19. Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Nineteen
LYNX
Seated in a chair in the corner of my bedroom, I watch Harlow sleep. How a woman who spits fire and defies every order can look so innocent is beyond me.
I suppose even the devil himself can masquerade as a saint.
And I can still taste her on my lips. Still feel her silky smooth skin beneath my touch. Still hear her sultry moans as I slipped my finger inside her, teasing her the way she teased me in the shower yesterday.
But those scars on her thighs … they’re haunting my every waking moment. Every time I blink, they appear, as if they’ve been etched into the insides of my eyelids.
It’s sending me over the edge.
And it’s only made worse by the fact that I only have one lead so far: Rhys Anderson’s brother, Thomas, who had a sinister look smeared across his face while chasing Harlow down the hall at the church.
Was it him who cut her up like that?
I’m not sure. But I have every intention of finding out.
Tightening my grip on the arms of the chair, I wait patiently for her to wake. Just as the sun is creeping over the horizon and the faintest of light filters through the closed curtains, her eyes crack open and meet mine.
“Sleep well?” I ask.
She blinks several times, nods, and stretches out like a cat beneath the covers.
A sliver of guilt for what’s about to happen lodges itself beneath my ribs. But I shove it aside and remind myself that this is for her own good.
When she goes to lower her arms to her sides, that’s when she notices that her left wrist is handcuffed to the headboard.
Panic barrels through her like a freight train and she begins thrashing against the handcuffs, the metal clanking on the steel bed frame.
Her body twists and turns as she kicks at the blankets in a desperate attempt at breaking free.
“Lynx,” she rushes out, her wide fear-filled eyes darting to mine. “No. No no no no. Please don’t do this.”
Sighing, I stand and saunter over to the side of the bed and stare down at her.
“I warned you, Harlow. And you didn’t listen. You’ve given me no choice.”
“You can’t do this,” she pleads, her voice cracking beneath the weight of the situation.
I reach down and sweep a few free strands of hair away from her face.
“Kind of looks like I can, pretty girl.”
Her expression morphs to one of rage.
“Fuck you,” she sneers.
I ignore her comment and take a step back.
Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I tell her, “Joey’s in the living room if you need anything. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
I turn and walk to the door, pausing briefly to glance over my shoulder at her. “And for the love of god, Harlow, behave. For once in your life.”
And then I leave her alone, tied to my bed and screaming profanities at my back.
Lurking in the shadows behind Thomas’s two-story mansion, I wait for the last light inside to flick off.
It wasn’t difficult to locate his address. It also wasn’t difficult to breach the security system and sneak in around the back of his home and settle into position.
Checking my watch, I grit my teeth at the time, desperately wanting to make this quick so I can get back to Harlow.
Surely, she’s driving Joey mad by now. I just pray he doesn’t fall under her spell and do something stupid, like uncuff her to use the washroom without having his gun aimed at her back.
He’d never shoot her. But hopefully the threat of a bullet would be enough to keep her in line.
Eventually, the light flips off and I make my move.
This isn’t my first rodeo, so it takes minimal effort to break in undetected through the back door, creep up the stairs to Thomas’s bedroom, stick a needle in his neck, and haul him out to my truck and back to the warehouse.
Once I have him strapped to the steel table in the middle of the room, I take my sweet time torturing the ever-living fuck out of him.
This part here … It was worth the wait.
With a pair of rusty pliers, I pull each of his teeth, one at a time, relishing at his screams and the splatter of blood against my skin. Then I move on to removing his fingernails and toenails in a similar manner. Last to go are his eyes and tongue.
I’m not typically one to make such a performance out of killing someone. I prefer things to be clean and tidy. Less of a headache that way.
But for Harlow … I’ll let my monster off its leash.
Just as I ordered Joey to do with my last paid contract, Richard, I chop Thomas up into manageable pieces so he’ll fit comfortably within the steel oil drum he’ll rot in for a while.
First to go is his head. It makes a satisfying thud as it hits the bottom of the barrel, sending the remnants of my adrenaline rushing out through my tired limbs.
I crack my neck both ways, clamp the lid down, and wheel Thomas to the freezer at the back of the warehouse.
Then I head to the shower, scrub the blood from my body, and change into a clean Henley and jeans, all while replaying everything Thomas told me before I ended his miserable life.
Whether or not it’s all true remains to be seen.
When I return to my house a few hours later, I find Joey lounging on my leather sofa in my living room, his lanky arms sprawled casually across the back of the couch while a sports channel plays on the television hanging over the fireplace.
“Hey, boss,” he greets me. “How’d it go?”
I toss my keys on the island. “Fine. Any troubles?”
“Nope,” he chirps. “Not a peep.”
“Good. You’re free to go, Joey. Take tomorrow off.”
Joey tips his head in thanks, hands me the key to the handcuffs Harlow’s bound by, and heads off. I stand in the living room a little while longer, trying and failing to get the emotions that continue to bubble to the surface under control.
When I’ve calmed myself down enough that I no longer want to put my fist through the wall, I walk down the hall toward the bedroom and let myself in.
What I find on the other side of the door causes a chain to cinch around my heart.
Harlow’s curled up on the bed, her knees tucked up to her stomach as she stares numbly at the wall across from her. Her eyes are bloodshot, distant, and unblinking, her breathing slow and steady, and there’s not an ounce of expression on her pale face.
Around her neck is her rosary, the cross clutched in her free hand as she holds it against her chest.
Without saying a word—because I can’t fucking find a single one—I take a seat beside her. When the bed dips with my weight, she squeezes her eyes shut and begins chanting under her breath, counting backward from five.
Despite every cell in my body aching to pull her into my arms and hold her, I don’t touch her.
Fuck. I did this to her.
