and I wince at the sharp, pinching pain. A whimper escapes my mouth.
My arms stopped aching hours ago—my muscles numb. If I stand, the feeling will come alive with unbearable agony. My calves still burn from the stretching. I no longer feel my toes, either. I wriggle them, trying to force circulation into my feet and legs, the cold cement floor fighting back against my attempt.
Three days. Five. A week? With no windows, no light from outside, there’s no way to be sure. Time doesn’t pass down here; it stalled and the world quit spinning the moment he touched me. Invaded me. And I stopped existing.
I’ve tried to measure my time trapped in this dungeon by his comings and goings—but they’re too sporadic. Sometimes I’m left alone for so long, I fear he’s forgotten about me. Then I’m sickened by the realization that I actually fear he won’t return.
Twisted.
At first, I screamed. I screamed for hours until my throat burned and my voice gave. He never covered my mouth. So the only thing I know for sure is that I’m somewhere far enough away where he doesn’t worry about me being heard. No. He likes my screams. That’s the first thing I learned. Then I learned to hold them in. Not to encourage him.
My body ices over with dread as my gaze swings to the cross.
I made the mistake of demanding to know what it was used for…having spent hours staring at it, fearing it…and then he showed me.
Not today. Please, not today. A hot tear trickles down my cheek, and I wipe the side of my face against my arm. He can’t see me broken. Because when he knows I’m broken—when he’s mastered me—I’ll be of no more use.
I pull at my memories, try to find a sanctuary.
So stupid. So, so stupid. My lips tremble as I recount my actions that brought me here. That dumb fight with Brandon, the one where I slammed his car door and stormed off—I can hardly remember why I was so angry.
He was texting some other girl. That was it. Then it blew up from there. Accusations and claims that I’m crazy. Girls are always the crazy ones. We never actually see what’s right before our eyes.
Furious, I walked off on my own, desperate to be away from him and empowered by the right to be a strong, independent woman who didn’t need her cheating boyfriend to drive her home. Damn if I wouldn’t walk myself right there. Then—
The night swallowed me.
And I’ve been engulfed, surrounded by its darkness ever since. I now know what evil lurks where even the light is afraid to shine.
A thump from above hitches my breathing.
Oh, God. I want the fear back. I wish my limbs would quake—that my body would shrivel up and my mind would space. I’ve moved past that fight or flight adrenaline rush, though. I’ve moved on to acceptance. And I want his touch to kill me.
I just want this to end.
As his footsteps travel down the steps, echoing against the cement walls, I decide I’m broken. Just let him see me break. That’s all he wants, then the torment will end.
And when I meet his intense gray eyes—no mask to protect his features—I know. This is my end. He’s no longer concerned about my escape, or someone finding me. I’ll never be able to utter his likeness to a soul.
His tall, muscular form moves to the wall behind me and he cranks a lever. My chains jerk taut, and I’m forced to my feet. My arms and body stretch thin, fire-hot needles attacking my arms and calves, my toes just scraping the floor. I shut my eyes against the pain and bite down on my lip to stifle the scream slithering up my throat.
He hates this. He’ll punish me. He wants to see my fear through the windows of my soul. Smell my sweaty skin. Taste my terror. If I anger him enough, maybe he’ll make it quick.
The feel of his calloused fingers gliding along my skin knots my stomach. “You’re being a bad girl again, I see.” They trail down, down my arms. Down my ribs, and further to my waist. The chains jangle at my uncontrollable tremble. “My dirty girl.” His guttural voice surrounds me, blanketing my body with malicious intent, and my vision tunnels until I detach, removed far away from myself.
But he doesn’t allow me to stay there. He always brings me back.
The second his fingers dip beneath the front of my underwear, I seize with awareness. I’m present. I feel. Shocked into alertness, I fight back. Writhing against his iron-fisted hold, I force my legs closed. The same dance every time.
I never win.
He bites my earlobe and his feet move between mine, kicking them apart, before he wraps one large leg around my thigh to lock me in place. The struggle only urges him on—I have to stop fighting. And when I do, accepting my punishment, praying he’s quick…my fucking treacherous body deceives me.
I feel myself slick against his rough fingers. I cringe and squeeze my eyes closed tighter.
“Yes,” he says against my ear. “There’s my fucking dirty girl. You can’t hide from me.” He pinches me hard, wrenching a cry from my mouth, and then his hand is gone.
He backs away just enough to grip the hem of my tank top, then I hear the loud tear of material, fibers ripping, shredding the seams of my sanity. The cool air assaults my skin. My whole body shivers, fright enveloping me. A cold, hard object lightly grazes my bare back.
