by Lane Hart
I swallow. “I cause you pain.” Good.
He finally looks down, his hand smoothing my hair back from my face. “Your beauty is a cruelty.”
It’s fragile, and I could break it…but there’s a tenuous thread I can tug in this moment. I look past the scars and the cold blue eyes of the man who tore my world apart. We are not even. “Where are the ashes, Luke?”
He holds me a few seconds longer in silence. Then, with deft movements, lifts me off him so he can stand. He heads toward the door. Only stopping long enough to say, “All around you. Bone and ash in every layer of concrete I’ve lain in this cellar. All my devils and demons, Mak. They’re all around you. Even him. Right here, a part of this cellar.”
Chapter Fifteen
Wicked Pain
Luke Easton
She hasn’t moved for two days. I think I broke her.
I’ve had to force her to eat. Spooning soup and soggy crackers into her mouth like a sick patient. She is sick. Denial is a form of sickness, and hers has made her catatonic. She’s made a choice to wither in this cellar rather than accept the truth.
Royce Hudson can never save her.
Resurrecting his bones won’t change her outcome. The life she knew, her life as a detective, is over. As soon as she leaves this cellar and steps back into the world, as soon as she returns to her apartment, they’ll know.
And this time, they’ll make sure to finish the job promptly, efficiently.
That was the plan, of course. Use Makenna as bait. Draw them out.
Only now, it’d be like placing a helpless lamb amid a circle of wolves.
I lean against the cellar wall, watching her. I moved my cot in here from the outside chamber. I slept on the floor, listening on the other side of the cellar door. At some point during the night, she must have moved. Because the papers that were scattered across the floor are now tacked to the board, and where she ran out of room, she taped them to the wall with strips from her bandage.
So I keep watching her, to see what she does next. Before that moment in the alley, I would’ve sacrificed the lamb without a second thought. A casualty for the greater good. Blood has to spill, people have to pay.
Innocent women get caught in the crossfire.
That’s exactly the kind of logic the people I’ve spent three years hunting tout.
It’s a hard truth to swallow. How much greater good is my vengeance doing? I take out one, another pops up. Like bad guy whack-a-mole. The only way to save anyone, to protect innocent lives from further damage, is to chop off the head.
So what do I do with Makenna now? Leave her here to fester in misery? While I face down the head snake? I’ve thought about it. Long and hard. Wanting to do just that. But what happens if I fail. When I don’t return.
She’ll become just another ghost in this cellar.
“Do you need to go to the bathroom?” I ask her, not expecting a response, but I keep trying.
I’ve taken her upstairs to the bathroom twice a day. I’ve taken her today once already. At least she’s responsive enough to tend to her needs, clean herself. I’m not sure I’m built for that; I don’t want to test it.
Which makes me question if I can actually go through with it.
Instead of hardening me, she’s made me weaker.
I have to let her go. It’s time. I can put her somewhere safe for a few days, hide her away. That should give me enough time to do what I need to do and disappear.
If I don’t die in the process.
After that, she’s on her own. If she never accepts the veracity of her situation, then that’s on her. I’ve tried to show her. Like the damn soup I ladle into her mouth, I’ve been feeding her answers for the past week, just waiting for the truth to catch fire and light up those dark eyes. Her unresponsive state won’t matter to the people looking for her. Once I’m gone, they’ll descend, closing up the last of the loose ends.
“I need to understand.” Her voice comes low and throaty. It’s fragile in its unused state. If I make a sudden move, she’ll retreat back within herself.
I remain still, where I am. “What do you need to understand, Makenna?” I’ve stopped calling her Mak. It was cruel to call her by what he used to, and I used that to my advantage.
She doesn’t look up. She’s curled against the wall on the cot, staring at her knees. Her hair is still damp from the shower, and the dark strands drape her face and bare legs. She tucked herself into an oversized T-shirt before she resumed her station on the cot.
“Ask me…everything,” she says. “Interrogate me.”
