Bind: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by B. B. Hamel

  She slowly eats, drinking the coffee, while I watch her. She doesn’t seem self-conscious with me staring at her, though most people would be. She’s probably used to me watching her by now.

  Once she finishes, I carry the tray back into the elevator and leave it in there. I walk back over to her as she watches me.

  “I want to let you out of this room,” I say to her.

  She nods slowly. “Okay,” she says, and I can tell she’s carefully composing her features.

  “But I’m not letting you go.” I stop and stand over her, watching her reaction. “I want to allow you upstairs in the main house. I’m going to put a tracking device around your ankle, something small and simple.”

  “You don’t trust me,” she says flatly.

  “No. I don’t. Not yet, at least.”

  “How can I convince you?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “You can start by promising you won’t try to run. I have no phone and my computers are all password protected.”

  “I have nobody to contact anyway.”

  “You might try calling the police.”

  “I don’t know where I am.”

  I sigh, shaking my head. “Don’t play dumb, Amelia.”

  She pauses then nods. “Okay then. I promise I won’t try to leave.”

  “Good.” I walk over to the steel rod in the floor and remove the padlock. I slide the chain through the stake then nod at her. “Follow me.”

  She stands and walks behind me as I lead her into the elevator. The doors slide shut as she stands next to me, the manacle still on her ankle, the chain looped through my arms.

  I watch her expression as the elevator slides upstairs. She hasn’t left the basement in a few days now, and I wonder if she ever thought she’d leave. I told her I wasn’t going to hurt her, but it’s easy to forget that and only focus on the worst-case scenarios. She probably thought I was going to give in and kill her.

  Part of me did think I was going to do that, at least back before I thought I understood her. When she first came, I had no clue what I’d do with her, and I did consider killing her.

  Even though it’s against my rules. Even though I knew I’d regret it.

  But I didn’t and I won’t.

  The doors slide open. We step out into the main floor of my home.

  She takes a deep breath. “It’s prettier than I remember,” she says.

  “I’m glad you like it. Come with me.” I lead her down a hallway, past the front door, and into my security room. “Sit there.” I motion at a chair against the wall.

  She sits and watches me. I go into a drawer and take out a key. I walk over to her, get down on one knee, and remove the manacle from her ankle.

  She lets out a pleased sound and rubs the sensitive, raw skin where the metal cuff once was. I smile to myself and toss the chain in the corner of the room before returning to the desk. I pick up a small plastic device and walk back over to her.

  “Here,” I say, taking the other ankle, the one that didn’t have the manacle. “This will be more comfortable.” I loop the small square box with the soft rubber cusp around her ankle and fasten it securely.

  “That’s a lot better,” she says, laughing. “God, my ankle feels so much better already.”

  “Good.” I can’t help but smile at that. I want to make her feel good. “Come on. You’re free now.”

  “To an extent.” She laughs a little bit.

  I shrug. “Well, for now. Until you prove that I can trust you.”

  She stands up and steps around, almost as if she’s testing her newfound freedom. It’s probably a lot easier to walk without that heavy chain around her ankle, and I bet the GPS device on her other ankle weighs almost nothing in comparison. It’s weatherproof and tamperproof, so she’s stuck with it until I’m ready to remove it.

  “Now, make sure you leave that on at all times,” I say. “Even in the shower. Got it?”

  “I understand.” She laughs a little bit and I’m surprised at how attracted I am to her smile. “Can I look around?”

  “Of course. I’ll give you a tour.”

  She follows me back out into the hall. I start by showing her the kitchen and the living room.

  “It’s clean,” she remarks. “And just about the nicest place I’ve ever seen.”

  “Glad you like it.”

  “I only saw parts when you walked me outside.”

  “I know. I did that on purpose.”

  “You’re very secretive.”

  “I have to be.”

  “Because of all the people you kill.” Her face doesn’t betray anything.

  “That’s right,” I say.

  “How many are you at?”

  I pause, surprised at the question. “Do you really want to know?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s a lot, Amelia. There are a lot of bad people in the city.”

  “Give me a ballpark.”

  “Eighty,” I say. “Give or take.”

  She whistles and laughs. “That’s more than I expected.”

  “I’m very good at what I do.”

  I watch her with curiosity as she walks into the kitchen and looks through the refrigerator. She walks down the hall, looks into my office, the bathroom, and finally heads upstairs.

  I follow at a distance as she goes into each and every room. She pauses outside of my own bedroom but I nod, letting her go in. With each new room, she looks like a kid discovering something brand new. It’s probably because she’s seen nothing but that basement for so many days now, it just feels good to be able to walk around under her own free will.

  Finally, we end back in the hall. “You can choose one of the empty rooms,” I say to her. “You can stay there.”

  “Really? Any of them?”

  “Of course. They’re all made up and ready for you.”

  She points to the room next to mine. I can’t help but smile at her. “Good choice,” I say.

  “Can I . . . “ She trails off, biting her lip.

  “Go ahead. Ask.”

  “Can I take a shower?”

