Bleeding Hearts: A Dark Captive Romance (Heartbreaker Book 1)

by Stella Hart

  “You will. You already crave me, don’t you?” He cocked one eyebrow.

  He was right, but I didn’t admit it. I simply glowered at him.

  He smiled. “You’re a challenge, Celeste, but I will break you. I will make you fully, completely mine.”

  He walked away, and I didn’t bother arguing, because as much as it pained me, I knew he was right.

  He came for me the next morning. I didn’t get breakfast. Only water. He didn’t say a word, but his eyes were filled with darkness.

  It was time.

  He opened the cell door and pulled something out of a bag. Some black leather thing with silver metal rings. I had no idea what it was, but I quickly realized when he fitted it to my face and neck. It was a muzzle to stop me from speaking or crying out, and the bottom part of it connected to a tight collar.

  When he was satisfied with the fit, he forced me to my knees and attached a leash to the collar. “Crawl for me,” he said, yanking on the lead.

  Humiliated, I did as he said, keeping my eyes on the cold floor as he pulled me up the steps on my hands and knees. He paused to open the shelter door, then made me keep crawling like an animal. At first I thought I’d be crawling right through the snow, but I saw that there was a stone path leading from the shelter toward the front porch of the house. It’d been covered with snow before, but he’d mercifully shoveled it off so I wouldn’t lose any fingers to frostbite.

  When I was inside, Alex led me toward what appeared to be a sitting room. There were two large sofas in the room, set on an elaborately-patterned Persian carpet. He took my muzzle off and told me to stay, then walked over to one of them. Reaching down the left side of it, he pulled on something, and the top came off to reveal a hollow space inside the sofa.

  My eyes widened as he pulled me to my feet and showed it to me. It was a tiny enclosed space, like a coffin. Once he shut me inside, I’d barely have room to kick my feet or pound my fists on it.

  An overwhelming sense of claustrophobia overcame me at the mere sight of the thing. “Please, no!” I begged him immediately, falling to my knees again. “Don’t lock me in there. I’m sorry for trying to leave. I’ll never do it again. Please, let me go!”

  His expression didn’t show any sign of sympathy. Now I knew why he’d taken the muzzle off. He wanted to hear me beg and plead. “Never,” he replied, his eyes flashing. “I’ll never fucking let you go.”

  “Please!” I shrieked.

  “No.” He stared down at me, his eyes narrowed. “This is nothing compared to what the others would do to you.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “What others?”

  “Figure of speech. Lots of monsters walking this earth, angel.”

  With that, he put my muzzle back on, picked me up, and put me inside the box before binding my hands together with silk ties. He did the same with my ankles.

  Before he shut the box and put the sofa back over it, he looked down at me. “You’re going to have a lot of time to think about what you did. You won’t be able to move or see anything, but you’ll be able to hear and breathe.”

  “Mmm!” I tried to shout at him, beg him one last time, but I couldn’t form more than a strangled, nasal moan with the muzzle on.

  Alex smiled down at me before closing me in. Then my world went dark. Terror sparked through my nerve endings, and I gulped in deep breaths of air, already feeling like I was suffocating. I knew I wouldn’t, because Alex told me I’d be able to breathe, but I couldn’t stop the horrible, paralyzing feeling from coming over me anyway.

  I kept breathing deeply, trying to calm myself. I could try to sleep to pass the time. Alex made it sound as if I’d be in here for a while, and sleeping was far better than lying here with my eyes open, staring into the pitch darkness surrounding me.

  My mind was whirling too much for me to sleep for at least an hour, but finally, I was able to drift off. Hopefully, when I woke again, this nightmare would be over, and I’d be back in my cozy cell.

  No such luck.

  An unknown period of time later, I woke again, still trapped in the smothering darkness of the box. This time there was no way I could sleep. I was wide awake, my heart pounding with terror. God, how long would Alex leave me in here? Days?