Locked inside her own mind, she’s been working it out for the past two days. All right. Mentally healthy people might call this processing. I call it detachment. If she comes across a particular fact she can’t accept, she can withdraw just as quickly.
“Why did Detective Hudson take you to the ravine?” I’ve asked this before, and her answer then was honest. But it was also defensive.
“I was being set up,” she says. “Royce Hudson brought me to a place where he knew I’d lower my guard, where I wouldn’t be anticipating…” She trails off, a shiver racks her body. “Where I’d be vulnerable. I’d gotten too close to uncovering players in a local sex trafficking organization that I’d been investigating. That was a threat to him. I was a threat. He was one of the main players known to the racket as Watchdog. His job was to protect—”
I hesitate, waiting for her to continue. Then: “Makenna?”
She closes her eyes for a prolonged beat. “His job was to protect them. Not to protect me.”
I swallow down the ache in my throat. I’m not a sentimental guy. But witnessing her make sense of a life full of lies is a wicked sort of pain. The Phiser group didn’t just destroy girls—they destroyed everyone they came into contact with.
I’d never thought of Makenna as a victim until now.
All that rage and bravado she was full of… Layer and layer is being stripped away as she uncovers the truth of herself.
Then again, it could be a farce. I’m not that practiced when it comes to female hostages. Unlike the men I hunt, that’s not my specialty. A fact that will be to my detriment.
This could be her practicing aloud, testing out the theory. If she wants her life back badly enough, and she has enough evidence—her files; my files—maybe she can make it happen. With or without her partner’s remains, she could tarnish a cop’s reputation. That never goes over well with other cops. Does she understand the risk?
“Why did Jack Keller murder Milton Myer?”
If she’s worked out the answer to this, her acceptance of the cellar will make more sense. She’s safer in here than outside this room.
“Jack Keller is a hired hitman.” Her eyes meet mine. It’s the first time in over forty-eight hours she’s really seen me. “The person in control of the sex trafficking organization is trying to clean up.”
I take in a giant breath. Waiting for her to make the full connection.
She picks at the edge of her bandage. I checked her hands just yesterday. They’re healing, but I kept the bandage there to prevent her from damaging her hands more, if she lost control again. I don’t like not knowing what’s going to happen next. She’s unpredictable, and that worries me more than five hired hitmen.
“I wasn’t supposed to go inside the building,” she says, as she unwraps her hands. “I was hired to investigate, to watch. That’s what PIs do. But the gunshot. Jack Keller didn’t use a silencer. This was done on purpose to draw me out of my car. I went after the shooter.”
“What does that mean, Makenna?”
She drops the used bandages off the side of the cot, then pushes her back flat against the wall. She knows what this cellar is made of, and yet she’s not averse to touching these walls. Maybe she feels closer to Hudson here. It’s a disturbing thought, but we search out comfort even from those who hurt us. Sometimes, we crave it from them the most.
“What does it mean,” she repeats on a sigh. �
�It means, I was sent there to die.” She pushes onto her feet, unsteady, and I almost go to her, but I let her gain her balance on her own. “Myer, and possibly a number of others involved, had deviated. They’d taken local girls. A couple even wound up dead. That wasn’t going to be tolerated. It was a threat to the higher up, the person in charge.” She paces, thinking it through. “That’s why Keller killed Myer. And why I was planted there. Not to be a witness as I first thought, but to be killed in the crossfire. That same person in charge found out about my investigation and wanted me gone, along with anyone else asking questions or—” She looks at me. “Seeking revenge.”
I nod slowly. “Who put you there?”
“Jennifer Myer. The wife of Milton Myer, and the sole proprietor of Phiser now that her husband is dead.”
This deserves a slow clap. Instead, in reward, I give her another piece of the puzzle. “With Keller out of the picture, someone else will take his place. They probably already have. It won’t stop, Makenna. Not until Jennifer Myer is stopped. It’s taken me three years to get here.”
