by Nashoda Rose
Stygian
Copyright 2015 by Nashoda Rose
Ontario, Canada
ISBN: 978–0-9937023–9-6
**Re-release originally published 2011 Titled: JUMP (Senses series)**
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
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*This book contains strong language and sexual content.
Copyright © 2014 Cover design by Kari Ayasha, Cover to Cover Designs
Edited by Kristin Anders, The Romantic Editor
Edited by Hot Tree Editing
Formatted by Stacey Blake, Champagne Formats
Dedication
Books by Nashoda Rose
Note
before
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
eighteen
nineteen
twenty
twenty-one
twenty-two
twenty-three
twenty-four
twenty-five
twenty-six
twenty-seven
twenty-eight
twenty-nine
thirty
thirty-one
thirty-two
thirty-three
thirty-four
thirty-five
thirty-six
thirty-seven
thirty-eight
epilogue
Glossary of Terms
Books by Nashoda Rose
Perfect Chaos
With You
Torn from You
Take
about the author
Books by Nashoda Rose
Tear Asunder series.
With You
Torn from You
Overwhelmed by You
Shattered by You (coming 2015)
Pierced to You (Date TBA)
Unyielding.
Perfect Chaos
Perfect Ruin (Date TBA)
Perfect Rage (Date TBA)
Scars of the Wraiths.
Stygian (prequel #1)
Tyrant (prequel #2) Date TBA
Untitled (prequel #3) Date TBA
Now Available : Take (standalone Scars of the Wraiths)
The terror of dying had vanished—now I prayed for it.
HIS DAGGER-LIKE NAILS TAPPED slow and precise up my neck until he reached the underside of my chin. He caressed the sensitive area with the pad of his finger then shoved his thumb upward between the curves of my jaw bone. It forced my mouth shut and I bit down hard on my tongue. Blood began to pool in my mouth and I couldn’t swallow with the pressure.
I breathed in and out frantically through my nose. I was going to choke on my own blood. I was going to die.
“Tilt your head,” he ordered.
The pressure increased and I turned my head, exposing the side of my neck. He moved his thumb away and I quickly spit out the blood. Remnants dribbled from the corners of my mouth and down my chin.
“Beautiful,” he purred, then curled his hand around the back of my neck and lifted slightly. I clenched my hands into fists, waiting for the familiar pain. I refused to scream—it made no difference anyway—no one was rescuing me from this monster.
I squeezed my eyes shut as he leaned over me, the odor of black licorice flooding my nostrils. He hissed and it sounded like the slow drag of a zipper being undone. I tensed and stopped breathing just before his fangs pierced my neck.
I silently cried as I lay unmoving, powerless to refuse him, frozen in the nightmare that had become reality. His lips were cold against my skin as he sucked the warmth of my blood. Each pull draining my strength until my hands unclenched and my nails embedded in my palms, released.
His tongue flicked over my neck and he lifted his head. “My sugary, Danielle.”
His voice was a calm melody, as if a paintbrush across a fresh white canvas, sweeping, rhythmic and subtle. I hated how it was captivating, how I compared it to something I loved, but I had no control over it.
I lay limp as the shackles released and cold, fish-like hands grabbed my arms and dragged me across the damp, dirt floor to the cage. My haven. Away from him. Away from the torture.
The monster threw me inside and I landed hard on my knees then collapsed to my side. The door slammed and locked.
Footsteps.
Metal grinding.
Clicking.
The cage lifted off the ground, rocking back and forth as it was cranked upward until it settled next to two other cages.
I was so cold. Endless shivering that made my muscles ache from constantly trying to provide my body with warmth. My throat was dry and hoarse from screaming, as if a razor blade had scraped the flesh.
“Jesus.” A few feet away I heard the familiar graveled voice—Balen, my only comfort here. The rusted pipes overhead groaned as the continuous spray of water sprinkled inside his cage. “Christ, I’m sorry.”
It took too much energy to move, but I opened my eyes to look at him. My neighboring prisoner gripped the bars, knuckles white. His tense body a spring, wound up so tight that it looked ready to fracture. His leg hung at an odd angle, mangled from the sledge hammer they tortured him with.
Despite his ravaged body, he was beautiful. Tattoos contoured to the hills and valleys of his muscular arms and chest. I’d caught a glimpse of a tiger on his lower back that was so intricate it looked alive. But it was his eyes that captivated me. Brilliant green, piercing and hard, filled with a haunting torment. When he was angry, the green darkened and looked almost black.
“Don’t you dare give up.”
I had already. I never thought I would in the beginning, but now . . .
“Look at me!” I heard what sounded like his fist pounding into the metal bars. “Look. At. Me.”
His tone was furious, and yet, I wasn’t scared of him. How could I be? He was all I had in this place.
Our eyes locked and the tension in his jaw eased. “You need to drink, Danni. Move closer.”