She begged me not to tie her up, and I assumed it was because she can’t stand the thought of losing control.
But after what Thomas confessed to me before I slit his throat, I know that’s not it.
Not even fucking close.
Riddled with guilt but too stubborn to tell her so, I reach over and unlock the handcuffs, wincing when I notice her wrist is rubbed raw from struggling against them. She tucks it in beside her and exhales a shaky breath through her mouth.
“I didn’t know, Harlow. You should’ve told me.” A tear rolls down her cheek as she curls further in on herself. I swipe it away with the pad of my thumb.
I’ve never wanted to kick my own ass so much in my entire life.
But since I can’t do that, I head to the bathroom and draw her a bath, checking the temperature and dumping some epsom salts beneath the running water before returning to her.
Feeling all sorts of things I’ve never felt before, I carefully scoop her up into my arms and carry her to the bathroom. Her fingers curl into my shirt as she buries her face into my chest and sobs quietly to herself, each sniffle and whimper chipping away at the ice block in my chest.
Setting her on the marble vanity, I reach for the hem of her top, pausing when she squeezes her eyes shut again.
“I won’t do anything you don’t explicitly consent to.”
A small puff of air leaves her lips as her tear-flooded eyes flash open to meet mine.
She searches my face for a moment before nodding and lifting her arms. Cautiously, I pull her top over her head and off her arms, focusing my gaze on her face rather than her body.
Then I help her to her feet and out of her sleep shorts, grimacing at the scars littering her thighs.
They’re all about the same size, only an inch or two in length but deep.
She ignores my reaction and places a hand on my shoulder for balance while she steps out of her shorts.
Then she stands there, numb and silent and wearing nothing but the beaded rosary around her neck and a look of defeat on her beautiful face.
I lead her to the bathtub and help her in. She sinks down beneath the surface and closes her eyes. Beneath the shimmer of the water, the cross lying between her breasts winks at me.
And I feel like an asshole all over again.
Uncertain whether I can trust her to be alone right now, I take a seat on the edge of the porcelain tub, prop my elbows on my knees, and drop my head into my hands and groan.
We sit like that for a while, nothing but the steady drip of the tub faucet cutting through the silence.
Until she begins speaking in a hushed tone I’ve never heard from her before.
“I was seventeen when my mother passed away. I hadn’t even had my first kiss yet, and I lost the only woman in my life. “
Her voice, small and weak, is a clean shot to the chest.
Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to have her mouthing me off right now, threatening my life and grating on my last nerve.
After what I just did to her, I’d deserve every second of it.
I lift my head and glance down at her. Her eyes are on me now, glassy and round and full of anguish that I’m to blame for.
“I was grieving her loss and went through a phase of wearing all black. I dyed my hair, rimmed my eyes with thick liner, painted my nails. My appearance reflected the way I felt inside. Dead. Sad. Angry.” Her bottom lip wobbles slightly. “It wasn’t long after that when it all started.”
I swallow, my mouth bone dry and my heart aching like someone just ran a truck over it.
“Proverbs 31:30: ‘Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.’ My father used to recite that passage to me every day.”
“Your father … Did he …”
She shakes her head and runs her fingers over the still surface of the bath water.
“No. Not him. But he allowed it. Enabled it. Six of his friends. Followers. They all believed I needed to be punished for deceiving them. For tempting them, even though I hid behind thick, dark makeup and baggy clothing. And since I was rebellious and stubborn and didn’t fear the Lord the way they believed I should, they were convinced I was evil.
So I was locked up in the basement of my father’s church and forced to repent for sins I didn’t commit. ”
Unable to sit through this, I stand, go to the vanity, and press my palms to the edge. Tucking my chin to my chest, I close my eyes and grit my teeth.
“What did they do to you, Harlow?”
The bath faucet drips exactly six times before she rasps, “Everything a grown man could do to a young girl. And then some.”
Renewed rage rips through me. But I breathe through it and focus on Harlow. On the woman I’m supposed to kill but fucking can’t. Especially now that I know she’s innocent. She doesn’t deserve to die. And she sure as fuck didn’t deserve what was done to her.
Lifting my head, I find her caramel eyes in the mirror. “How long did this go on for?”
“Until I was nineteen.”
Two years. Two fucking years she spent locked up in a church basement. Raped. Beaten. Sliced and diced. God knows what else was done to her that she won’t talk about.
“How’d you escape?”
“With what’s happening around me right now, I’m not so sure I did.”
A long, tense silence follows. My mind races the entire time. So does my heart.
“I’m going to need names.”
She stares up at me. “Rhys Anderson was one.”
I drag a hand through my hair and release a frustrated sigh.
“I assumed so. And that prick that was following you at the church? His brother, Thomas. He was one of them?”
I already know the answer because he admitted to me that he was part of a group of people responsible for her being held captive. But I need to know if she’ll open up to me. If she trusts me enough to tell me more.
“Yes.”
“And what exactly was your plan when he caught up to you?”
“To kill him.”
A trickle of relief enters my system at her honesty.
“If I could exhume your father’s rotting corpse and kill him all over again, I would.”
“I’m sure you would. But their deaths are mine, Lynx. I’m owed that. And don’t you dare try to stop me.”
I angle my head at her, fascinated by her strength and resilience.
Also by her delusion.
“Oh, little killer,” I mutter, shaking my head.
Reaching into my pocket, I retrieve the ruby ring I removed from Thomas’s finger before I tossed his severed arm in the barrel with the rest of his limbs, and set it on the ledge of the bathtub beside Harlow.
Her face falls slack, all the color draining from her cheeks as recognition flashes in her eyes.
“They’re already dead, pretty girl. Every last one of them. It’s just a matter of time before they take their last breath.”