She grips the hem of her shirt, a tremble rolls through her. “A woman is doing this. A woman…is hurting girls. Why? How?”
The answer is always so simple. “Money.”
“Is that why Hudson was involved? For money?”
I sink my hands into my pockets. My fingers touch Jules’ necklace. “What do you think?”
“After Hudson…it took six months for them to find me. I didn’t exist to these people before. I thought…maybe Hudson had protected me, sheltered me from them. But that wasn’t it, was it?”
She’s getting agitated, pacing faster. Her socked feet pad the slab, back and forth. I put those socks on her feet, to keep her warm. The thought slaps me with a mocking backhand.
“He was ten years older than me.” She laughs manically. “Ten years. God, I was a toy, a plaything. His side piece when he needed a fix, or to curb his…deviant cravings.” She closes her eyes. “They didn’t know about me, because I was his secret. And when I started snooping around Myer, I gave myself away. Jennifer looked into me, found out who I was, and made the connection. She hired me, and I went willingly to my own death.” She releases her shirt. “I did this to myself.”
As she stalks closer, an internal alarm sounds.
Loose waves tangle her damp hair, matching the wild gleam in her eyes. She’s fearless as she approaches me. I let her get close before I put my hands up to stop her. I hold her shoulders, keeping her at a distance.
She places her hand on my chest, then slides it down, a leisure descent that makes my muscles tighten. I suck in a quick breath at the feel of her intimate touch. “Makenna…”
The warning in my tone doesn’t stop her. She reaches the waistband of my jeans, her fingers dipping just beneath, before she digs her hand into my pocket. I’m still gripping her shoulders as she brings out the necklace.
“This is my proof, isn’t it?” Her voice shakes. “That it wasn’t just for money. He did sinister things, then he made me wear his trophy.”
I release a bated breath. “Yes.”
She holds the necklace up so that the charm sways. “How old do I look to you?” When I don’t respond, she adds, “Without makeup, seventeen? Sixteen maybe? I’m petite. Only five-one. I’ve always looked younger. How old was your sister?”
I swallow down the burning ache. “Sixteen.”
Her gaze scans my features searchingly. “I was a virgin when I met him,” she confesses.
Christ. “Makenna, stop.”
She shakes her head. “I was. I was untouched and pure. Apparently, how he liked them. That’s probably what attracted him at first. But then…I could tell he was losing interest. It’s something every couple goes through, or so I read online. But it wasn’t a normal problem, was it? A healthy couple issue. My tits.” She grabs her breasts and gives them a hard squeeze. “They got bigger. My mom, before she killed herself, said that I was going to be a late bloomer like her.” She laughs, the sound hollow, painful. “But that’s what changed. I didn’t look like a little girl anymore.”
She presses her body against me, stoking the embers, and every cell in my body wars against touching her in this state. I don’t move, allowing her to do what she needs. “But you like my tits,” she says. “I turn you on. Women can tell when a man wants them. The little girl thing doesn’t do it for you, but the captive thing?” She smiles. “Yeah. That does it for you. The man in control, with the power.”
As her hand snakes up my arm, I grab her wrist. Enough. “You need sleep.”
Her hand balls into a fist. “You think you’re different than them, that you’re a different kind of monster. You’re not. You’re just like them, Luke. Easton. Whatever you want to be called. They use girls…and you planned to use me.”
I take the necklace out of her hand before I push her wrists between us. “I do what I have to,” I admit.
She nods slowly. “That’s why you kept me. Instead of disposing of the inconvenience, after you figured out that I was a mark, that I was dead anyway”—she laughs humorlessly—“you knew you could use me.”
I don’t deny it. I am that monster. But it was more than that—more than dangling bait at Jennifer Myer. “I needed to know what it felt like to lock a woman in a cellar,” I say. “To hear her cry, plead for mercy. Beg to be released. I needed to know that I wouldn’t break.”
Her eyebrows draw together. “This place wasn’t meant for you,” she whispers. “That’s what you said before. I heard you.”
