Despite what they might think, I don’t need help in accomplishing my goals. Every monster is haunted by his own demons that ate away his soul a long time ago, but those are secrets every monster will take to their grave.
“Are you sure it’s worth it, amigo?” Santiago asks, knowing full well I will never step from the path I’ve chosen.
I’m a hunter stalking my prey for eternity, watching him enjoy his life from afar while bit by bit I’ve planned my payback. For years, I’ve waited for him to have one weakness that he values above all else and to take it away while he watched, choking on his own blood, and the inevitable doom that awaited him.
No such opportunity came until I spotted an angel with golden locks that are like the rays of sunshine on a bright morning. They have the power to lure even the most hidden evil creature, for he will want to possess this rare beauty.
Chloe is the key to the lock wrapped around my past.
“You are putting your captive on the line,” Callum reminds me, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees while he takes a sip of his drink, his deep-brown eyes trained on me the whole time. Probably not wanting to miss any of my features while he tries to understand how much Chloe means to me. “Are you sure about this?”
That’s fucking rich coming from him of all people.
“I don’t interfere with your plans; do not interfere with mine.” I get up, flicking the lighter so the glow of it can calm down the anger fueling my system. The same anger that demands for me to throw the laptop at the wall so I won’t have to listen to their advice that has no merit.
We might have experienced hell together, but it was just the tip of the iceberg in my misery-filled childhood. No one knows the truth about me, no one but the person who dumped me in this hell in the first place.
And the time has come to collect all debts.
Santiago’s hollow chuckle echoes through the laptop speaker, traces of annoyance dancing on the edges of it indicating to me he doesn’t much appreciate my attitude, or rather he’s not used to it.
After all, people tend to worship the ground he walks on, the mighty heir to the throne. “It’s a dangerous game you are playing, and your angel will be collateral damage. What will you do then?”
I might have appreciated their concern a long time ago, but not when the victory is so close I can taste it.
Chloe is an angel who needs to be the bait to lure the demon out, but she shouldn’t be afraid.
After all, the devil himself is on her side.
Callum stays silent, awaiting my reply, so I lean forward, resting my palm on the counter so they see without a doubt how much I don’t give a fuck about their concern. “The game is dangerous only when there is a chance of losing it.” Then I shift back, grabbing the bottle of water again, and point it at them. “I don’t need babysitters either. Lachlan might be the king, but I’m the fucking dark knight of this town. And I can kick you out as much as he can.” With that, I snap the laptop lid shut, slapping my hand against the counter for good measure.
But that’s when a terrified scream bounces off the walls of the house and freezes me to the spot for a moment before I rush toward Chloe.
A reflex that should have warned me this game might indeed turn dangerous and beyond my control, but when did I listen to warnings?
Callista
A loud scream fills the small space of the bathroom, and by the instant pain that follows it, I know it tears at my throat.
Instead of stopping though, I let out another cry when the cold water continues to fall on me, soaking me from head to toe, and all I can do is scream under it, unable to move.
Only chanting, “Cold water. Cold water. Cold water.” Is this his punishment after all?
Not providing me with hot water and making me freeze to death or get a fever so I’ll be twisting in agony on the bed inside his room, completely at his mercy with my weakened state?
Was that his plan all along?
Despite the lack of logic in these conclusions, I scream one more time while the tears streaming down my cheeks mix with the water that makes my eyes sting. My body trembles, my teeth chatter loudly, but try as I might, I can’t take a single step to the side to avoid the inevitable pain the water brings.
Accept this punishment, child, and beg for forgiveness.
I shake my head from the disgusting voice inside, hoping to forever wipe it from my memory while continuing to chant, “Cold water. Cold water. Cold water,” until I hear a shower door being opened and a muttered, “What in the fuck?” And then strong hands spin me around so that I’m plastered against a warm muscled chest that sends instant warmth through me, but it doesn’t stop my teeth from chattering.
Arson.
Despite the fear compounding, all I experience is profound relief at his presence and his snatching me from the clutches of vicious memories.
“Cold water,” I whisper under the icy spray that soaks him too, and he frowns, swaying to the side with me still in his arms and twisting the knob.
Within seconds, the cold water changes into hot, slapping harshly on my skin, warming me while Arson pushes me against the wall, stepping closer to me as water cascades down on both of us.
I raise my gaze to him so our eyes clash, his intense and all-consuming while mine are probably full of fear and panic. He plasters his splayed palms on either side of my head, stepping even closer as he slowly scans me up and down.
Only then his nearness to my naked body registers, and I gasp, pressing myself harder to the tile, but there is nowhere to go as I’m trapped between his chest and the wall.
On instinct, I cover myself with my arms as much as I can, not that it does me any good, and cast my gaze down, too afraid to meet his stare or what might happen next.
I’ve never been this close to a man in my life, and although they tried to hide what sex was in “heaven,” I understand well enough that this is dangerous territory.
