Chapter 16
Callista’s car sits in the driveway of her father’s house, just as it did outside mine for three weeks.
I never thought I’d long to see it so much after looking at it every day, but just like the woman who drove it up my mountain, the car itself has somehow grown on me, and as soon as I see it, a little bit of the tension I’ve been carrying the whole drive here eases.
Though, that likely has less to do with the car itself and more to do with the fact that it being here means it’s more likely that she’s safe inside than caught up in some sinister plan I can’t stop from unfolding.
Please, God, let her be okay…
I’ve never really believed in God, let alone ever prayed to that higher power whose hand can supposedly intervene on our behalf, but if there were a time to start praying, it feels like now.
I park across the street, my hands tight on the steering wheel, and I have to force myself to uncurl them from the death grip I’ve had the entire drive. The ache throbbing through my finger joints helps me focus on something other than my panic.
This could go very wrong if I don’t figure out a way to channel all these feelings in the right direction.
I stare at the large house, searching for any signs that anything is amiss and ignore the vibration in my pocket for the millionth time. There isn’t anything I could read on that screen or hear said that would stop me from my mission now.
If Callista might be in trouble, I have to find her.
Consequences be damned.
Nothing looks out of the ordinary. Not a single leaf out of place on the manicured hedges that line the drive and the walkway leading up to the front door. No broken windows.
Maybe nothing happened.
Maybe you’re overreacting.
Unless she ran.
If she and her father left, if that text was merely some ploy to get me to fly off the handle when she really fled of her own volition, then I’ve made a fool of myself by coming here.
She wouldn’t do that.
The woman who seduced me in the library, who I spent glorious nights wrapped up in, who promised me she would return, wouldn’t break her word. Even if she couldn’t stay, she would have come back to tell me, to explain herself rather than leaving me like this.
But that little voice in the back of my head, the one that controls my curse and keeps me bound to it eternally, screams, “Of course she would. Why wouldn’t she want to get away from you? Away from the situation. There’s no reason for her to stay. You haven’t given her one.”
I haven’t.
Not at all.
No answers.
No hope for a future.
Nothing.
What future could you offer her?
One where she stays on the mountain with you and has no life, where she remains holed up in the library day in and day out because she has nothing else to do except nurse your emotional wounds and prevent you from sinking further into the abyss.
That sounds absolutely lovely for a young woman like her.
I scowl as I watch a light flip on upstairs.
Someone’s home.
Either it’s her or the bastard who put her into this position in the first place.
I push open the door and grab my axe from the seat beside me. Ever-present, its weight in my palm helps calm me slightly as I stalk toward the front door.
A massive chunk is missing from the middle of it, undoubtedly where the axe was left, along with the message that sent Beauty to me.
But it wasn’t mine.
Staring at the mark it left, anger swells in my chest at the way the entire situation has been manipulated from day fucking one. How both my reputation and Callista were used and twisted in order to accomplish something that has nothing to do with either of us.
I reach out and try the knob, but it doesn’t turn.
No fucking problem.
If I didn’t have my axe in my hand, I could take this thing down with my bare hands in seconds, but I raise the weapon and slam it into the wood just above the knob.
The wood splinters but doesn’t crack all the way.
I draw back and swing again, over and over, driving the blade into it until the door finally shatters around the mechanism and I can kick it open.
Harold stands at the bottom of the stairwell, as if he’s just rushed down it, eyes wide, dark bruises mottling the side of his face. “Mr. Barker, what are you—”
“Where is she?”
I storm across the foyer and down the hallway, scanning the living room and dining room to either side, and then on through the kitchen, searching for signs of the only woman who has ever made my heart beat like this. Returning to the front of the house, I find Harold still trying to stumble after me.
His hands shake as he runs them through his unkempt hair. “I thought—”
I get up in his face, so close that I can see his pupils dilate with his fear. “You thought what?”
“I thought she was with you.”
