Everything Happens for a Reason
Chapter 15
Everything Happens for a Reason
Diable
I press my finger against the scanner, feeling the cool surface as the door clicks shut and locks with a soft metallic hum. The sound reverberates in the small space, but it does nothing to ease the weight pressing down on my chest. It’s like I’m sealing something in—trapping it. Or maybe it’s me who’s trapped.
I yank my hand back as the lock engages, my finger throbbing from the pressure. But the pain is nothing, just a dull throb compared to the chaos tearing through my mind. I take the stairs two at a time, my footsteps heavy, and each one feels like it’s dragging me down further. My hands tangle in my hair, pulling at the strands, but it does nothing to clear the fog of frustration building inside me.
I feel like shit. I need to shower—to rinse away the blood that’s starting to feel like it’s seeping deeper into my skin, becoming a part of me. I can still smell it, metallic and sharp, clinging to my clothes, to my hands. But even more than that, I need the heat to burn through the thoughts gnawing at me.
The water is scalding when it hits me, but it doesn’t feel like enough. The heat pours over my skin, but instead of relief, it makes everything worse, intensifying the weight in my chest. The blood swirls down the drain, a brief satisfaction, but it doesn’t last. All I can see is her—the image of her bare, filthy feet burned into my mind. It’s such a small thing, but it twists at me and digs in deep.
And her skin... her skin was so cold. I can still feel it—those icy hands that felt like they didn’t belong to someone alive. She’s crawling under my skin without even trying, without saying a word. And I’m letting it happen. I’m letting her get inside me, letting her take up space in my head, and it’s driving me insane.
He knows. I know he knows there’s a woman here. And it shouldn’t bother me this much, but it fucking does. It’s not just that he’s seen me with someone for the first time, it’s the danger that follows. He could harm her. Hurt her in ways that tear through her in ways I can’t predict. That thought twists something in me, something dark and possessive. No one touches her. No one breaks her but me.
She’s mine to break.
Isabella
I take a sip out of the water bottle he left. As I wipe my nose, I can feel another migraine attack making its way up to my head. I’m exhausted, lonely and scared. There was so much blood. I let myself fall to the floor, hugging my knees as I lay on the floor. My eyes feel heavy and as he closes the door behind him again, I get a feeling that this would be my coffin. As heavy thoughts take over my mind again, I drift off into a deep weary sleep.
My eyes snap open, and a wave of dread washes over me as I recognize the familiar surroundings of my old home. The room feels suffocating, darkened by the weight of fear that hangs in the air. I’m back in my bed, cowering under the covers as the shouts of my mom and stepdad ricochet off the walls, accompanied by the unsettling sound of objects crashing to the floor. My body trembles instinctively, knowing what’s coming.
The creaking staircase echoes in my ears, and with each step, my heart races faster, a drumbeat of panic. Tears spill down my cheeks, mingling with the sweat on my forehead, my breaths quickening as the noise crescendos. When the bedroom door bursts open with a violent bang, I flinch. My mother’s voice screams from downstairs, the sheer terror in her tone slicing through me like a knife.
And then he’s there, looming over me, a shadow that blocks out the light. The stench of alcohol is overwhelming, sharp, and bitter, invading my senses. He tears the covers away, and I am laid bare before the monster. I brace myself, knowing all too well what comes next—whipping, hitting, relentless abuse, day after day. I can feel every bruise, every mark that covers my body, a testament to his cruelty, each one a reminder of my helplessness.
As his fists rain down on me, blood begins to seep from the worst wounds, pooling on the floor like a dark, viscous reminder of my suffering. The pain blurs my vision, but I can still see the hatred in his eyes, the pleasure he derives from my torment. He yanks my hair, dragging me closer, and the spit flies from his lips as he snarls insults, each word a dagger in my heart.
Just when I think he might tire, when I dare to hope for a moment of reprieve, he throws me to the ground. The impact steals my breath, and before I can even process the pain, he starts kicking me in the stomach—again and again, like a merciless rhythm that thrums through the air. Each blow feels like a piece of my spirit being shattered, the darkness creeping in, suffocating any flicker of hope I might have clung to.
