3. Callum
CALLUM
I s redemption possible for monsters like me? I harbor hope that my dark soul will one day find salvation. That a time will come when goodness grasps me from my continued descent into hell.
A girl who doesn’t know when to shut her mouth has just shattered that delusion.
Each step I take toward her is heavy. Not because of an ill-informed notion that what I’m about to do is wrong.
My moral compass became skewed years ago when my impressionable mind was far from fully developed.
What makes me hesitate is the defiant spark in her eyes.
Tears well and spill down her cheeks, a silent torrent of emotion, but her eyes unwaveringly hold mine in a silent challenge.
“Your body can’t cash the check your mouth wants to make,” I spit as I lean over her, shadowing her with my massive frame.
“You ever wonder why your handler wants me kept safe? Why a man who barters and trades women like cattle cares that I’m safe? Or is your job as a mindless enforcer not to question the atrocious acts he commits?”
I take a moment to allow her words to permeate the anger and frustration consuming me.
She’s correct. This behavior isn’t standard practice for Meyer.
He’s violent and ruthless and rarely gives anyone grace or displays kindness, not even to his own son.
That he wants this girl kept away from the other guards is peculiar and contradicts the brutality he inflicts on other, less willing women.
Mona has been assigned to that group. The undesirables.
Ironically, their captivity and brutalization stems from their inaccessible allure.
Unlike the other female members of Meyer’s organization, who want to be engulfed by Meyer’s religious rhetoric and madness, these girls are prisoners.
Taken against their will and bent and broken until they eventually submit.
My body lurches as a firm hand grips my shoulder.
“Leave her alone, Callum. That’s enough for one night.”
I gaze at Atlas, anger sparking every nerve ending in my body.
He raises his arms, aware of the rage that consumes me.
Atlas isn’t stupid. He understands that I love him, but he also has a firm grasp of the reality of our lives.
I can only keep him safe if I indulge in the madness perpetrated by his father.
I know what I’m doing is corrupt, vile, and evil.
Atlas knows it, too, but we also know we have to play with the devil to survive hell.
“Leave it for tonight,” Atlas whispers, the words a dying prayer on his lips.
“You’ll pay her pound of flesh?” I ask, hating myself for asking when I see the weariness in Atlas’s eyes.
His defeat isn’t due to the acts he knows I’ll expose him to.
The sorrow in his eyes is because he’s trapped in the hellscape crafted by his father and because he loves me—his father’s head demon.
Atlas peers at Mona and nods. “Yes.”
I turn to Mona and smirk. “Looks like today is your lucky day.”
“You’ve got a fucked-up understanding of the word lucky,” she spits.
At that moment, all I see is anger, and all I feel is torment. This girl has somehow burrowed into the disfigured scars hidden beneath my flesh, and her claws are digging deep. I want to hurt her, to make her wear the suffering on her skin that she’s inflicting on my memory.
She skitters back as I lean into her, closing the distance between us. I hate that the terror in her eyes excites me. I despise the notion that, at some point in my life, violence and fear became an aphrodisiac.
I turn away, searching Atlas’s eyes, needing him to reel me in from the darkest edges of my fragmented mind.
“Help me,” I whisper, a hollow plea from a man on the brink of madness.