Staggering back a step, I tighten my grip on the axe handle. “Why the hell would you think that? I sent her here to visit with you, but she never came back.”
His eyes widen more, his lips trembling. “Oh, God.”
He collapses to his knees, gripping the banister to keep himself from tumbling completely over.
I stalk back over to him and grab his arm, hauling him up. “What the hell happened?”
Why would he think she was with me?
Jade eyes so similar to hers scan the shattered remains of the door. “They came earlier today…”
“Who came?”
He locks his gaze with mine, the fear there sending a chill through my blood. “Armed men. I don’t even know how they got into the house, but I woke, and they were there, standing over my bed with a gun in my face. They told me The Beast wanted her back, and they took her from her room.”
Fucking hell.
I shove him back and release my hold, watching him tumble onto the last few steps, then collapse at the bottom of them, burying his face in his hand.
“What have I done?” His tear-filled eyes dart to me. “Where is she? Who has her?”
The same questions I would be asking myself if I didn’t already know the answer.
I back away from him slowly, keeping my eyes locked on the man who created this situation, who set the ball rolling, trying not to take out my rage on him now when it’s more important to save it for who it should truly be directed at.
“Someone who’s going to hurt her.”
His head whips up, and his concerned gaze meets mine. “What do you mean?”
“I would never hurt your daughter, but there are other members of my family who very well might.”
“Why?” Harold’s voice cracks on the word, the emotion overtaking him fully. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked to try to fix this. To try to correct the mistake I made. What else can I do?”
Fuck…
He has.
He’s done everything asked of him. Repaid the financial debt. Offered to work off any other perceived ones. Even sent his only daughter up Barker Mountain to The Beast. Yet it hasn’t been enough to appease the Barkers, which only means one thing.
This has never been about him at all.
That realization stops me dead in my tracks.
“I know what I have to do.”
If I were a stronger man, I would have taken care of it years ago. If I had been what Father trained me to be, what he wanted me to be so badly, I could have. Then none of this, absolutely none of it, ever would have happened.
Callista would still be working at the library here in Helena, living her quiet life, completely oblivious to the horrors on Barker Mountain and the demons I carry on my back.
It’s time to end it.
I storm out of the house toward my truck.
Harold clambers to his feet, rushing after me. “Where are you going?”
“To find your daughter.”
“But—”
I whirl to face him, pushing my finger into his chest. “Callista’s in this situation because of you. She doesn’t deserve any of this. She deserves a better father.”
His lip trembles. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t regret everything I’ve done that has brought this on us?”
Anyone else might be moved by his words, by the clear anguish in them, but I lost any respect I might have had for this man weeks ago. Any potential scraps of it disappearing the minute I walked into that house and he admitted to letting someone take her.
What kind of father does that?
I would take a bullet to the head to protect Callista one thousand times over, and the only thing that prevents me from driving this axe into his chest right now is the love she still holds for him. “You better think long and hard about how you’re going to make this up to her, if you survive it.”
He blanches and retreats, stumbling onto the street as I climb into my truck and start it up. “Will I ever see her again?”
I slam the door, eying him through the cracked window. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
Without another look in his direction, I throw it into drive and tear away from the curb, barely missing Harold on the street as I head deeper into the city.
There’s only one place she could be. Only one person who would’ve taken her, who would have any reason to. The last person on this planet I want to see. But as my hands tighten around the wheel again, my knuckles whitening, I know it’s the only thing I can do. The only chance I have of getting her back is to become The Beast fully again.
I weave around cars, honking and swerving, driving like a bat out of hell.
The longer she’s there, the more dangerous this is for her.
For all of us.
And I didn’t prepare her, didn’t warn her.
She has no idea what she’s been drawn into, but if she survives this, if I do, if I get her out, I’ll have to come clean.
I’ll have to tell her everything.
The incessant pounding in my head finally drags me from sleep so deep that it feels like it has lasted forever. Something lumpy and uncomfortable is stretched out under me, not the opulent bed I share with Weston on the mountain or even my old one at Dad’s house I last remember lying on.
