by Skye Warren
You’re just as crazy as me, love. A sob escaped me, just one. Because he was right. Normal people didn’t think like that. Most people avoided becoming a victim. This was why I’d become an agent: to protect them. And to put myself in harm’s way. Firemen weren’t called crazy for running into fires. Maybe they secretly wanted to burn.
* * *
Something was different.
For the past three days he had come at every mealtime. He would help me wobble to the bathroom. He would feed me some time-specific meal, so I could get my bearings. Scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast. A hearty stew for lunch. Gnocchi and marinara sauce for dinner with a warm garlic bread that tasted homemade. There was always music for our meals and our sessions. He varied the selection, but he was a fan of La Bohème, that much was clear. Really, if it weren’t for the chains and the whips, he’d have been a very good host.
But he hadn’t come for a while now. Without the meals to tick away the hours, I couldn’t tell how long it had been. But I was hungry. And I had to pee.
And pain screamed through my arms at being held in one place for so long.
Fear was a constant presence in my mouth, harsh and metallic. I was worried about nerve damage at this point, and that was unlike him. So far he’d been careful with me. Cuts and bruises, but no broken bones. Nothing permanent.
Permanent. A very scary word to a woman in my position. Permanent damage would mean he never planned to send me back. It was a death sentence.
I squirmed again, wishing I didn’t have to pee so badly at such a dire moment. It was very distracting. They don’t explain that part in all the dramatic climaxes in plays. When the Phantom of the Opera kidnaps Christine and ties her up, they don’t show how she used the facilities or when. An oversight, surely, because now that I was here, these struck me as vital plot points.
I must have dozed off, but finally, a sound pierced my hungry, painful fog. A creak. Like the door, but even that sounded different. The steps inside, different.
What if it was someone else?
There was silence, but I felt him watching me. I felt more acute fear in that moment than I had the entire time. Realizing I could get left behind. Having no idea who was looking at me.
Hesitant fingers pulled at the knotting behind my back. My fingers were released, and a thousand needles shot through them. He undid all the rope, at my ankles and beneath my breasts. The numbness turned to a raging fire of pain, and I whimpered. His hands went to my arms, no longer unsure. He massaged my muscles…
And I realized I was free.
No restraints held me down. Even he wasn’t holding me down, just touching me. Caressing me. Had I heard the door actually close? I wasn’t sure.
I lay still, but not too still. It was important not to project. Keep breathing. Don’t move.
“Please,” I murmured.
He stopped.
I didn’t have to pretend my throat was dry. My lips were chapped. “Water,” I whispered.
The bed moved as he stood up. It had to be a trap, but I heard his footsteps move away. It had to be a trick, but the faucet squeaked and water rushed. It was too good to be true, but I believed in it anyway. I rushed up, ignoring the fiery pain in my limbs, tilting sideways as the blood rushed to my head. There was no way it should have worked, but it did.
The room came to me in flashes of light. An open-air unfinished space with metal rafters. A raw wooden floor. Neatly organized implements in the corner. A triangle of light spilling out from the bathroom. Only seconds to get there.
Then I was standing in front of the bathroom, yanking the door shut. For a split second, we were face to face. I stared into startled brown eyes. What I saw there was soulless and cruel, like looking in the mirror. I imagined hurting him. Killing him. I imagined he was my father, and I finally paid him back for what he did to me.
But I’d never had a taste for violence, not really.
I slammed the door shut and shoved the bench underneath it. This bench I had been draped over when he spanked me and fucked me with a dildo. That was the lock to bind him.
The door shuddered as he rammed into it from the other side. He didn’t bother yelling for me to undo it. He was smart enough to know better than that.
Something about the situation was off. It was too easy.
Too simple.
Not what I wanted at all.
But I did what every good little captive girl should want to do. I walked out of there in my bare feet with a soft white sheet draped around my naked body, my clothes and confidence long gone. I found a payphone and called 911. I fell asleep curled up beside a Dumpster before help arrived.