In that moment, I realize I am trapped in a nightmare from which there is no escape, and I wonder if anyone will ever hear my silent screams.
I am torn out of my dream as I am met with the face of the Devil himself again. Panic rises in me from the night terror I had before, making me go crazy. I back away from him as far as possible and the only thing I see is the black belt that he is wearing. My eyes travel over to the gun tucked into the holster. Cold sweat has started to form on my back. A sob escapes my mouth as he comes closer; it’s just like my dream. The closer he moves the louder my screams become. My screaming turns into complete panic. I don’t see anything; I just see black. I don’t see a face, I don’t see anything, I just feel panic.
I feel like a child again, an abused child. I just want a day where it feels like I am not falling apart anymore.
Diable
I stand there, watching her unravel. The night terrors she experiences are becoming more frequent, and more intense. I had hoped to observe her from a distance, but her pleas and panicked cries broke through my resolve. My knuckles are white as I grip the door frame, resisting the urge to turn away.
I take a deep breath, trying to maintain my composure. The calm I force upon myself starkly contrasts the chaos unfolding before me. My face remains impassive, though a flicker of something—perhaps frustration—crosses my eyes. I step into the room slowly, and deliberately, each movement measured.
“Isabella,” I say, my voice cold and unfeeling. “You need to calm down.”
She looks at me with eyes wide in terror, her body wracked with sobs. My presence alone seems to exacerbate her fear. I wait for her to register my command, watching as she continues to writhe in distress. My patience is tested as the minutes tick by, each second stretched thin by her growing hysteria.
“Listen to me,” I say, more forcefully this time. “You’re not helping yourself by behaving like this. You need to pull yourself together.”
The silence that follows is suffocating. Her cries subside to heavy breathing, but her eyes are still wild with fear. I can see her struggling to control herself and to make sense of her surroundings. Finally, with a sharp inhale, I step closer.
“You’re exhausting yourself,” I continue, my tone unwavering. “And it’s not doing you any favors. Your fear, your panic—they’re not going to change anything.” She shivers and shakes. “Look at me,” I command, stepping closer, my gaze locked onto hers. She pouts as tears run down her face.
“You think pouting is going to change anything?” I ask, my voice dripping with disdain. “You think that by showing me your misery, you’re going to somehow win favor or escape this situation? It only makes you look weaker.”
Her defiant pouting fades, replaced by a deep, aching sadness. Her tears continue to flow, but now they fall with a slow, resigned rhythm, no longer fueled by panic but by a profound sense of despair. The once-violent tremors of her body lessen, replaced by a more subdued, almost defeated demeanor.
She hides her face in between her knees, her chipped nails clawing in her skin. She is so tiny - so helpless.
I watch her, my gaze steady, but there’s a flicker—a brief, almost imperceptible shift in my expression. For a moment, something tugs at the edges of my resolve. The sight of her breaking down, her shoulders slumped, her face etched with a sorrow that’s hard to ignore, stirs a feeling I hadn’t expected.
“Isabella,” I say, my voice softer now, struggling to hold onto the authority I’m used to. The usual bite is absent, replaced by a hesitant gentleness. “Please, calm down.”
Her sobs do not subside, and the trembling of her body continues. The raw emotion —the pain, the sadness—is hard to ignore. I find myself grappling with an unusual surge of empathy, something I rarely allow myself to feel.
“Enough,” I reply sharply. “You’re coming with me.”
I reach out and grasp her arm, pulling her to her feet with a force that brooks no argument. Her body trembles against mine, and her fear is almost tangible, clinging to me as I lift her. Tears stream down her face, mingling with the fabric of my shirt, staining it with her distress. I can feel her sobs against my chest, her breath hot and erratic as she clings to me in a mix of desperation and resignation.
I carry her with steady, deliberate steps through the corridor, her small frame cradled against me. The contrast between her trembling form and my unyielding strength is stark, a reminder of the power dynamics at play. As we reach the bathroom, I push open the door and step inside.