I shudder slightly, attempting to keep from flinching. I know what that object is; his favorite. He’s wasting no time getting to his good part. I keep my eyes sealed shut. Do not react.
<
br /> I sense his presence before me, moving in, as he drags the cane along my stomach. “Look at me, Sadie.”
My eyes fly open. He’s never used my name before. Never wanted me to feel like a person. I’m his pet. His possession. At this point, I almost inherently believe that.
His face is not how I pictured it behind his mask. He’s younger than my parents; thirtyish, maybe. Dark strands of hair layer a handsome face. It’s all wrong. He should be vile. Inhuman. Not blessed with… I almost think beauty. But I cannot even utter that word in my head without the nauseous tumble pulling me under.
I never want to hear that word again.
He leans down, cane pressed against my belly. His hot breath sears my shoulder. “You’re not like the others,” he whispers. “They didn’t enjoy their punishment.”
My jaw tightens, my neck quivers, making my head shake from the restraint. Fear evaporates, and anger bursts forth. “You’re sick. I’m nothing like you.”
My head is yanked back as he digs his fingers into my hair and grips at my scalp. His gray eyes widen. Face right before mine. “Remember, Sadie. Every time you suck a dick, every time you fucking come, see these eyes watching you. I know where you live.” His tongue snakes out to lick my chin. “Now, let’s have some fun before we’re interrupted.”
The confusion at his words pushes my eyebrows together, but I’m not lost for long. In the moment he raises the cane to strike, a bang reverberates through the room, followed by stomps against the ceiling. My captor releases my hair. Fury ignites his eyes, his silver irises aglow with rage.
He pushes me away from him and snaps the cane apart, revealing a blade lodged at the head. I swing back into his arms as the footfalls grow louder. He moves behind me and clutches me against his chest, the blade pressed to my throat.
“God, what I could’ve done with you, accomplished, if I’d had more time. Never forget your lessons.” The blade drags along my collarbone, a searing fire splitting my skin and bone, and a shrill scream scrapes my throat as it claws free. “You were truly special, my filthy Sadie.”
Blackness threatens the corners of my vision. I’m detaching again…fading. My defense against the pain and terror. But my tormentor won’t let me fall. He keeps ahold of me; taking me with him.
“Drop your weapon!” Shouts. Clicks. Then a thunderous boom bursts my eardrums.
Damp warmth sprays over me. Covers me, drenching me in blood.
Silence hums. I close my eyes. A blink that lasts an eternity. And when I finally open my eyes, the world is red.
1
Scene One
Sadie
Blood calls to me.
There’s a story in every drop. A song in the spray pattern. A flickering movie reel projecting images in slow motion—life—as it oozes its last drip. If you look beyond the violence, past the gruesome, a kind of poetry unfolds. Its rhyme and rhythm is what reaches out to me, and its what I use to find you.
“Bonds.” The gruff voice gains my attention, breaking my connection to the killer. I look up from the bloody crime scene to see Detective Quinn. He nods toward a shuttered bank of windows. “Might have a print.”
Unlikely, but I step around the dead woman and blood-soaked carpet, my clompy sneakers wrapped in shoe covers, to meet him. I don’t like being disturbed when I’m putting myself in the scene, and he knows it. “You do your job, Quinn, and let me do mine,” I say, nodding back toward the victim. “Why else did you call me here?”
His dark eyebrows furrow, weathered eyes crease at their corners, hinting to the many years he’s spent investigating scenes just like this. “I didn’t.” Turning toward the shades, he places a yellow marker next to a smudge. “An hour ago, I told Wexler this was a domestic. The boyfriend called it in and then did a disappearing act. But Boss Man insisted I bring you in. Cover all the bases.” Looking at me, he frowns. “So here you are. Just thought steering you in the right direction would help speed this up. But do your thing, psycho analyst, so that I can get on with making my case.”
I catch the tip of my tongue between my teeth to keep from lashing out a snide retort, and instead give him a tight smile. Stuffing my hands into my jean jacket pockets, I turn and stare at the scene once again. I stopped taking offense to how the detectives—the real case solvers—view behavioral analysts. Or profilers, though that term is likely to garner even more mockery. It doesn’t bother me because, as much as Quinn has given me a hard time over the years, he depends on my insight. And he knows it.
Just won’t ever admit to it. Not in front of his uniforms.
And because I can easily sum up his hesitancy and anger to macho male aggression and being the product of a single parent who put too much pressure on him…I give him some slack. There are other factors, too, in why he’s such a dick, but his profile is actually pretty boring.