Chapter Twelve
For three days I’d woken up on a soft bed that smelled faintly of roses. Not the sickly sweet scent that got passed off as roses in perfumes, but the real earthy smell of rose petals wafting from cotton sheets. But now a sharp chemical tang burned my nostrils. That was the first thing I noticed, with my eyes closed, my mind still sluggish and half-asleep.
The second thing I noticed was the constant drone of noise. No expectant silence. No lilting strains of La Bohème. Instead, machinery beeped and voices sounded muffled in the distance. This bed was hard, the sheet rough and paper-thin between my fingers. I opened my eyes, then immediately shut them. The air felt like sandpaper against the surface of my eyes. An irrepressible groan of pain emanated from my chest.
“Shhh,” came a voice from my side. “Take it easy.”
For a moment, panic beat in my chest. Was it him? Was I still his captive? And if so, I must have done something wrong to end up here instead.
This was punishment.
He’d taken away my only luxuries, the soft bed, his tender touch.
He would hurt me now, he would…
“Samantha.” Sharper now. My name spoken in a command pulled me back. And I recognized him.
“Hennessey.”
“That’s right. You’re okay now. Just rest and take it easy. You don’t have to get up right now. You don’t have to do anything.”
My lips felt dry and cracked. I marveled that I could still feel the slight pinch of them where the skin split, considering the resounding ache in my whole body. I’d read once that the lips were one of the most sensitive parts of the body, a high concentration of receptor cells. Maybe that was why Carlos never kissed me. Maybe he’d thought it would tell me too much. A sob escaped me, manic-sounding, helpless.
A warm hand enclosed mine. “Are you in pain?” he asked, a note of concern deepening his voice. “I’ll get a nurse.”
I squeezed his hand to stop him. “No, stay.”
“Don’t try to move. Just rest.”
Slumping back against the thin pillow, I sighed. “How long?”
“Twenty-four hours. You’ve been out of it mostly, on the pain meds.”
“Mostly?”
When he said nothing, I knew I must have done something embarrassing. I glanced over to find his expression hard, jaw tense. His nostrils flared. Anger. No, scratch that.
Rage.
“Hennessey, look. I know I disobeyed—”
“Don’t you dare give me that bullshit. This isn’t your fault.”
“But if I’d only—”
“The van and its location were compromised. It wouldn’t have mattered if you were inside or not.”
I considered that. “How did they find out where the van was?” Silence again. “Hennessey?”
He blew out a breath. “Jesus. I think Brody might have set you up.”
Shock tore through my chest. “What?”
“I’m sorry. He knew you were Laguardia’s type. I think he put you on the team to lure him. And he knew the position of the van… He forced us to move early.”
The silence filled in the rest. He’d put me on the team to lure Carlos in. I was a bit of cheese in the mousetrap. That part wasn’t a surprise, but what came after had been. The spring hadn’t gone off like it should have. Instead of being caught, Carlo
s had caught me instead. He’d stolen me away, like the thief that he was, the criminal.
“Makes sense.” My voice sounded flat. “You always knew there was something off about it. Me, on a high profile case. The rookie.”
“Shit. I shouldn’t have said anything.” He ran his hand through his hair, and only then did I notice how ruffled it looked, the dark blond with glints of silver. He must have been messing with his hair a lot to get it in that state. I’d never seen him looking less than polished before now. For that matter, dark circles marred his bloodshot eyes. His white T-shirt and jeans looked hastily thrown on and rumpled. Had he sat in that straight-edged plastic chair the whole twenty-four hours?
I swallowed. “Look, I can’t promise I’m going to be normal or happy, but I don’t want you to hide anything from me. I’m still your partner. Right?”
“Right,” he said, but his eyes were veiled, and we both knew it was a lie. I would have been pulled, officially, as soon I’d been taken. I might get reinstated, but that would only be after Brody signed off on it. Considering this case had just gotten personal with me, I doubted that would happen.