Where the hell am I?
I blink my eyes rapidly, trying to clear away the grogginess and get a sense of my bearings. Try to figure out what the hell happened. But the unfamiliar room offers no explanations or information.
Stark-white walls.
A metal bed frame and mattress set up in the middle of the room.
Nothing else but a single door in the far wall that grants entry into the space.
One way in. One way out.
Like a prison cell.
How did I get here?
I try to think back, but the last thing I remember is being at Dad’s house, going to sleep with plans to return to the mountain later to go back to Weston. Ignoring Dad’s pleas to allow him to put me on a plane and fly me far away from all of this.
What the fuck happened?
The throbbing in my head continues, and I dig the heels of my palms into my temples and sit up. I gag at the sour taste in the back of my throat, and the room spins around me, making me fight back a full-on dry heave.
My stomach sloshes, the fuzziness enveloping my brain refusing to lift.
I toss back the comforter over me and slide my legs out onto the cool concrete floor. Almost immediately, the door flies open, and I turn toward the sound, trying to focus on whoever just entered.
A man dressed in jeans and a non-descript gray T-shirt with an assault-style weapon strapped across his chest enters, pointing it at me almost absently, as if one flinch of his finger won’t unload dozens of rounds straight into me. “Good. You’re awake.”
Every horrific kidnapping horror story I’ve ever read or heard about on television rushes through my head, and I take a step back, then another, until my shoulders hit the wall behind me. “Where am I?”
The corner of his mouth curls slightly in a devious way that sends a chill through my blood. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”
I’ve been chased through the wild woods by one of the deadliest men in the country, stalked by a wolf that wanted to rip my throat out, and stared down The Beast and convinced him to cave to my wishes. All these things have taught me not to trust first impressions but also that if it looks violent, it probably is.
And this man looks violent.
I don’t want to do anything to trigger him and make whatever this is worse on myself, but I also have no intention of making this easy on him, either.
“Let’s go.” He motions with the gun for me to step out into a hallway I can only see a small sliver of. “Now!”
Jerking away from the wall, I take a few cautious steps toward him, and he urges me into the long, narrow corridor that leads toward the sound of male voices.
Where the hell am I?
This can’t have anything to do with Weston.
If he wanted me back on the mountain, he would’ve come and gotten me himself. Plus, he knew I was coming back. I swore to him that I would. And I would never, I could never, look into that man’s eyes and flat-out lie.
The armed guard motions me forward, keeping me walking until we finally emerge at the bottom of a set of stairs that lead up to an open door, the voices carrying down from above.
A basement.
He nudges my back with the barrel of the gun, forcing me up, and I grasp the handle tightly. Taking each step carefully, I listen to the sounds around me, trying to find anything familiar or that might tell me where the fuck I am.
I reach the top of the stairs, which open to a wide kitchen.
Modern. Luxurious. Nothing like the space beneath us. Stainless steel appliances line the room, with sparkling granite countertops and a massive inset farm sink set under a large picture window.
It’s too dark outside to make out anything beyond it, though. And the people settled around the wooden table just in front of me don’t offer much by way of information about my location, either.
The three heavily armed men all stare at me, their seedy gazes raking over me from the top of my head all the way over my bare legs exposed in the nightgown Weston gave me and I brought to sleep in and to my bare feet.
One of them climbs from his chair and points for me to take the spot he just vacated as he walks to the fridge and reaches in. He turns back with a bottle of water, twists off the cap, and hands it to me. “Drink that. It’ll help with the brain fog.”
That they know exactly what I’m feeling right now suggests this is something they do quite often, and apparently quite well, since this routine appears rehearsed.
I tentatively take a sip of the cool liquid. “What did you give me?”
One of the men offers a half-shrug. “We injected you with a sleeping medication so it would be easier to get you here without you fighting back or getting hurt.”
Get you here.
