22. Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Two
HARLOW
With his fat wallet and skinny morals, Terrance is still the monster I remember.
Still haunting this very bar, prowling for young women to bait and lure back to his place where he’ll no doubt drug and assault before dumping them on some random street where they’ll wake with no recollection of what happened or how they got there.
Yawn.
So predictable.
And, of course, he doesn’t recognize me.
There are two reasons for this. First, I look nothing like the girl I once was.
And second—this one’s a real knee-slapper—he always preferred to experience me in the dark.
Not because he couldn’t stand to face the girl he was destroying or the guilt that should’ve followed.
But because apparently it heightened his other senses.
Four. Three. Two. One.
Breathe.
Checking the clock on the wall, I drum my fingers on the bar top and wait for Terrance to return from his phone call.
Seconds tick on. They’re soon surpassed by minutes. After a half hour passes, I begin to wonder if perhaps he recognized me after all and took off running like the coward he always was.
Touching a finger to the scar on the inside of my wrist, I remind myself that the wait will be worth it, even if I do end up shackled to Lynx’s bed when he discovers I’ve once again defied him.
Impatient and eager to get this party started, I turn in my stool and head to the front door to see what’s taking Terrance so long. Just as I’m glancing around the desolate sidewalk, a shiver rolls down my spine, all the tiny hairs on my body standing on end.
A sharp whistle cuts through my breathing, followed by a large, masculine figure stepping out from around the side of the building.
He’s tall, broad, and as always, his presence is palpable.
I ball my fists and frown. “Lynx.”
He raises a hand and crooks a finger in a come-hither motion.
Pfft. He’s delusional if he thinks he can boss me around.
As it turns out, he can.
Glancing around to see if anyone else is out here, I confirm that Terrance is nowhere to be seen. I know in my heart that Lynx has something to do with his disappearance.
Four. Three. Two. One.
Breathe.
Putting one foot in front of the other, I move cautiously toward him, my fingers tingling in anticipation as I squint at the face hidden within the shadows of his hood.
He turns his back and stalks off toward the tree line at the side of the property, glancing over his shoulder at me every so often to make sure I’m still following.
Ice forms in my veins when he steps beyond the trees and is swallowed whole by darkness.
I pause and retrieve the gun I strapped to the inside of my thigh, gripping the handle tight as I step off the asphalt parking lot and into the forest. My heels sink in the soil as I trudge through the woods, following the whistles and whispers leading me deeper and deeper into nothingness.
But fear has sunk its razor-sharp claws into me, ripping at my flesh like the hounds of hell.
It isn’t long before I pick up my pace and begin running.
Where I’m going … I have no fucking idea because it’s pitch black and I’m a stupid, stupid bitch for thinking I could outsmart a trained assassin.
Winded, I duck behind a large tree and press my palms to my knees to catch my breath. Behind my ribs, my heart throbs. My stomach is roiling and the stench of damp soil and moldy leaves burns my lungs.
It sparks a vivid memory of running barefoot through the forest with nothing but a ratty white nightgown to shield my skin from the ice pellets raining down on me while the dreadful sound of Terrance’s heavy footfalls closes in from behind.
Four. Three. Two. One.
Breathe.
Righting myself, I steel my spine and peer around the dark forest. I can barely see an inch in front of my face, but I can feel him.
Feel the way his disgusting hands used to roam my adolescent body.
Feel the vibration of his grunts in my ear when he was on top of me.
Feel the acidic onslaught of his saliva spattering my face when he’d scream at me for being a filthy little whore.
He’s out here somewhere. I just know it.
The snap of a twig breaking causes me to freeze on the spot, all the oxygen in my lungs growing stale as I strain my ears against the deafening silence.
Something dark and ominous unfurls inside me like a deadly rose, its poisonous thorns pricking at my guts and infiltrating my bloodstream.
I press my back to the rough bark and tighten my grip on the gun like it’s my lifeline.
Another twig snaps, this one closer. The faintest of breaths whispers through the silence.
Four. Three. Two. One.
Kill.
Releasing a battle cry, I hurl my weight around the tree and aim the gun.
But before I have a chance to pull the trigger, he gets the better of me, snatching my wrist and slamming me against the tree, knocking the wind from my lungs.
Something cushions the blow of my skull.
A hand, I think. It swiftly moves to cover my mouth, silencing me as the metallic tang of blood meets my tongue.