I storm into the bathroom as I turn on the faucet for the bath. It takes about two minutes to fill it up enough to form a water pool. I lift the terrified girl into the bath as hot water touches her bare legs, soaking the bottom of the dress shirt she is wearing. She stills a little bit, while tears still stream down her face. I roll up my sleeves and balance myself above her with my hands on the wall watching over her as she slowly calms down.
A deep sigh releases itself from my lips. She doesn’t say a word, doesn’t meet my eyes, and doesn’t release all the tension cooped up inside. She is still heavily crying, just softer. As I hang above her, I notice that she isn’t looking down. She is looking at my gun? I intensely watch her as I reach my hand towards the holster, and immediately she panics again. I take the gun out and place it on the floor. Yet she still is having a panic attack—what the fuck is it then? Just my presence overall? Which would be logical. But her eyes remain around my waist, does she think I am going to rape her? I look down, trying to find the spot her eyes are focused on.
It’s my belt .
I unfasten the belt and throw it on the floor, kicking it away with my boot. her breathing stills, but more silent tears fall down her cheeks as she stares at the belt on the floor, out of reach.
Silence. Finally. The bright lighting brings out the paleness of her skin and I can see the state of her face better. Her red hair is completely tangled, her eyes wide, and bruises everywhere. My eyes dwell across her exposed skin, observing some scars.
Silent tears fall down her cheeks. “Fuck,” I curse under my breath. Slowly her dark brown eyes reach mine. I stare at her. “Finished?” I ask in a slightly irritated tone. My ears still hurt, but it’s not just my ears that annoy me. It’s the eerie feeling in my chest. Who the fuck caused this? Her lips start to tremble, and I groan.
I crouch down beside the tub, the cold edge pressing against my knee. She’s calmer now, and her eyes flicker with awareness as she takes in her surroundings.
The fear is unmistakable. It’s in the way her body tenses, her gaze darting across the room, drinking in the details of the dark gray walls, the gilded accents, the massive rainfall shower on the far side of the space. I don’t miss the way her eyes widen slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing her features. She didn’t expect this—opulence in the Devil’s den.
I let her look. Let her process. Let her think. I know exactly what’s going through her mind.
I can sense her fear, a tangible thing in the air. I can taste it, sharp and bitter. It’s intoxicating. Yet beneath it, there’s something else—a faint crack in her defenses. Confusion. Weakness.
I see it in the way she looks at me when her gaze finally settles. It lingers for a second too long, drawn in despite herself. I see the way her breath catches, the way she instinctively shrinks under my gaze. She tries to fight it, to steel herself against me, but I’m already under her skin.
Good.
I lean in just slightly, enough to ensure my words hit their mark.
“From now on, I want you on your best behavior. Do you understand?” My voice is steady, low, and commanding. I don’t need to raise it; the weight of it is enough.
Her throat works as she swallows hard, her lips parting in a trembling nod. She’s listening now, her defiance cracking like ice under pressure.
“This is not a permanent solution,” I continue, softening my tone just enough to make her doubt the severity of my intent. “But it’s a start. I’m giving you this moment to calm down, to regain some composure.”
I let the silence stretch, savoring the way her gaze flits away and then back to mine, trapped between fear and resignation.
“Use it wisely,” I finish, my voice a quiet command that leaves no room for argument.
She nods again, quicker this time. But that’s not enough. Not for me.
“Did you scream your voice away?” I ask, leaning closer. Her lips tremble, and I see her hesitation, the way she grapples with herself. She’s not used to answering. Not used to obedience.
I narrow my eyes, letting the weight of my silence bear down on her.
“Perhaps answer with a proper response,” I demand.
Her voice is small, hoarse, but steady enough when she finally speaks.
“Yes,” she whispers, rubbing her cheek, her gaze fixed on mine as if afraid to look away. “I understand.”
I collect a bit of shampoo in my hands and position myself behind her as I wash her hair. I detangle every knot with a comb and rinse the shampoo out. She leans into my touch as I rinse her hair. I could easily drown her, problem solved.