  I tried to count the seconds, but I eventually lost track as they became minutes, then hours. I needed to pee, and I was starving. Both my bladder and my stomach ached, and every one of my muscles was cramping. I tried to fight off the feelings, knowing I couldn’t give up yet. Surely he wouldn’t leave me in here forever. He said this was just a punishment.

  I tried a new tactic, attempting to force myself to enjoy the peace and quiet that came with being locked in here like this. At least I wasn’t being beaten. Or worse. I should enjoy this solitude while I could, because I knew Alex wasn’t lying earlier. He was never going to let me go, and one day, when he was sick of me, I would probably become like one of those girls in the photos and videos. One day, when he was done with me, he would torture and kill me too.

  After what might’ve been another hour, I heard something from outside the box. Footsteps on the floorboards. Voices drifting across the room.

  Alex wasn’t alone.

  I moaned, making as much sound as I possibly could with the muzzle still in place. But nothing happened. Whoever was with Alex obviously couldn’t hear my muffled cries. I could hear them, though. Strains of what seemed to be a pleasant, casual conversation drifted down to me.

  Now I realized that this was my real torture. Knowing that help was only a few feet away, but finding it impossible to get their attention.

  Her attention. It had just hit me that it was a female voice speaking. What if this was some woman Alex was dating? Fucking? What if she ended up being a prisoner here too?

  Searing, white-hot jealousy coursed through my system at the thought. I knew it wasn’t an appropriate response. I shouldn’t feel jealous that another girl or woman might end up trapped here. I should feel sorry for them, knowing what sort of torture came with it.

  Oh, but I was jealous. So fucking jealous. Jealous of the thought of Alex’s hands on another woman. His breath, his lips, his tongue… it drove me wild with seething rage.

  I moaned softly, trying to quash the awful thoughts. I couldn’t let him make me like this. I couldn’t become another broken victim, surrendering to an evil master.

  But even as I had that thought, I knew it had already started. I couldn’t fight any longer. Alex was succeeding in breaking me, slowly but surely.

  One day, I would see his face and fall to my knees in adoration, not terror. One day, I’d beg for him to touch me and make me come again, just like he did after the whipping that day, and I’d beg him to take the one thing he hadn’t torn from me yet. My virginity.

  One day, I’d probably even be convinced that I loved him.

  I closed my eyes and resigned myself to the thoughts, not even trying to fight them as they flooded in, filling every inch of my mind.

  Alex opened the lid about three hours later. I was sure I had wet myself, but he didn’t say anything about it. He reached down, fiddled with the muzzle straps and pulled it down. “Are you ready to come out yet?” he asked. There was no anger in his voice or gaze. Only curiosity.

  “No, sir,” I croaked. My throat was too dry to do anything else. “You were right to punish me. I deserve this.”

  I knew it was what he would want to hear. And somehow, I half-meant what I said. Somehow, I was happy to be here with him again, despite my weak escape attempt just twenty-four hours ago. I burned with hatred for this man, but a small part of me simply burned for him. And that part was growing by the minute. It wouldn’t stay small for much longer.

  I really was breaking apart, barely hanging onto my identity in the mists of my new reality. But what even was my identity now? I could never go back to normal, not now that I’d gone through these things.

  In my time here, Alex had systematically torn me down piece by piece, until I was to
o confused to think straight. He made me question so many things about myself, and I didn’t even know who or what I actually was anymore. I wasn’t sure I’d ever known.

  And yet, now I was sure that I would know once I finally came apart completely.

  I had a lot of time to think in that box, and I’d decided that being broken forces you to look inside and discover exactly what you are made of. All the little elements that fit together and make you you. And once you know what you’re made of, you can put yourself back together, build yourself stronger than ever.

  So Alex could break me. Shatter me into a million little pieces. I wanted him to do it now. I wanted to be broken. Because then, and only then, would I truly know who I was.

  19

  Agent Jason West

  “Mr. West, please come in.”