But more importantly, I’m afraid of how goose bumps travel all over my skin, while my body buzzes with unfamiliar sensations and my breathing heavies. All I can do is wait for his next move.
At first, I feel his hand on my neck, slowly sliding his fingers over my pulse before they go to my collarbone, burning my skin with each light touch and awakening something deep inside me that has no name, because I’ve never felt it before.
A deep need that wants something… something unattainable that’s mixed with fear, because this is not okay.
His touch on me is not okay, yet I hold my breath in anticipation as his hand continues the slow exploration of my body. It slides to my breasts where he hesitates for a moment, his hand clenching like he is trying to resist something, before it splays open again. His fingers shift to the underside of my breast and then to my stomach where he slides to my hip, gripping it so harshly that I cry out, feeling every rough dig of his fingers. Oddly, I find it doesn’t bring me any pain.
Only makes me want to press myself closer to him and see what he wants to do to me next.
Wrong. This is wrong.
Desire for him is wrong—or whatever my body feels right now. I shouldn’t be doing this with him.
He is a serial killer who kidnapped me. How can I allow him to do this to me?
But then his hand travels back up, only this time lightly grazing my arm before he picks up my chin and lifts it so I meet his eyes, even though I don’t want to.
As long as I don’t look at him, I can pretend he isn’t the one standing in front of me.
He could be the Prince Charming every girl dreams of—who I dream of—who finally comes to the rescue and saves the princess—me—from the ivory tower. He defeats the dragon and wins my heart, earning my first kiss.
Sadly, Arson doesn’t give me this illusion. Instead, he leans closer so his breath is fanning my cheek while the water continues to patter against his back, protecting me from it as the steam rises in the room, driving me insane with the need to…
What does my b
ody need?
A villain who comes to the rescue before the prince does? Or is my body so starved for a male touch anyone will do?
Isn’t it an indication that I’ve lost my mind?
“Chloe,” he whispers, his lips lightly touching mine as my raspy breath leaves me. “You are one of the most beautiful creatures I’ve seen on this earth.” His fingers dig into my cheek before he caresses it with his thumb, sending sensations all through me. My hands end up on his chest, to push him away I think, but instead I rest them there, mesmerized by the even beat of his heart while mine gallops inside my chest. If it weren’t for his burning silver eyes, I’d think he wasn’t even affected by this. “I’m a monster with the most despicable past. I hunt, I torture, and I kill.” He bites on my chin, his teeth sinking into my skin before he leans forward, whispering into my ear as my eyes close. “There are no redeemable qualities about me. I’m forever smeared in the darkness that belongs to me like a second skin.” But then his warmth is gone, and the water hits me full force, flowing from above. I gulp for breath, removing my hair from my face only to see him step outside the shower stall.
His back is facing me, and he turns to the right, throwing over his shoulder, “I will never take a woman by force. This is my absolute law. You don’t have to ever fear that from me. But one of these days, you will be mine willingly. That’s another promise.” With those shocking words, he exits the bathroom, leaving me alone in the rising steam, while my heart continues to beat wildly in my chest. Slowly, I slide down the tile to the floor, hugging my knees to me while thousands of thoughts rush through my mind.
But the most prominent of them all?
How a serial killer who doesn’t take anyone by force… wouldn’t have to force me if he insisted on taking me.
And sadly, this thought doesn’t terrify me as much as it should.
What was it that one of the women said back in “heaven” when she had just arrived?
We consist of hormones and basic instincts that might be attracted to a bad man. We don’t see their flaws, just the desire rushing through our veins. We think we can control it or use our brains to get out of the situation… but the body wants what it wants, so we keep coming back for more, because the sex is good. It’s nothing but physical.
I used to think her words were nothing but bull crap. How is it possible to react to a man if you hate him?
However, my body just proved me wrong, reacting to a man I hate and won’t hesitate to kill, in a way it never did to anyone else.
Beauty never wanted to be with the beast, but he trapped her inside his castle, slowly wooing her attention until she finally accepted him despite his flaws. She loved him and never minded staying by his side, even with all the darkness his soul possessed.
But I’m not a beauty in a castle. I can never develop any good emotions for the beast. Because all his semi-good façades are nothing but gorgeous masks that hide his true rotten nature that seeks to rip me in two.
Arson will never rape me, because he said so.
But he will also never possess part of my soul, because I said so.
In the fight between a captor and the captive, there can only be one winner.
And I don’t have the luxury of losing this game.
Arson
Resting my back against the heavy wooden door, I rein in the possessive beast inside me that for the first time showed its head, demanding I go back to the bathroom and claim the golden-haired beauty who should have never been part of this world to begin with.
Just the idea of taking her to my bed, where I could make her addicted to me without her even remembering her name or that she is my captive, where she’d be completely at my mercy, makes me obsessed.
The house would be filled with her moans and screams of pleasure that only I can give her, playing with her body for hours in ways she probably doesn’t even imagine, only to repeat it over and over again until our sweat soaks the sheets.
I’d bite on her skin, leave marks of ownership all over her, so whoever looks at her would know she is taken.