Water. I closed my eyes and imagined holding a cool glass of water and chugging it back; the liquid sliding down my throat, coating the harsh dryness. I’d never thought about the daily bottles of water I’d consumed, but now . . . now it was all I thought about. “I’m not letting you die, damn it.” His voice was harsh and abrupt and yet to me it was soothing.
Fearless. That’s what he was. He never screamed when they tortured him, never broke. I wanted that. To be brave again. But he had sucked it out of me.
I crawled across the metal floor and put my hands through the bars, cupping them together. I closed my eyes, afraid he wouldn’t be able to reach me this time.
But when the cool saturation hit my skin, tears pooled in my eyes. Water trickled thr
ough the crevices between my fingers and I quickly jolted back, afraid to lose a single drop of what he offered.
I licked my palms, the wetness adhering to my throat—velvet.
I reached out again and this time opened my eyes. He collected the water from the shower head attached to the top of his cage. It was a light spray and it took agonizing minutes just to gather a small handful.
We repeated the process five times, until my arms resisted rising any longer. “Thank you,” I whispered.
He sat and leaned up against the bars, leg bent and his arm resting on it; casual and indifferent and yet everything in his expression contradicted it. “Damn it, Danni, you need to lock your mind from your body. Shut it down like I told you.” He sounded angry, but I knew it was because he was worried. “Separate the two. Don’t let him win.”
It was too late for that. He’d won the battle already.
“Danni.”
I curled up on my side in a ball, my knees to my chin and my arms wrapped around them, trying to provide myself with some sort of warmth.
Then I closed my eyes and prayed for the darkness to take me.
I thought I heard him say something else, but I was already slipping into the void. It didn’t matter anyway. Nothing did.
I drifted in and out of sleep, pain mixed with the terror of hearing the clanking of my cage being lowered. Numerous times, I jolted awake to cries of someone else being tortured.
“Little one.” I woke to the deep male voice. “Wake up.”
Chains rattled and my cage began to lower. No. God, no. How long had it been? Days, minutes, hours? I had no concept of time, just the realization that the monster was coming to get me.
“Danni.” I slowly glanced over at him. He was standing with his hands gripping the bars, eyes hard and determined. “I’ll get you out. I’ll find a way, damn it.”
“Not again . . .” I mumbled in a haze of shock.
“Jesus!” He hauled on the bars, his face tight with frustration. “Don’t give him what he wants. Fuck, you can’t give in, you have no idea what it will do to you,” he said in a ragged voice.
“Balen.” I whispered his name, but I couldn’t see him anymore as my cage lowered until it settled on the floor. The door unlocked then jerked open. Cold hands gripped my forearms, dragging me across the dirt floor to the steel table. Clanging sounded, and then the harsh metal clamped around my ankles and wrists. I sucked in air as my abrasions rubbed against the restraints.
Then . . . the familiar sound of his footsteps.
My body started to shake as I recognized the stride—slow and precise. Then the smell of black licorice flooded the air and my throat constricted, reflexes making me dry heave.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I prayed to wake from the nightmare. To be back home in my apartment and bitching about doing the laundry. I’d do anything to open my eyes and have a room full of dirty clothes to wash.
The steps stopped and then his jagged nails dragged across my collarbone to my neck.
“Magnificent. Skin like a dove’s. Soon you’ll become my slave, eager to do as I please, and begging for my blood.” His fingers pressed into the bruise on my throat. “And then he,” he looked up at the cages, “will watch you become mine.”
I jerked against the shackles, my eyes flying open as a flash of defiance reignited. “Fuck you.”
He chuckled. “I wondered if I’d driven away that fierce spirit. Drink from me and this will end.” He ran a nail across his wrist and blood rose to the surface. He held it inches away from my mouth. “Drink, Danielle.”
I met his eyes, ignoring the lure that would end this. “It’s Danni, asshole.” It was all I had left, the last rebellion.
He gripped my chin and tilted my head to the side. “I’m very patient, Danni.”
I heard the familiar hiss and my body tensed, legs and wrists yanking on the restraints as a scream tore from my throat.
He chuckled at my struggle, his grip tightening on my chin.
It was then I heard his voice from above. That deep, strong voice that lived in hell with me.
“Ryszard. Stop. Jesus, I’ll fuckin’ do it.” His voice sounded haggard—defeated.
The icy hands left my body.
I lay shaking, unable to decipher what was going on around me, except for Balen’s comforting voice floating through my mind.
“No more pain, little one. Never again. I swear to you. Never again.”
I STARED AT THE portrait of the man—eyes green, like a leaf that had consumed an abundance of rain. His chin sharp and angular, lips thick, and a nose with a slight notch on the bridge. He appeared arrogant, confident, and definitely proud. I’d painted his dark umber hair wet, drops of water clinging to the ends of the strands, which hung an inch below his ears. One drop rested on his cheek as if he were crying.
