by V. F. Mason
Her pussy clenches around me, her mouth hangs open, and her eyes fill with pleasure. A cry tears out of her throat and she falls back on the pillow, her chest rising and falling, my cock still drilling inside her, deeper, deeper, and deeper, finding solace in her heat and seeking the calmness only she can give me.
Then I feel it. The tingling of my spine, my balls draw closer, and finally I spill into her as pleasure unlike anything I’ve experienced before washes over me, almost knocking me out completely.
For the first time in my life, I’ve made love to a woman, leaving myself completely exposed and bare, and I hate Valencia for it as much as I need her.
She leaves me hollow without her. How will I ever hurt her?
Breathing heavily, I blanket her body as she shudders under me and clenches around me once again. Wrapping her arms around me, we lock in a tight embrace that blocks out the world that will never accept this as anything but bad.
Not that this will ever have a chance to flourish.
Valencia
What if…
Lachlan
Gripping the banister of the balcony, I breathe the frigid air into my lungs and will all the bad memories to come back. To build armor around my heart that is used to pump my blood, not to feel anything aside from loyalty or praise.
But the strong pounding in my chest right now is only for her, and I don’t know what to make of that.
In a short amount of time, she’s gotten under my skin and found the darkest secrets, cravings, desires.
Challenged my self-control in ways I never expected. Blinded me with her beauty that leaves me speechless and powerless against her.
But the strength and courage she shows me is what truly bonds me to her.
All those years ago, when I chose her as my means to revenge, I always believed the plan had formed in my head because it was the perfect solution. Now I see that the perfection of it had nothing to do with it.
It’s her.
I wanted her for myself from the first glance. That’s why other women wouldn’t do and why I stalked her in Italy, even though it was never part of my plan.
In normal circumstances, people would call it love at first sight, but I don’t know what that is, and I can’t give it.
So for me, it’s an obsession bordering on insanity. If she has the power to do this to me now, what will happen in the future?
For now, she is experiencing Stockholm Syndrome, because accepting and seeing goodness in her captor is better than facing the devastating truth.
But maybe I should do it for both our sakes.
We’ve already sunk deep.
I should crush this connection before living without each other becomes unbearable.
The end of this plan has always had only one outcome for us.
And it doesn’t include us ending up together.
Let what I’m about to do be my gift to her. Before, I looked at this part of the plan as the culmination of my show that would bring me the most satisfaction.
Now I dread it and use it as a necessary evil to accomplish my goal.
She needs to hate me, because right now she loves me.
Her hate is better for her sanity to survive it all. But her love… her love will forever stay in this moment with me, reminding me that for a moment in time an angel gave herself to the monster freely, allowing him to feel emotions he thought he was incapable of.
Not every story has a happy ending.
Chapter Eighteen
Lachlan, 12 years old
“Here you go, Lachlan,” the nice lady wearing the blue uniform says as she gives me the bottle of water. I accept it, burrowing deeper into the blanket thrown over me, although it doesn’t give me warmth.
Nothing can warm the cold in my heart.
She does the same to Logan, who sits numbly next to me, gazing into space as we share the same pain.
His little sister Chloe got lost in the fire, but he tried to save her, and as he rushed back into the house, he couldn’t find her. Finally, his father pulled him back, claiming there was nothing they could do.
He begged paramedics until his voice was hoarse to search for her, but they just gave their condolences as everything burned to the ground.
A lot of people died, most were injured, and few just sat not knowing what to do. Red lights surrounded the place with reporters wanting to enter the area, but the FBI—that’s what those people called themselves—kept them away because of some kind of privacy.
“She is gone,” he murmurs, his raspy voice barely audible in the space between us. “He killed her.” My hands fist on my knee, because I want to offer reassurance and hug him, do something to numb his anger, but can’t.
Because deep down, guilt nips on my skin, slowly destroying my insides.
All this is my fault.
If Aunt Jessica hadn’t tried to save me, she wouldn’t have gone against Pastor Mark and none of this would have happened.
“My family is gone too.” That’s the only reply I can muster, and at least Logan has his parents. They might be fucked-up and in love with this cult or what the fuck ever, but at least he has someone.
I have no one.
His bitter laugh kills me as he grabs my shoulders and forcefully makes me face him. His face and any bare skin has soot smeared on it, probably just like mine, and several fresh bruises are on his face. Licks of fire touched us both as each of us tried to do something.
Something that failed anyway. “My parents mean nothing to me. They knew what he did. They just didn’t care as long as they supplied them with ‘gifts,’” he spits, throwing the empty bottle in the trash can. “I’m sorry for your family. They didn’t deserve it.”
He wraps his arm around me, and although my body stays unmovable, I lean a little on him, seeking at least some small comfort in this nightmare.
Pray and everything will get better.
Hysterical laughter bursts out of me as tears appear in my eyes, and a second later, Logan joins me as we laugh and laugh at everything as he croaks through it. “Pray, right?”