I can’t let go of her. There’s nothing more to be said, and I should leave. But I can’t let her go.
“I’m still here,” she says, tilting her head back. “You haven’t used me yet, and I’m still here.” She stretches onto her toes, whispering against my mouth, “I don’t think you want to let go, Luke.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know that it took six months for them to find me,” she says, a challenge in her eyes. “Part of that reason was Hudson’s filthy secret, but the other reason why they didn’t find me right away was that you killed the only people who knew about me. You pushed me down the ravine so I’d be safe, while you disposed of the bad men. You didn’t kill me that night. You still haven’t.”
I release a heavy breath. I’m not a hero. I’m so far from that… “Had you seen my face that night, I’d have killed you. It’s that simple.”
“No. I don’t think so. You didn’t kill me then, and you didn’t kill me in the alley.”
“I should’ve.” I should’ve done anything else. This situation feels dangerous.
She tries to free her hands, and I press them to her sides, keeping her from touching me. She steps between my legs, pushing her body hard against mine, and I’m on the edge. This has to stop.
“I’m taking you to bed.” I spin her and grab her around the waist. I haul her to the cot. “Playtime is over.” She’s fucking with my head.
As I lay her on the mattress, she watches me. I go to leave, and she grabs hold of my hand. She’s not strong enough to force me to stay, but that’s not what stops me. It’s the feel of her fingers lacing through mine.
“I hear you out there,” she says, “talking to yourself. Talking to the walls. To the cellar.” She rises up onto her knees, bringing her nearly level with me. Her fingers reach for my face, and I pull back.
“Let me,” she says. It’s not a request, or even a demand. The lack of fear and repulsion in her voice stills my blood, breath held, as the soft pads of her fingers seek the jagged scars on my face.
“Hudson did this to you,” she says.
My hand circles her wrist, and I remove her touch. “You figured him out pretty well,” I say. I push her back a couple of inches, needing air, to think. Her scent is all around me, stealing my fucking common sense. “He enjoyed giving me these scars. He was a deviant, Makenna. A sadistic predator who enjoyed inflicting pain. The night in the ravine, I made a choice.
Yes, I spared you. Not saved. Don’t confused the two. I was focused on ending Hudson, and you were just in the way.”
“Why did he cut you?”
“If you can’t kill your enemy, then maim them,” I answer. “He marked me because he was a dirty cop, but still a cop. Scarring my face made me more identifiable. That’s a cop thing, right?”
She doesn’t answer, but I can see the agony in her eyes as she studies me.
“Jesus, Makenna. Get some sleep. Your cracked brain is freaking me out.” I try to lay her back, but she won’t release my hand.
“The voices talk back to you, don’t they. I’ve heard them, too. Calling me a child. A naive child for believing him. I’m a cop. I was a detective. I’m trained to spot deviancy in perps, and yet I missed all the signs with him.”
I give her hand a squeeze. Some residual nice guy shit. I don’t know what else to do. Maybe forcing her to see the truth was the wrong move. Ignorance is so much kinder.
I place one knee on the bed as I try again to lay her down on the cot, to release me.
Her arms link around my neck. “Let’s give the walls a show. Rub it in Hudson’s face. Let him watch you fuck me.”
My dick responds, even though my brain knows better. I try to loosen her arms from around me, but she clings there, her pelvis grinding against the hard length in my pants. “I think you’ve snapped,” I say. “That’s twisted.”
She laughs. “My captor calling me twisted is ironic.” She grinds harder, tearing at my control. “Fuck me, Luke. Let’s give the voices something to really talk about.”
I close my eyes for a beat, just feeling her soft body wrapped around me…the light brush of her breath over my mouth. I rein in every ounce of control and grasp her thighs. I flip her onto the mattress. “No,” I say, more firmly than I feel in this moment.
Her legs twine around my calves and, as she lies below me, she whispers, “Come here. I have a secret.”
I think I broke her.