Right. Boring. Nothing like the passionate scene here displayed in red and domination. Which has me seriously doubting Quinn’s judgment call on the boyfriend.
I take a couple of deep breaths, then move through the bedroom, letting my gaze roam and snag on the details. I try to block out the unis marking evidence and snapping pictures. Push everyone and everything out of the room except the victim and her attacker.
Blood is pooled around the vic’s head and torso. The fatal wound a deep laceration to her throat. Inadvertently, my hand goes to my own chest, my fingers applying a slight pressure to my collarbone.
She’s been positioned on her stomach. Dress ruched up past her hips. Ankles bound together with rope, knees spread, placing her in a prime, demeaning position for the offender. One can only assume she was raped until the M.E. examines her fully, but everything about the way the perpetrator posed her indicates that this was a sex crime.
No gun. At least, the perpetrator didn’t use one to end her life. No bullet holes or neighbors complaining about noise. But the uniforms haven’t completely canvassed the apartment complex yet. Murder weapon could be from her own kitchen. Although, with how meticulously staged this scene is, I doubt it. I’m almost certain he brought his own rape kit. Still, we need to discover if anything’s missing or out of place.
No discernable stab wounds. No angry, sloppy slashes or strikes signifying she knew the offender personally. And no castoff bloodstains from the weapon indicates he killed her slowly, precisely. He wasn’t enraged; he took his time.
And he knew how to kill. Her carotid is perfectly severed. The arterial spray reached the ceiling—and no transfer stains, no castoff, suggests he wasn’t surprised by the amount of blood. Rather, I presume he enjoyed it, and he worked to get this desired effect.
The torture he inflicted—battered face and body; hours of restraint; burns to the thighs—signifies measured and controlled. Intended to heighten her suffering, not kill her quickly.
The possibility of this being a revenge-motivated kill decreases by the second.
She’s wearing an evening gown. Black. Elegant. Yet no makeup. The perpetrator could’ve interrupted her while she was getting ready for a Friday night out, but being a woman myself, I have to make an assumption on this one. Makeup first, then hair. Dress last. And her hair, though having been handled roughly during the attack, doesn’t look like it was styled recently.
No jewelry, either.
I walk toward the open closet and peer inside. Then back around the room. No shoes have been removed. No heels kicked off anywhere. She wasn’t planning a night out. I head toward the corner of her room where a robe has been discarded. After slipping on gloves, I adjust my holstered SIG and kneel down to lift the seam of the garment. A T-shirt and underwear lay beneath.
My eyes flick back to the closet, and I note the gap in the row, where clothes hangers have been pushed aside.
Standing, I shake my head. What method of coercion did the assailant use to force her into changing into a dress? What’s more, why?
“We got the boyfriend,” one of the uniforms announces. “They’re taking him to the station.”
Quinn nods to the cop and looks over at me. “I’m going in to question him. You want to watch?” He pushes his gray coat sleeves back as he starts to remove his gloves.
I look at the shuttered windows again, to where Quinn found his first clue. Maybe mine, too. “The perpetrator most likely did close the blinds. Although I seriously doubt you’ll find his print, he wanted some privacy. He needed enough time to play out his fantasy. And somehow, he knew he had that time.” Could’ve been opportunity, or he may have been stalking her, or maybe he did know her. I tilt my head, imagining myself laying in wait. Watching her. There were no signs of forced entry. “Find out about the boyfriend’s porn collection.”
Quinn scoffs. “Real original,” he mumbles. “Bondage, I assume?”
Exhaling heavily, I clarify, “Find out if he’s prone to voyeurism. If he likes to watch or be watched, Quinn.” I nod to the blinds. “There’s more to a killer’s porn than bondage.” I glare at him, keeping my own suspicions about his porn collection to myself.
As he wraps up his instructions with CSU, I move toward the vic. It’s not my job to put myself in her place; I’m here to identify with her killer. Get inside his head and break him down. That’s the only thing I can do to help her now.
I reach for her fisted hand tucked closely to her chin along the white carpet. It’s next to her lips, as if she’s stifling her last scream. Ligature marks wrap her wrist in red, puffy welts. But unlike her ankles, the binding device has been removed. Time of death was determined to be just a couple of hours ago. No rigor, and her skin is dry.
How many hours did he play? How long did he torture her? The dress, with all my speculations, doesn’t really point to a clear time of entry. I look over her exposed skin, studying the shades of bruising, trying to determine a better timeline based on the facts.