I nod and we laugh again, because it’s so fucking hilarious.
The more we prayed, the worse shit became.
Faith has brought nothing but pain and loss, and we have scars on our bodies and souls forever to prove it.
We still chuckle as a man with a notepad in his hand comes closer to us, and we shut up quickly, reflexively scooting back.
You never know who hides behind the masks of good people.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he says, and we just blink, not really knowing how to react.
Rarely has anyone said those words to us.
“Would you like to give statements of what happened here?”
We share a look, because what are we supposed to do? For so long, our lives have been directed by specific rules that it’s hard to do something on a whim.
“We’ve seen the scars and found torture places. Who else was subjected to it?”
I open my mouth to explain, when Logan beats me to it. “They just punished us if we performed badly at school. We couldn’t go beyond borders. Had to ask for permission. We don’t know where the pastor is,” he says, and my brows furrow. This has to be the shortest fucking version of events ever! Why does he hide the other truths?
The agent writes it down, but then shifts his attention to me. “Do you have anything to add?”
Logan kicks my leg and words still inside my mouth. As much as I want to spill more, we made a pact a long time ago. Unity. So I reply, “No, that’s it.”
He nods again and then smiles sadly at us. “Social workers are on the way. Hold on, kids.” With that, he walks off to other officers as they murmur something amongst themselves.
“What was that?”
Logan shrugs, adjusting the blanket. “I want a peaceful life. The fucker got away. We won’t be able to track him, but with all we know? We will be held in either witness protection or with these people. I have a chance for a foster home a
nd to build a life. Imagine. We can create music.”
What he says is so weird it takes me a moment to make sense of it all. What the hell? “What music and foster care, Logan? You have parents!”
Anger flashes in his silver eyes. “They will be charged. Me and you will go to foster care. It won’t break us after this. We will build a new life, forgetting this nightmare.”
Forget? I won’t ever do that.
Revenge, that’s what I want. How can I live in the world where Pastor is alive? Where he freely might harm someone else?
And besides… I want blood. No, need it.
As long as someone suffers, I’m good.
Normal is not for me.
In this exact moment, a shadow looms over us and I raise my eyes, only to almost choke on my spit.
The man standing in front of me has come to Pastor countless times, and although he never touched kids, he approved of everything going on. Based on what I heard, he owned a shady business that brought tons of money, but Pastor never liked him much, as he claimed the guy had specific sinful preferences that he didn’t approve of.
Which was rich coming from Pastor.
“Lachlan,” he addresses me, gracing me with a sinister smile that sends chills down my spine. “Let’s talk, shall we?”
And what he says changes the direction of my life forever.
New York, New York
January 2018
Valencia
Padding barefoot to the kitchen, I find Levi gazing through the terrace door at Lachlan throwing the ball to Chance who chases after it eagerly and then repeats the action, each jerky movement only emphasizing his muscles.
Levi’s back is to me as he exhales heavily and turns around only to blink in surprise when he notices me. “Valencia,” he says, and I grin at him, enjoying the happiness spreading through me.
Last night with Lachlan was… magical. In his arms, he showed me softness, gentleness, and passion, making me feel like his most cherished possession.
There is goodness in him, overshadowed by darkness, of course, but he doesn’t know any better. How can a person have compassion or want a relationship if his childhood and everything else was nothing but a constant nightmare? He does bad things, but he punishes those who in his mind deserve it. Which doesn’t make it all right on the grand scheme of things, but is it important?
If he doesn’t harm innocent people and saves someone from experiencing the same nightmare, does it matter that he continues to do so?
Happiness diminishes in me as those thoughts swirl in my head, because deep down, I know it does.
I won’t be able to live or be with a man who continues to do what he does, but how can he ever stop? Serial killers experience the same cravings as addicts, needing victims like crack to inflict their desires on them. They want blood and gore. How is it possible to build a life with one if he surrounds himself only with darkness?
My mind travels to Sociopath and Shon, as he calls them. Do they continue to do what they did? He said they both have women. Does this mean that their women accept everything easily?
I wish I had the chance to talk to someone about it, to someone who has experienced something like me to give me advice.
Pressing the button on the electric pot, I’m rising on my toes for a cup when Levi’s voice stops my movements, and my hand pauses midair. “Whatever he makes you do, please remember there is goodness in him. It’s buried under the pain, but there is light.”
“Levi—”
He shakes his head, flattening his palm to me, so I shut my mouth, awaiting his next words. He never spoke to me directly without Lachlan’s presence, so this is weird to say the least.
“I raised him in a way. I know him better than anyone. He will punish you.” Regret laces his voice as my brow furrows, a heavy stone settling in my chest. “For that smile you had that I spotted when you entered, you probably shared something beautiful with him. And this is killing him,” he whispers, as I just stand there numbly, wishing to scream at him to shut up and not burst my bubble, but I don’t. “Any kind of emotion besides anger or fury or satisfaction is killing him, because he doesn’t know how to handle them. He will bring you so much pain, Valencia.” He comes closer, cupping my cheek as a single tear slides down it, and he wipes it away, his eyes wrinkling even more as they fill with remorse, while he pleads, “Please hold on to him, because there is goodness.”