Yes, fucking Chloe would have been an experience I’d never forget.
But despite how much I want to do it, I push away from the door and go back to the kitchen, needing a drink like my next breath.
I gave her my word and I won’t break it.
Even monsters have certain unbreakable morals.
Chapter Eleven
“Our choices always have consequences.”
Callista
Callista, 21 years old
The wind whooshes over my skirt, plastering it to my legs, and I raise my hands as I curl my toes into the emerald-green grass.
Basking in the sunlight for a moment, hoping it can warm me from the inside out, and knowing full well it won’t have the desired effect, I wonder if it’s possible to die inside while your body continues to live on.
Because that’s how I feel most days in this hell, barely existing while the soul inside me shuts out the horrendous things happening to me.
Shaking my head at the useless thoughts that never bring relief, I twist my hair into a tight bun on top of my head before walking toward my greenhouse located deep in the bushes between the roses and the forest.
A place no one ever wants to come, but it’s guarded nevertheless, because the princess of this hideous kingdom works here.
Or at least that’s the explanation Pastor gives everyone to justify his control over me, his fear of me saying something to them driving his actions, although I never do.
I still remember how he tortured the chef for days, tearing his skin with one of his knives, letting the blood drip on the floor by his feet while he asked me time and time again if I wanted to repeat the things I said to him about Pastor’s true identity.
Truth, as I’ve discovered, is not always welcome and often brings more chaos than peace.
Especially when people want to stay blind to the things happening around them, foolishly believing in anything as long as it doesn’t pull them out of their comfort zone.
Entering the greenhouse, I pick up the basket waiting for me by the door and look around the endless rows of herbs that took me years to grow with the help of our healer.
Chamomile, echinacea, feverfew, garlic, ginger, gingko, ginseng, valerian, turmeric, primrose, and many more that continue to grow and hopefully will have the effects these books say.
She died two years ago, leaving all her life-long research and books to me, claiming there was no one better than me to take her place.
Herbs and helping people have been my only solace in the hell I’m living in since my mom’s death. And Pastor has no problem with it as long as my mouth is shut and I can prevent the need for him to call real doctors. Not that there would be any sense in it anyway.
People who can’t have surgery just die, because according to him, God has a better place prepared for them. I guess I should be grateful he brings ointments and different medications here from the mainland as he calls it, so it won’t all be herbs.
A light knock echoes in the distance, and without turning my head as I examine my chamomile, I say, “Come in.” Thumping of expensive leather shoes follows, and I already know who it is.
I freeze for a second, my palms sweating, but I resume checking my plants, keeping my back straight so I won’t show him my turmoil inside.
Hunters tear the flesh of their prey more if they think it is afraid of them; that’s one of the rules I’ve had to learn in his company.
“I knew I’d find you here,” he says, his deep voice vibrating around me and transforming this place of peace into one of turmoil where I always have to watch my back. “Your one true love.”
Placing the basket on the table, I reach for the scissors to cut some chamomile for the tea I’ll make to soothe Sylvie’s stomach—the perky seven-year-old girl ate too much spicy food and needs to rest for a bit. The poor kid is constantly groaning in pain.
The scent of his strong cologne floats in t
he air, making me almost gag when he comes closer still.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Barely containing myself from shrinking into my shell, I straighten my shoulders and continue to pluck the plant, ignoring him in the process.
A rectangular blue velvet box lands on the table next to my hand just before his breath fans my neck when he perches on the corner, his thumb and index finger grabbing my chin and forcefully lifting my head to meet his stare.
His pools clash with mine, and he smiles, although I don’t miss the edge lacing his tone. “Is this the way to greet your fiancé, Chloe?”
If there is one thing I know for sure, it’s that Marcello Smith is a narcissistic creature who thinks all females should bend themselves backward in order to get his attention.
After Pastor viciously killed my mother, he dragged me by the hair to the basement in his mansion where he left me without food for days before he came back, bellowing about someone snatching documents from his safe.
He also mentioned how Caspian and his friends had disappeared, so he asked me where they went. He thought we were part of some kind of great scheme against him.
I never said anything; I couldn’t even if I wanted to, but the answer was not satisfying enough. He proceeded to torture me for days, beating me until blood dripped from my mouth and my head swam with dizziness, followed by cold water thrown over me with the AC blasting.
I had a cold, but no one came to the rescue. According to him, I should understand all the repercussions for my actions in order to clean my soul of sin and live among the saints.
Finally, after two weeks, it was enough, and he took me back to my room where he told me that hurting me hurt him too and he wouldn’t be able to do that again. So instead, whenever I try to talk to people, he hurts them to remind me about his absolute power.
With my broken heart mourning my mother, I spent my days in the healer’s company to distract myself from the nightmare, while at night hoping for Caspian to come back. Around that time, Pastor secured an engagement for me with Marcello. His happiness had been so extreme I barfed all over the floor, understanding the implications of the union.
Arson’s Captive Page 14