  Zara Pompeo beckoned me into her office with a smile. I nodded and stepped in before sitting on a comfortable gray chair next to her desk. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for several days now.”

  The doctor took a seat across from me. “I know, I’m sorry, I got all your messages when I returned. I was on vacation. Needed to get away from this dreary weather for a while.”

  “I understand.”

  “So you said you’re with the FBI? And you need to talk to me about a patient of mine.”

  I nodded. “Celeste Riley. She’s missing.”

  Dr. Pompeo’s eyes widened. “Celeste? I remember her. She was in here… hm, must’ve been—”

  “September 4th.”

  She typed something on her keyboard. “Yes, that’s right.” She turned back to me, he eyebrows furrowed. “So she’s gone missing?”

  “Yes. I’ve been trying to track all her movements over the months leading up to her disappearance.”

  “Of course. So what exactly can I help you with?”

  I frowned. “The police who initially investigated the disappearance seem to think she may have committed suicide. When I spoke to her therapist, she said she agreed that it is possible. I wanted to hear your opinion.”

  Dr. Pompeo sighed and took her glasses off. “I hate to say it, but I’m afraid the police may have a point.”

  “Why?”

  Her lips pulled down in a sad expression. “Celeste was in a lot of pain.”

  “But her friends told me you increased her painkiller dose.”

  She nodded. “I did, yes. But not by much. We have to consider things like addiction, and how the side effects can affect a patient’s life. Celeste isn’t a very big girl. I had to keep her dosage limited to 150 milligrams a day, or else she probably would’ve felt too foggy to get out of bed.”

  “Fair enough. So why do you say you agree with the others?”

  “The nerve condition I diagnosed her with can be very debilitating. Mentally as well as physically. It creates a perfect cocktail for suffering.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, the pain starts to limit the person’s social life, as it’s easier for them to stay at home rather than risk more pain from getting dressed and going out. For example, in Celeste’s case, it hurt for her to even wear a bra or tight shirts.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So the patient withdraws, only going out for things they have to attend. Work, for instance. All the things they used to do for exercise or fun—for instance, hiking, dancing, going to the gym—they quit. The lack of social life and usual activities coupled with the constant pain begins to affect their overall mood, making them very down. Then the stress from that makes the pain even worse, as stress is known to make nerves more sensitive.”

  “Ah. So they just keep spiraling further down.”

  “Exactly.” Dr. Pompeo leaned forward. “They can feel hopeless. Like it’s never going to get better. It’s very common for patients with chronic pain conditions to experience suicidal ideation.”

  “But that’s just thoughts of suicide, right?”

  “Yes. But….” She hesitated, brows knitting in a deep frown. “I really hate to say this, and I sincerely hope this is not the case with Celeste, but it’s not particularly uncommon for some patients experiencing that to… well, wander away and jump off a bridge, so to speak. And there’s certainly no shortage of bridges in this city.”

  I pressed my lips into a thin line as she spoke. The therapist had essentially said the same thing, albeit in a much more tactful manner. I cleared my throat. “I appreciate your candor.”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, that was unprofessional. I didn’t sleep on the plane on the way back, so I’m barely thinking. I didn’t mean to sound as if I were making light of the issue in any way. I wasn’t.”

  “It’s all right, I understand what you were saying.” I gave her a tight smile. “That it wouldn’t exactly be an enormous shock for someone with chronic pain to commit suicide.”

  “Yes.” She sighed. “How long has Celeste been missing for?”

  “Since October 14th, according to her friend.”

  “Oh no.” The doctor’s lips twisted. I knew what she was thinking. Check the morgues. She wouldn’t be the only one thinking that. Hell, even I thought it from time to time. In the majority of cases, if a missing person wasn’t located in the first three days, they were dead.

  Celeste had been gone for over five weeks.

  I had checked the morgue, though. No Jane Does fitting her description had been found in recent weeks. Of course, that didn’t mean she was alive. But it meant there was a chance. An infinitesimally small chance, perhaps… but still. A chance.