  I laugh and nod. “Of course. There’s a bathroom attached to your room.” I lead her toward it. “Go ahead and get in. I’ll bring a towel.”

  “Thanks.”

  I pause then turn away, giving her some privacy. It’s more difficult than I anticipated, leaving her alone in that bathroom. I have no cameras in there and she’s free to do whatever she wants. She can break the glass and hurt herself or worse.

  Instead, the shower turns on. I leave and go into the linen closet, grabbing her a towel. When I return to the bathroom, the door is unlocked so I just step inside.

  She’s in the shower, so I place the towel on the floor. I’m about to leave when she speaks. “How did you start?” she asks me.

  “Start what?” I pause by the door, curious.

  “Killing. How did you start?”

  “That’s a good question.” I cock my head and stare at the floor. “I guess I’ve always known there was something about me.”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “I call it a darkness or a need. I have to kill. It’s a part of my nature.”

  “You can’t help it,” she says.

  “I guess not. But I have rules.”

  “You only kill bad people.”

  “Yes. Among other rules.”

  “Why have rules? Why not kill anyone? You could probably get away with it.”

  “It would be easier,” I agree with her. “But just because I have to kill, doesn’t mean I don’t have to be a human anymore.”

  She goes silent for a second and I listen to the sound of her in the water. I know why she’s asking these questions and I want to ask her one of my own, but it’s too soon.

  “What if I have something wrong with me?” she asks softly.

  I stand there for a moment. “I can help you,” I say.

  She doesn’t say another word. I wait and give her a second, but she stay
s quiet. Eventually, I leave, letting her have some privacy.

  That was a big step. Letting her up from the basement was hard enough, but those questions were a good sign. It’s encouraging to think that she might have a darkness just like I do, something that eats at her, something she needs to feed.

  Maybe she’s more like me than she realizes.

  14

  Amelia

  That night, I dream about killing him.

  But in my dream, it’s not him. He’s not a darkness in my dream, but he’s a part of me. It’s hard to explain. But when I plunge a knife into his heart, it isn’t him that bleeds, it’s me.

  As I die, I realize that we’re not as different as I thought.

  I wake up with a start. The nightmare still lingers in my mind, especially that final realization. I sit up slowly, looking around the room, briefly confused.

  Then it comes back to me. I reach down and rub the ankle that was in the manacle. It’s sore, but not too bad. I get out of bed and go into my bathroom.

  There’s a new toothbrush, some toothpaste, a bar of soap, some face wash, hand towels, extra bath towels, Q-tips, mouthwash, and small Dixie cups. He clearly brought it all in while I was sleeping, and I can’t decide if that’s creepy or sweet.

  It felt so good to finally be in a real bed. In fact, I’ve never slept in a bed as comfortable as that one before. This whole house is something I’ve never experienced before. I caught glimpses of it on my way outside that day he brought me into his field, but actually wandering around showed me so much more.

  He’s very, very rich. Like, filthy rich. It confuses me why a man with so much money and privilege would spend his time killing bad guys, but then what he said comes ringing back to me.

  It’s a need. He has no choice.

  I stare into the mirror and my breath catches in my throat. I can’t stop thinking about watching my father die in the bathtub. I wasn’t afraid of that, not really. I was afraid of Noah because I thought I was next, but I wasn’t disgusted by the death of my father. In fact, a part of me rejoiced for it. I felt good watching him die in that tub.

  I liked it. The realization catches me off guard.

  I figured that I didn’t mind it. I assumed I felt it was okay because it was my father and he deserved it. But I realized now that I liked it. I actually enjoyed seeing it in some sick and perverted way.

  I’m fucked up. I really am fucked up.

  But so is Noah. And he seems okay. He seems like he figured out a way to live with his brokenness.

  I wasn’t a part of his plans, clearly. He probably didn’t even know I existed when he came for my father. He killed Rick for something totally unrelated to me, and he seemed genuinely surprised when I showed up that night. He probably thought Rick lived alone.

  He didn’t want to take me, but he had no other choice. Noah’s treating me well, very well. I find myself breathing heavily again, picturing his mouth between my legs.

  “Amelia?”

  I start, surprised. I step out of the bathroom. “Yes?” I call out.

  “Breakfast downstairs. Coffee too. Come down when you want.”

  “Thanks.” I step back into the bathroom and take a deep breath.

  I have to get it together. I’m not broken, or at least no more broken than Noah is. And maybe he can help me. Maybe he can show me how to live with whatever is inside of me, whatever I woke up when I saw my father dying in that bathroom.

  I brush my teeth, wash my face, and head downstairs for some coffee.

  Noah is sitting at his kitchen table reading a newspaper. The scene strikes me for a moment, surprises me by its normalcy. He smiles at me and puts the paper down.

  “How’d you sleep?” he asks.

  “Great,” I admit. “Better than that mattress.”

  He laughs. “Good. Grab some coffee if you want it.”

  I walk over to the pot and pour myself a mug. I lean against the marble counter top and sip it as I look at him. He scans the paper then catches my eye and looks up.