“I told you not to run, Harlow,” Lynx snarls. “That you’d regret it if you did.”
Relief swarms me and I stop thrashing. But my chest is tight and I can’t catch my fucking breath.
I blink several times to clear the tears blurring my vision. When his face finally comes into focus, I recoil in shock and horror.
Blood. Everywhere. Just like when he showed up at my apartment after killing Rhys.
Except way fucking worse.
And now I’m hyperventilating, clawing at his arms and pleading to him with my eyes.
He slowly peels his hand away from my mouth.
“Breathe, pretty girl. You’re okay.” I get the sense he wants to tack on for now, but the words are never spoken.
I oblige, taking a few deep breaths and counting backward from four until I’m no longer going to pass out and can feel my limbs again.
That’s when I become acutely aware of my situation.
My right hand—the one holding the gun—is restrained at my side by one of his, his thick thigh pressed between my legs, holding me upright and applying pressure to the space there.
His other hand is resting gently on my waist, something wet and warm soaking through the fabric separating his skin from mine.
More blood.
He stops my spiral in its tracks when he says, “I told you I wanted names, little killer.”
“And I told you I’d never give them to you.”
“So you did. And look where that’s gotten you,” he drawls, gazing down at me with a terrifying look on his blood-spattered face.
Seconds tick on where we stand there, his big, hard body pressing against mine as we breathe angrily at each other.
But then something warm and sticky drips onto the top of my head and my eyes flutter shut.
Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.
“Look up, little killer. But don’t you dare scream.”
Four. Three. Two. One.
Look.
Trembling now, I tip my head and take in the horrific scene looming above me.
I must open my mouth to scream because Lynx seals his hand over my mouth to stifle whatever sound is about to come out.
It’s a body—a mangled corpse—hanging limply from the branches by thick, rough rope. His limbs are distorted and twisted as if every bone has been broken. His face is slack and his stomach is gaping wide open. He appears hollow inside, gutted before being strung up on display.
It’s grotesque. Brutal. Like something from a horror movie.
But even through the blood and gore, it’s clear as day who the man is.
Terrance.
Another droplet falls, splattering across my forehead and dripping down my temple. I squeeze my eyes shut and take several panicked breaths through my nose, releasing a small, garbled sob against Lynx’s hand.
Three. Two. One.
Breathe.
This is insanity. Sick depravity at its finest. I should be terrified and running for the fucking hills.
But instead, all I feel is an overwhelming sense of relief that he’s dead, even though it wasn’t me who had the pleasure of ending his life.
Lynx tells me in a hushed tone far too calm for a moment like this to open my eyes.
Reluctantly, I oblige, meeting his gaze as he removes his hand from my mouth.
“How did—You just—“ I shake my head, unable to form a coherent thought. “This isn’t your battle, Lynx,” I rasp, my throat tight and scratchy like I just swallowed a handful of broken glass.
“It may not be my battle, little killer. But for you, I’d go to fucking war.”
He lifts my hand—the one holding the gun—and guides it to his temple. He slides his thumb over mine and cocks the hammer. The click causes something in my chest to crack.
“You’ll have to shoot me to stop me, pretty girl. Because there’s no way in hell I’m letting you stain your soul with anyone’s blood but my own.”
We stare unblinkingly at each other, our breaths mingling in the space between us.
“Lynx.” My voice cracks.
Another drop from above and I shudder, counting the splats as they land among the leaves.
Three. Two. One.
Breathe.
When my tongue darts out to wet my lips, he tracks the movement, his gaze darkening.
“Fuck,” he growls, then crushes his lips to mine, robbing me of my very breath.
My body goes slack as he forces my mouth open and teases my tongue with his. He tastes like sin and bourbon and something distinctly him.
But most of all, he tastes of all the things I’ve never needed but desperately want. Things like tenderness and understanding.
Safety and security.
He groans and flexes his hips, the bulge in the front of his jeans pressing into my stomach as his hand delves through my hair, tugging my head back to angle my face up to his.
A delicious ache I’ve only ever felt for him forms low in my belly. My fingers find purchase in his sweater before I muster the strength it takes to tap him on the chest. Twice.
Reluctantly, he takes a small step back, giving me enough space to breathe but not run.
“No,” I say sternly as he stands glaring at me, his chest rising and falling harder than it was before and blood smeared across his mouth, frustration and confusion oozing from his pores.