“Do you… Do you want to talk about it, what happened to you?” He grimaced, self-deprecating, as if aware of the awkwardness he exuded. I imagined he’d have been far more comfortable taking a witness statement, or even better, interrogating me. Instead he offered me friendship.
A smile ghosted over my lips. “I must be really bad off if you aren’t even pushing for details.”
“Those can wait,” he said. Then paused. “I can put Brody off for a few days at least.”
I raised my eyebrow. “How, exactly?”
“I’ll say you lost your memory. Temporary amnesia.”
Reluctantly, I laughed. There was no way in hell Brody would buy that.
“Or we just won’t tell him you’ve woken up. You’re in a coma.”
I rolled my eyes, shocked and pleased that we could joke about this. About anything. The awkwardness slipped away, leaving only raw friendship. As if I’d never even left.
“I’m sure he has a direct line to the doctor.”
“Then I’ll barricade the door and keep him out.”
“Held captive again? Out of the frying pan and into the fire.”
“Only this time you’d want to stay captive.”
My smile slipped. Had I wanted to stay kidnapped before too? I wasn’t sure. Any sane person wouldn’t, but then I’d figured out a long time ago I wasn’t sane.
As a kid, I hadn’t wanted my father to hurt me. But I’d resented him that he hadn’t. So which was it? Which did I want? Both had pain, one physical, one emotional. Both were sick in their own dark way. It was the only life I knew, one drilled into me as a child. Every moment was defined in terms of pain or its lack. At least pain meant attention.
It meant love.
“What happened at the warehouse? Over the comm, we heard you… It sounded like…”
I couldn’t say it. That was how head over heels I was for him—even laid out in a hospital bed, beaten and bruised, I couldn’t fathom the idea of him hurt.
His eyes were a million miles deep, just then. He took down the walls and let me see how much it meant to him.
“Laguardia broke free,” he said simply.
And yes, it was easy for me to understand how, now that I’d met him. Even without the specifics of what lock and which guard and how so—I knew he wasn’t a man to be contained. He was a giant, and not even a hundred little men and all the rope in the world could keep him tethered to the ground.
My voice roughened. “Did you… Did you find him? After?”
After I was recovered.
These images were somehow just as bad as the ones of Hennessey injured had been. I imagined Carlos in handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit. I imagined him dead in a standoff that hadn’t ended well. Hennessey’s eyes were troubled. The glimmer in his expression clenched a cold fist around my heart. He was unshakeable, but here, now, at the thought of telling me this, he felt something. Gladness that the man he hunted had been caught?
“By the time we followed your tracks to the warehouse, it had been destroyed. We found blood and other…matter at the scene. They’re running the DNA at the lab, but we suspect it’s Laguardia.”
I’d been made of glass, I realized, solid but frail. And now the glass cracked down the middle, branching out into a thousand tiny shards. Carlos, dead or alive. I shouldn’t care. I didn’t. Either way, I would never see him again. Never get to ask the questions about why he’d taken me or what it all had meant.
They wouldn’t find only his DNA. Mine too. Mixed together and charred in an explosion. Who had set it? Didn’t matter. In-fighting, that was what Brody had said. Meaningless deaths.
I should be glad that Carlos was dead. Glad he’d never hurt me again. It was completely irrational to wish I could see him again, to imagine him tracking me down at the hospital or later. To wish he would abduct me again. Even now, I shook with fear and anticipation.
God, I was crazy. Imagining a bad guy, even when I knew he was dead.
Hennessey’s voice roughened. “I’m sorry we couldn’t catch him. Couldn’t…bring him to justice.”
Justice. “It’s okay.”
“Jesus, Samantha.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Three days…”
Three days, and with every passing hour, the chances of surviving had dwindled down to nothing. Like an integral equation, arcing low but never touching the baseline, racing toward zero into infinity. But I’d lived. Coincidence? Hennessey didn’t believe in coincidence, and strangely enough, neither did I.