“Danni, you have to stop doing this,” Anstice said. “It’s not . . . damn it, it’s not healthy.”
It was my best one so far. I thought I really captured his pain this time. The outer corners of his eyes drooped and sadness penetrated as he stared directly at you from every direction. Alone and haunted, as if something horrific had happened to him—a tormented soul.
“This is it,” I said, staring at my painting. I rubbed my arms, easing the familiar goose bumps that rose whenever I looked at him. “He’s the one in my dreams.”
My best friend sighed. “You said that the last time and the time before and the time before that. You’ve painted what . . . twenty, thirty portraits of this guy?”
I shrugged. Yeah, so what. I’d lost count. He lived in my dreams every night, driving me to paint him again and again. He was like a mosquito buzzing in my ear, and no matter what, I couldn’t swat it away. The absurdity of it was that the damn mosquito had become a familiar friend.
I ran my finger across the canvas, touching his slightly parted lips. He was real. I’d known him, spoken to him at one time. I even knew the sound of his voice, a deep baritone with a hint of huskiness.
“He was there. And don’t start with me, Anstice.” I pointed at the painting. “This guy had something to do with my abduction.” It was the way his eyes stared at me, telling me he felt my pain, knew what I’d been through. In my dreams, this beautiful man spoke to me, reached out with his hands and tried to save me from the black shadow who’d tortured me. I’d know if he’d been responsible, wouldn’t I? I was drawn to him and felt a sense of calm whenever I looked at the portrait. Even if my memory was washed away, my body knew.
“Danni.” Anstice placed her hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “You have to stop this. It’s making it worse.”
Anstice hated my portraits. When she’d seen the first one two years ago, she’d looked sick to her stomach, her complexion fading to a translucent white and her eyes widening with horror. Ever since then, she avoided the paintings altogether. Her excuse was the man looked creepy and it freaked her out.
He was forbidding and harsh with those all-knowing eyes. But it was the fearless strength I saw in him that gave me the determination to tackle another day. Then again, he reminded me of the frustration of living with a black hole in my mind.
I’d never been one to sit quietly and take whatever life threw at me. Instead, I fought for what I wanted. And I wanted to know him. No, it was stronger than that. I had to know who he was like my lungs needed their next breath.
But it was tearing me apart. Every time I looked at him, another piece of me broke off.
I shrugged off Anstice’s hand and strode to the front door. “I have to remember, damn it.” I flipped the Open sign to Closed and locked the door to my art gallery, which I’d aptly named Danielle’s. “You have no idea what it’s like waking up in the middle of night freezing cold, feeling like clammy hands are on my body and then there is the water dripping . . . constantly waking to the tap dripping, but it’s not. I know it’s not because I check, damn it. And I keep checking.” I kicked an unopened box of art supplies. “I can’t even go on a
date anymore without the fear it’s my abductor coming back for me.”
“It takes time.” Anstice’s voice was soft, and when I glanced at her, I saw tears in her eyes.
“Time? Are you kidding me? It’s been two years, damn it. I live like a hermit. Me. The free spirit with a tattoo on her butt. I don’t like men touching me. Black licorice makes me sick to my stomach, but before the abduction, I ate it by the truckload. I hate any sort of confinement and . . .” I stormed over to the portrait. “And I hate you!” I punched my fist through the middle of the canvas.
Anstice gasped.
I threw the ruined painting across the room. It landed face up on the floor, vivid green eyes watching me with an omniscient look as though the bastard knew I was all screwed up.
I gave a loud, frustrated grunt and stomped over to the cans of paint and picked one up. I carried it over to the canvas, opened the lid, tilted my hand and let the bright red paint slip over the lip to land on top of the eyes. “There. Now stay the fuck out of my head.”
The back door opened, then slammed shut against the cold wind.
I looked up and saw Keir. He was the type of guy you noticed, shit, when he walked in a room it was as if it became his. He nodded to me then looked at the destroyed canvas. His square jaw tightened and dark brows lowered over his eyes. He didn’t say anything though as he went and put his arm around Anstice’s waist, drawing her in close to his side.
I carried the can of paint over to the closet, threw open the doors and began yanking out every portrait of the man. I kicked my foot through each one and then poured paint over the haunting eyes.
I had to get this guy out of my head before he ruined my life. All I did was think about him, dream about him, and wonder if he existed. Shit, I’d even done hypnosis to try to erase him from my mind, but all it managed to do was intensify my awareness of him.
I dribbled the last of the bright red paint on the final canvas before letting the can slip from my hand. It bounced off the walnut hardwood floor and rolled on its side to settle beneath an easel. I looked around at the paint puddled on the floor and the numerous damaged canvases. Countless hours of work wrecked in minutes.