As inconspicuously as I can, I try to see beyond the kitchen to the hallway and attached rooms at each end, but the other guards swiftly shift their positions, blocking my view. “Where am I, exactly?”
The one who brought me up from the basement sneers, his annoyance apparent. “A safe house.”
A safe house?
None of this makes any sense, despite the haziness of my mind and memory starting to clear.
“I don’t understand.” I shake my head and immediately regret it when the pounding intensifies. “Why did you bring me here? Where’s my father?” Sudden panic seizes my chest and tightens its hold, squeezing the air from my lungs. “Is he okay?”
The men exchange a look, and the one who got me the water shrugs.
“He’ll be fine…eventually. A few bruises to his face and ego.”
A relieved breath whooshes from between my lips, and I suck in a deep inhalation, trying to prevent myself from passing out or having a full-blown panic attack.
He’s okay.
The one with the attitude and annoyed twist to his lips glances toward the front door. “Your host should arrive shortly and will be able to answer some of your questions.”
My host?
Like this is some party I’ve been invited to attend rather than a kidnapping where I’ve been ripped from my bed, drugged, and hauled off to God only knows where for some nefarious purposes…
“And just who is my host?”
A door opens somewhere near the front of the house, and hurried footsteps pound toward us.
All three men leap to their feet, weapons ready, and another guard skids to a stop a few feet into the kitchen, his eyes wide.
“We have a problem.”
Those four words are all it takes for the rest of the men to leap into action. The one closest to me grabs my bicep and hauls me up from the chair. My water topples over, spilling out across the table, but no one even glances at it.
The others rush off in the direction their friend appeared from, and I’m urged toward the stairs leading back down to the basement before I can even hope to glance at what might be happening.
“What’s going on?”
His fingers tighten on me, and he thrusts me through the doorframe. “Get back down there.”
“Not until you tell me what’s happening.”
I reach out to grab the jamb to try to keep him from pushing me down, but he shoves me, and I lose my balance, pitching forward violently over the steep drop of stairs.
My own scream fills my ears before I slam into the first tread. Pain shoots through my side, robbing me of my ability to make any other sounds before my back and neck connect with the next wooden step. Tumbling down, end over end, like a rag doll being tossed, I have no time to try to brace myself for impact.
I just keep taking them.
To my arm.
My head and hip.
Until finally, I connect with the hard concrete floor at the bottom with a sickening thud and agony shooting through my entire body.
Blood trickles into my eyes, and the sharp, metallic tang of it hits my tongue. I try to move, but the pain keeps me prone, unable to catch my breath or truly do anything other than fight passing out.
The guard marches down the steps after me, one heavy-booted foot after another, seemingly unconcerned with my fall, then grabs my arm and hauls me up with a violent jerk.
More anguish sears through me, and I gag, the bunching and flexing of my stomach muscles only making it worse as he drags me back to the room I woke in.
He shoves me inside, slams the door closed, and throws the lock. The sound of it clicking into place echoes through the almost empty space.
Agony sears through me so hot and so intense that I can’t even cry.
Something that sounds an awful lot like gunfire erupts from somewhere above, followed by rushing footsteps pounding on the floor.
A moment of eerie silence follows before a scream and another round of gunfire.
More heavy footsteps.
I track them the best I can with my vision blurred by the blood and every movement of my head causing it to spin.
They move down the steps.
Coming toward me.
I try to crawl behind the bed, to give myself the benefit of the only protection the room offers, but I only manage to move a few inches through pain so intense it continues to make me gag and dry heave on the cold concrete.
Something slams into the door, and it flies wide, pieces splintering off and scattering through the room.
I cry out, raising my arms to protect myself, cowering as best I can.
“Beauty…”
That voice.
That single word.
They stall my heart and draw my gaze toward the open jamb and Weston.
His black eyes blaze with unadulterated rage, chest heaving, blood soaked, his shirt pulled taut across the muscle.
One hand clutches his axe.
He looks exactly like a madman straight out of Hell.
But all I can see is my salvation.