In his steel eyes, I saw bleakness reflected. Had he searched the morgues for Jane Does? Had they run DNA tests on nameless, faceless corpses? I felt sick for him. Sick for myself. I should have been on the slab. Then everyone’s lives would be simpler. Just like my father should have murdered me along with all the other kids he hurt. Why did I always have to live?
Survivor’s guilt. The textbook hadn’t been far off the mark. And it sucked.
Tears slipped down my cheeks, and I clenched my hands.
Hennessey put his hand over my balled fist. “It will be okay. It will…get better.”
I shook my head. How could it get better? There would never be any closure, not with my father and not with Carlos. There’d never be any reasoning behind the actions of a psychopath. I should be happy to be safe again, to be in this buzzing, beeping, cold hospital room. I should be glad to have my partner at my side, when I wasn’t really even his partner anymore.
But I couldn’t be happy. An ineffable sadness weighed me down, heavy as lead, molten as lava.
A single tear slipped down my cheek, like a crack in my skin. A crack in my false composure, and I was lost. Sobs tore from my throat before I could hold them back. They racked my body, rattling the thin metal frame of the hospital bed. I cowered on the sheets, feeling exposed and miserable. Alone. For three stuttering, helpless cries I was alone. Then Hennessey scooped me up. He held me in his arms, sitting on the hospital bed while I spilled tears onto his T-shirt, while I breathed his musk and clutched at broad shoulders.
Should have died, should have died.
All I could think was that I wanted to die. But I already had. When Carlos had hurt me, when I’d realized I liked it after all, that even as an adult I still wanted the abuse—it had been a form of death. It felt like dying, but the part that really hurt the most was coming back to life.
Chapter Thirteen
When I woke up a second time, the room was empty. I glanced around, suddenly alert. A rap came at the door, and I managed to croak a weak, “Come in.”
The door opened in shadows, and a small frame entered. A stab of disappointment lanced through me. Not Hennessey. But instead of a nurse coming to check on me, like I’d thought, a familiar face emerged.
“Mrs. Martinez,” I said in surprise.
She gave me a gently chiding look. “Call me Mia.”
> I struggled to sit up, but a sharp pain stole my breath away.
Making a tsking sound, she rushed to my side. “Lie down, love. Don’t strain yourself. Here, let me help you.”
Mia eased me back to the thin comfort of the hospital bed and tucked the sheet around my waist. I let her do it…because damn, I ached all over.
I wasn’t even sure how I’d really gotten hurt. I winced as the harsh sheets pressed against my back, but that was a small twinge compared to the overall pain in my body. It felt like I’d been beaten—not beaten with a whip or a leather strap, but beaten with fists and kicks inside my body. But when I ran my hands over my stomach, I didn’t feel any bruises or cuts. The pain was on the inside, hurt and anger coalescing into a sick burn inside me.
Mia’s expression was pure sympathy. No, scratch that. Empathy. Like she knew exactly what I was going through. Which she did, really. She’d been with Carlos. I tried to let that sink in. She’d been through exactly what I’d been through, except instead of days, she’d been with him for years.
“How did you do it?” I asked helplessly.
Her smile was sad. “It was hard sometimes. Other times…I found it surprisingly easy. To put my trust in someone who was strong enough to take it. To focus on the sensations only. But I’d been with him a long time by then. I wouldn’t expect it to be the same for you.”
Her voice lilted up at the last word, turning it into a question. The really crazy part was that I understood what she was saying. The release of being bound and gagged, the freedom of having nowhere else to go. And instead of feeling horror, I felt curiosity. Was he always that rigid in the way that he fucked her? Was he relentlessly cruel? Or had he, at some point, opened up to her?
Strangely enough, that had hurt the most. If he had been a mindless, heartless animal and treated me that way, I could have understood it. I could have moved past it. You didn’t blame an animal for biting you. A monster only knew how to scare. But Carlos had too much intelligence, too much thoughtfulness to his actions to be an animal. A monster. He was just a person. He wasn’t kind, but then neither was the world.