But I don’t, and don’t think I could if I wanted to.
I pour the shower head over her face, making her open her eyes. “Don’t get too comfortable, solnyshko.”
She coughs as she rubs her eyes free of water. I pour water on her face again.
“Hey!” she yells as she turns around to face me.
Suddenly she splashes a huge gulp of water in my face. I stare at her. A small smile appears on her lips. I return her the favor and point the shower head at her, spraying water on her face. She laughs, a small laugh escaping her lips. She starts splashing the water out of the bathtub, completely submerging me in water. I am soaking wet, and so is the entire bathroom floor once she is done. A soft laugh escapes her lips again.
In that moment, a dark realization settled over me—a quiet, unnerving truth. If this girl ever dared to say the word please, I might find myself unable to deny her anything. But I can’t allow that. I won’t.
Isabella
The sound of my nervous laughter fades into silence as his gaze hardens, his eyes turning cold and unreadable. The soft gurgle of the draining bathtub fills the air, water spiraling away into nothingness. My soaked dress shirt clings to my skin, heavy and suffocating, a tangible reminder of my vulnerability.
He turns abruptly, his broad back rigid, the wet fabric of his shirt stretched across muscles carved with tension. He strides out of the room without a word. My breath catches as I hear him moving into the next room, the sound of drawers opening and closing in swift efficiency. In less than ten seconds, he’s back.
In his hands, he carries a pair of dark leggings and a plain gray hoodie. He tosses them onto the counter without ceremony. His voice, low and sharp like the edge of a blade, cuts through the air.
“Dry off and put these on. You have five minutes.”
He lingers in the doorway, his presence like a storm cloud pressing down on the small space. I can feel the weight of him even with his back turned, his imposing frame silhouetted against the dim light beyond. His shoulders are drawn tight, his entire form humming with restrained energy. The soaked shirt clings to him like a second skin, outlining every taut line of his back and arms.
Just as he steps out, his voice drops, the thick Russian accent lacing his words making them even more menacing.
“Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness. I will choke you with the same hand I feed you with.”
The door shuts behind him with a soft but final click, and the room is silent again. His words hang heavy in the air, sinking into my chest like lead. My heartbeat stutters, then quickens, my thoughts spiraling into chaos.
Is this my chance to escape? My eyes dart toward the small window on the far wall. The sight of the lock makes my stomach churn. Of course, it’s secured. Why wouldn’t it be? Still, the thought gnaws at me—there must be something, anything I can use to get out of here. My fingers tremble as I scan the bathroom with frantic desperation.
The cabinets. Maybe there’s something hidden inside—something sharp, something I can use as a tool or a weapon. My mind whispers that it’s pointless, but I can’t ignore the thrum of hope. With shaking hands, I pull the first cabinet open, rummaging through its contents. Soap, brushes, bottles of cologne. Useless.
I move to the next one. The drawers stick slightly, resisting me, as though mocking my attempts. More toiletries neatly arranged but utterly unhelpful. No tools. No weapons. No escape. I clutch the edge of the sink to steady myself, my reflection in the mirror catching my attention.
The woman staring back at me doesn’t feel like me. Her skin is pale, her cheeks hollow, and her eyes rimmed with dark circles. She looks gaunt, haunted—like someone who hasn’t slept in days. Like someone already halfway to her grave. My chest tightens at the sight.
“Fuck,” I whisper under my breath, the curse heavy with despair.
Determined not to give up, I open the last cabinet. The door swings open, and for a moment, all I see are neatly folded towels and spare toiletries. My heart sinks—until my eyes land on a small, glinting object tucked in the corner.
A razor blade.
My breath catches, and the room tilts slightly as a rush of adrenaline courses through me. My fingers hover over it, trembling, as I stare at the blade. It’s so small, so unassuming, yet it feels like the most dangerous thing in the room. My mind races.
I can use this. For what? Escape? Protection? Both?
But as I stand there, the razor blade glinting under the dim bathroom light, I can’t shake the feeling that no matter what I choose, I’ve already sealed my fate. And it’s impossibly, irreversibly dark.