Like the traits he had shown me during the soccer game. But small cracks of light are not enough to build a life, no matter how much you want it or love a man.
Love.
This is what it is… no?
Love should never hurt, but obsession and devotion? That sure fits our story. Does a beautiful thing flourish under rough passion?
I finally find my voice. “Hope is a dangerous thing. Sometimes goodness is buried too deep to dig for it, Levi.”
He opens his mouth to add something, but that’s when Lachlan comes in, his face hard as granite and void of any emotion. He reminds me nothing of the man who spent the night with me; instead, he is again this cold stranger who greeted me all that time ago when I woke up in the cage.
Deadly.
That’s the right word for the vibes he is sending my way. “Come with me,” he orders, roughly grabbing my hand, and I try to wiggle free, but his grip is so tight it bruises my skin.
“Let go of me, Lachlan,” I shout, at the same time as Levi says, “Lachlan, maybe—”
He turns to him, barking, “Shut the fuck up, Levi. Do not interfere.”
Levi bites his lip, resting on the kitchen counter, shaking his head, and looking down, but Lachlan is already dragging me to his torture rooms. Although I stumble and halt his movements, he doesn’t care.
“What is going on with you? Ouch!” I bump into the small table’s corner, and that stops him at once, as he swiftly spins around and his eyes roam over me, searching for the source of discomfort. “Careful,” he snaps, and my jaw drops at his arrogance. I slap his chest as anger burns strong inside me, because I don’t understand him.
What happened between our night and this morning that makes him act insane? “Why do you care? You drag me like potatoes!”
Regret flashes in his blue pools as he presses cold metal to my temple. Removing the safety from his gun, our gazes clash as my breath tightens and he steps closer, our chests almost brushing against each other. “You forgot you are the captive, Valencia. The time has come for you to learn why you are really here. Follow me or your brain will be splattered on the fucking wall.” For a second, I don’t know how to breathe or even think, my shock freezing everything inside me. “Is that clear?”
This is the man I allowed to touch me last night?
He holds the gun to my head, and for the first time ever threatens to kill me, and by the looks of it, he will do it with no remorse.
I know in normal circumstances, I probably should panic or run away, but I just numbly nod, too shocked with anything to fit any norm. His weird behavior lowered my guard, and I allowed myself to think that there was more to him than meets the eye.
But it was all part of the game, probably in preparation for the final introduction, for the point of all this.
“Crystal.”
He proceeds to drag me to his office again as he presses the code, and the door to the torture hall opens. He takes us down, aiming for torture room number seven, and enters it in a quick move, shutting the door behind him and punching in a code on it.
A code so I can’t escape?
A shiver from the cold in the space runs through me as I study the environment. There is only dim light above the table that has knives, guns, and other weapons spread on it with bleach and gloves.
Several bats and chains along with—is that gasoline?—are on the counter next to it. Basically, it’s like the mix of all his previous rooms based on what he said.
Why did he bring me here? The place reeks of devastation and doom, coated in a permanent depressing atmo
sphere that grates on one’s nerves.
“Let’s get you all the answers you’re looking for,” he says to me and clicks with his fingers. Immediately, the bulb in the circle a few feet away from us lights up, and my eyes widen as a shocked gasp slips out when I see a man attached to some kind of bar right in the middle. His hands and legs are tied with ropes, while silver cloth is wrapped around his mouth as he mumbles something. He is almost in the same position as the Church placed women who they considered witches back in the day.
“Oh my God.” He is only wearing pants, and for now, he is completely unharmed, which means he is a freshly brought victim.
Lachlan chuckles sadistically at my horror. “Too soon for those words, darling. You ain’t seen anything yet.”
The man sends his pleading gaze toward me.
“Lachlan, don’t do that. Please, I don’t want—”
“I don’t care. Life doesn’t revolve around your wants.” He picks up folders from the table and throws them at me, and I manage to catch one while the rest fall to the ground. “Let’s meet the creator of all this, shall we? The great and mighty Pastor.”
With trembling hands, I open it up, but I already suspect the truth, which will devastate me.
“No,” I whisper, placing my palm over my mouth as photos of my father come into view with details on his whereabouts and a place called Peaceful Heaven. Back when we did a history research project on cults in class, this story came up, saying that the entire community burned down and there were almost no witnesses, and those who were left all thought the apocalypse had happened and they didn’t want help.
Next to each of the photos taken of him and me is written the year and what Dad did in that community. The number of boys he had essentially sold, how the place grew and grew, and finally the grand fire that ended it all. He never wanted outside power, just enough resources to keep his place growing, his little kingdom where he was a king.
I scoop up the rest, and these are files on the people who died in that fire, how they had houses, and he took them away promising a better life.
Better life that seemed more like a prison.