  “What am I supposed to do all day?” I ask him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I’m free to roam around. But I can’t really go anywhere.”

  “You can do whatever you want. So long as you don’t leave the property.”

  I nod and look down at my coffee mug. “Okay. I guess I hoped you had some plan for me.”

  He watches me for a second, leaning back in his chair. I’m not sure what I expect from him, but I do hope he’s thinking further ahead than he seems. I can’t just sit around his house all day and all night with no purpose and nothing to do.

  He leans back in his chair. “I have an idea,” he says. “But it may be too soon.”

  “What is it?” I try not to sound eager, but I can’t help myself. I have a pretty good idea of what he’s talking about, but I try not to get my hopes up.

  “I’ll show you,” he says slowly. “But you have to promise me something.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Promise you won’t look at me differently.”

  I blink at him, surprised. I’m not totally sure what he means, but I walk over to him and sit down at the chair across the table.

  “How do I look at you now?” I ask.

  “You’re curious,” he says. “About what I do. You’re not afraid of it, though I’m not sure why. You also want something from me.” He smirks at that last part.

  I blush and look at my coffee. “Okay,” I say. “I admit that I’m curious.”

  “Why? Aren’t you afraid?”

  “No,” I say, looking back at him. “I don’t understand it myself, but I’m not afraid of you or of what you do.”

  “Good,” he says softly, and then stands. “Come on. Follow me.”

  I take a long sip of coffee then get up. He leads me through the house and out the back door. We walk together through the early morning sunlight out toward a large barn that stands maybe fifty yards away from the house.

  We reach a double door and he opens the right side. I follow him in, the smell of hay and horses assailing my senses.

  “Just a barn,” he says. “Up here, at least.” He walks into the center of the barn and then stamps his foot.

  I gasp as the ground opens up. He grins at me and gestures at the sudden hole on the ground. A staircase leads down into an inky-black room.

  “After you,” he says.

  I hesitate, but take a deep breath. I can already tell that this is important. He wouldn’t hide whatever this room is if it weren’t. It has something to do with his killing though I’m not sure what it can be.

  Heart beating fast, I slowly walk down the steps. He follows close by, and as we descend into the darkness, the lights suddenly blink on.

  The room looks like a normal basement at first glance. The ceiling is a drop ceiling with fluorescent lighting. There’s another cool, smooth concrete floor just like the one in my basement. Along the walls are tool benches with tools hanging up on peg boards. In the middle of the room is a table, a steel table, something that looks like it belongs in a hospital.

  I walk down and start to look at the tools. At first, I thought they were normal tools. Drills, hammers, screwdrivers, stuff like that. But as I keep looking, I realize that there are knives, big, nasty knives, and lots of ropes. As I keep looking, realization hits me: this is the room where he keeps all of his killing tools.

  This is his death room.

  I turn and look at him. He stands near the stairs, arms crossed, watching me.

  “Well?” he asks.

  “You kill people here.” I say it simply and without judgment.

  “I do,” he says. “Sometimes. If it’s cleaner and easier to bring them here.”

  “People have died down here . . . “I trail off and stare at the drain in the middle of the floor underneath the metal table.

  The drain must be for all that blood.

  He walks toward me and I nearly jump at his approach, but I keep mysel
f under control. I can’t let him see how surprised I am. I’m not scared, which should be a little scary in itself, but I am definitely uncomfortable. This is a place I never thought he’d bring me, or at least never imagined he’d bring me alive.

  I know he’s watching me, waiting for me to give him some kind of sign. He wants to know if he can trust me. He wants to know if I’m going to be afraid of him now.

  But he can trust me. I turn away, trying to buy myself some time as I run my fingers down the blade of a particularly large knife.

  “Careful,” he says directly behind me. I can feel his hot breath on my ear. I slide my finger faster down the edge of the knife and feel the sting of skin getting cut.

  “Ouch,” I say, pulling my hand back.

  “These are very, very sharp,” he says. He turns me around and take my hand, inspecting the cut. “You’ll live.”

  “Good.” A small bead of blood wells up. He takes my finger and puts it in his mouth, sucking it away.

  “I brought you here to see this place,” he says, “but also for another reason.”

  “You want to know if you can trust me.”

  He smiles. “That’s right.”

  I stare into his eyes. “You can.”

  “Prove it.”

  “How?”

  He presses me back against the tool bench, his body against mine. My heart begins to beat fast as he pins me there and a brief spike of fear rushes through me.

  “You know what you can do,” he practically whispers. “Does it excite you, being down here?”

  “Yes,” I say honestly.

  He reaches up and takes my hair, tipping my head back. I gasp as his lips find my throat, gently kissing my skin. “You’re very bad, you know that? Getting wet in a place where people have died.”

  “I can’t help it,” I say, surprising myself. “The thought of what you do . . . it excites me.”

  “Good,” he says, and then he presses his lips against mine.

  Cold fire courses through me as I wrap my arms around him, falling into his kiss. I’ve been craving this, needing it so badly. A kiss is such a simple thing but it means so much more than we even realize. It can change two people entirely, make everything they say and do completely different.