  “When Celeste was here, how did she seem?” I asked. “Aside from the pain.”

  “You mean her general mood?” Dr. Pompeo asked. I nodded, and she went on, tilting her head to the side. “Well, actually, I thought she seemed very resilient. I thought that out of all the patients I’ve seen with this condition, she’d be the most likely to make a full recovery and return to normal activity in a short period of time.”

  “So she didn’t seem depressed.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Do you personally think she was a suicide risk, based on your experience with her?”

  “Based on that, no. But you have to understand, people can be very good at hiding their real thoughts and feelings. And I only saw Celeste that one time.” She paused for a few seconds, then tilted her head slightly to one side. “You said you spoke to Dr. Angela Fitzgibbons, didn’t you? I think she was seeing her regularly. She’d know a lot more about her mental state than me.”

  “Yes, I spoke to her, and she let me read all her session notes regarding Celeste.”

  Dr. Pompeo nodded slowly. “She’s an excellent therapist. Sometimes uses unconventional methods, but she gets results, and she’s almost always right when it comes to her assessments. If she thinks Celeste was a suicide risk, then I hate to say it, but she probably was.”

  I nodded. From speaking to Dr. Fitzgibbons (who was quite an odd woman, like a lot of therapists seemed to be) last week, I’d gathered that Celeste had been starting to recover some sort of traumatic memory. She couldn’t tell me what the memory actually was, though. Apparently Celeste hadn’t progressed that far, and so she had no idea what it was herself. According to the therapist, whatever this traumatic memory—or memories—entailed, it likely contributed to Celeste’s stress and overall mood.

  Dr. Fitzgibbons seemed to think this made her a suicide risk, but I agreed with Samara Silva that it wasn’t a suicide issue. There was something else going on with Celeste. Something to do with this repressed memory, whatever it was. And that memory most likely involved the Heartbreaker.

  I hadn’t really believed any of that when Samara first approached me and asked me to find her friend, but the more I thought about it and the more I looked into it, the more sense it made. That didn’t make it any easier to find her on my own, though. It would take time, resources.

  I stood up. “Thank you for seeing me,” I said, hoping my fading hope wasn’t showing. “Please conta
ct me if you remember anything that might help me.”

  Three hours later, I trudged toward my desk back at the field office, only to be intercepted by another agent. “Hey, Foley said he wanted to see you when you got back.”

  I nodded and headed toward the SAC’s office. When I knocked and opened the door, I saw that he was with ASAC Dwyer, poring over some files. They glanced up when they heard me. “You wanted to see me, sir?” I said.

  Foley gave me a tight-lipped smile. “Yes. Where have you been?”

  “I was out re-interviewing the family of the second Heartbreaker victim.” I wasn’t lying. After seeing Celeste Riley’s sports physician, that was exactly what I’d done.

  “So can you tell me why a Dr. Zara Pompeo called here earlier, saying she forgot to give you her email address in case you have any other questions for her regarding Celeste Riley’s disappearance?”

  Shit. I sighed. “I’ve been looking into it for Celeste’s friend. She asked me to take a look when the police were no longer any help.”

  “But your current assignment is to go over the old Heartbreaker case files and re-interview the families, friends, and colleagues of the victims.” He pursed his lips.

  “I’ve been doing just that.”

  “And also taking it upon yourself to go on wild goose chases, apparently.”

  “I’ve been getting all my work done, so it isn’t interfering.”

  “When you are using work time to interview people about it, it is interfering,” he said coldly. “You need to drop this and focus on the actual tasks you’ve been assigned.”

  “But Celeste has been missing for over a month, and her friend seems to think she might still be alive. No one else is helping her.”

  “I know she’s missing. Her college ended up contacting us again and letting us know that they’d been informed as such by the police. Unfortunately, a painkiller junkie wandering off doesn’t warrant our attention more than the Heartbreaker case.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “She wasn’t a painkiller addict.”