37. Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Seven
HARLOW
Ahorrible, eerie feeling settles into the marrow of my bones like thick sludge, cementing itself there and making it nearly impossible to move.
I thought I had accepted death as a part of life’s journey and that the only thing I truly feared was what could be done to me before I took my last breath.
But that was all a lie. A blatant fucking lie that I kept telling myself in order to survive. And when I held Lynx’s gun to my own head and pulled the trigger—the look on his face …
It was at that moment I realized that I wanted to live. Not just for him. But for me.
He gave that to me. In some fucked-up way, he breathed new life into me. He made me not only feel again. But feel alive when all I’ve ever known is pain, heartbreak, and the longing of death.
Lynx has reincarnated me.
So why is it that I’m currently huddled up in a ball in the trunk of some man’s car, praying that my mind will soon wander free the way it used to when I was locked up in that church basement?
Two. One.
Dissociate.
Exhaling a relieved breath, I close my eyes and relax my body, allowing my mind to drift free.
I’m lying in the yard—Lynx’s yard—staring up at the puffy white clouds floating across the light blue sky as my fingers weave through the lush green grass at my sides.
From here, I can hear the low rumble of the hot tub and the sound of sandpaper sliding rhythmically back and forth on the piece of furniture Lynx is working on in his shop.
Around my neck is my mother’s rosary. I have the cross clutched in my hand as I picture her smiling down at me from heaven. Even though I don’t believe such a place exists.
But then the sanding stops and a door creaks open. It sounds too rusty and metallic to be the door to Lynx’s shop. More like a car door that needs greased.
But since this is my dream and I’ve decided to overlook those little details, I imagine Lynx appearing in the doorway, his dark hair and black shirt sprinkled with sawdust, a playful smirk on his handsome face.
He saunters across the grass and stops in front of me, his big, strong body casting a long shadow over me and blocking out the sun like a midnight angel sent to make me forget what true darkness feels like.
He smiles at me, his teeth white and straight and those navy-blue eyes glittering with mischief.
He leans down, reaching for me.
I squirm and giggle because I know what he’s going to do.
But as his face grows nearer, his features morph. His eyes lighten to an icy shade of blue, his dark hair washing out to an ashy blond. His facial hair fades away, revealing a sharp, clean-shaven jaw line.
And it’s no longer Lynx, my big, dumb hitman with the skilled hands and devastating smile.
It’s him.
The last of the six.
The youngest of the six.
The worst of the six.
Two. One.
Breathe.
Oh, how I want to kill him. I want to stab him over and over and over and watch the blood leach from the holes, the way he watched blood leach from mine a hundred times.
Connor.
Franklin’s little pet. The Ivy League student who just happened to conveniently stumble across the captive in the basement of an abandoned church and sample her for himself. Why he was there in the first place, I haven’t a clue. But that doesn’t really matter now.
And when Franklin hobbled down those stairs to find Connor balls deep inside the numb little girl whose soul had long since faded from existence … Well, let’s just say the wise old man took Connor under his wing and showed him his sick, cruel ways.
Showed him how to make me scream.
Showed him how to make me beg for death.
Oh, Connor. So young and ambitious with the world at his fingertips. And yet, that’s the hobby he chose to pursue.
Such a waste.
Ripped from my daydream, I feign numbness as Connor reaches into the dark trunk and wraps a rope around my wrists, binding my hands in front of me.
He doesn’t speak a word. Which works to my advantage because if I had to hear his voice, I think I might break character and try to kill him while my hands are bound.
Grabbing me by the hair, he yanks me upright and drags me out of the trunk.
I bite down on my tongue until I taste copper, just to refrain from screaming and kicking him in the dick and running.
Until I have a proper chance at escaping, I’m going to play this smart.
I’m going to trick him into believing I’m still the girl he knew. The weak one.
The one who’d dissociate and let her abusers take what they wanted from her before discarding her like trash on the cold, concrete floor.
And then I’m going to kill him.
Slowly. Mercilessly. And with a fucking smile.
Standing on wobbly legs, I keep my chin tucked to my chest as he closes the trunk and prods me with the tip of a knife. The blade makes me flinch, but I clench my jaw and start walking across the cracked asphalt parking lot.
I know exactly where we are—my father’s church.
Because he’s just that original and would want to finish what he started, where he started it.
Fucking prick.
“Move and I’ll kill you,” he snarls when we stop at the front doors.
I have to bite back a laugh at his fake British accent and shift my eyes from side to side for any signs of life out here.
But … as always, I’m alone.
I wonder briefly if Lynx will think to look here for me. Then squash that idea because it won’t matter. By the time he gets here, there will only be one person left breathing.
Whether it’s Connor or me remains to be seen.
He fumbles with the padlock securing the chains through the door handles of the entrance, cursing when he realizes he’s using the wrong key.
Shifting on my feet, I peer down at the lock, noticing how shiny and new it looks. Not the rusty old lock that’s been in its place for years.
Someone changed it.
Two. One.
Breathe.
The click of the key sliding into place. The chains falling loose. The whoosh of musty air that blasts me when he swings the door wide open and gestures for me to move.
Exhaling a quiet breath, I step over the threshold, surprised I don’t go up in flames the moment I’m inside, and glance around.
It’s exactly as I remember. The oak pews are still a warm honey color. The stained glass windows are still framed with white trim. The paisley-carpeted aisle I stomped down when I first found out my father was pulling me out of school is still a deep burgundy.
The only difference is the thick layer of dust coating every surface, as though preserving the horrific memories once made within these walls.
“Move,” Connor orders, the cold tip of the knife jabbing me in the lower back.
One step. Two. Three.
Panic trickles in the closer I get to the altar. But I stuff that down where it belongs and focus on forming a plan.
The only problem: There’s no way I can fight Connor off with my hands tied like this. I have no weapon. Nowhere to hide.
My hope wanes with each step.
But when he stops me in front of the tall wooden statue of Jesus on the cross and forces me to my knees, the rough carpet like a cheese grater against my bare skin, I know exactly what he’s about to do.
Sigh.
So predictable, even after all these years.
Gazing up at him with wide eyes, I wait for instruction, my fingers tingling in anticipation as bile stings the back of my tongue.
The clank of a belt buckle. The zip of his slacks. The cold, flat edge of the knife against the side of my neck.
“Poor little Harlow,” he says emotionlessly. “We could’ve been something special, you know. We could’ve been incredible. Powerful. Instead, you let them fuck you like the dirty whore you always were. You let them steal your innocence when it belonged to me. And for that, you’ll pay.”
He always said we’d make a beautiful couple. And beneath the cold steel of his blade, I was forced to agree.
Perhaps he was right.
Because after tonight, he’ll have the scars to match my own.
“You know the drill.” He frees his cock and grips the shaft, edging it toward my face.
Even fully erect, it’s pathetic.
“Open, whore,” he sneers. “And suck.”
Vomit lurches up my throat, but I swallow it down and open my mouth. Tears sting the corners of my eyes as he shoves his tiny dick into my mouth and thrusts.
I gag. Not because he’s big. But because all I want to do is puke all over him. Right before I plunge his own knife—the knife that carved up my legs—into his heart.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “I missed this filthy little mouth.”
I gaze up at him, waiting for that one specific moment. That one tiny slip of a finger where he relaxes, thinking I’m going to just obey him and suck his cock.
His eyes flutter shut briefly.
And there it is. The pressure of the knife against my neck softening ever so slightly.
Bracing myself for what’s next, I inhale a deep breath through my nose.
And then I sink my teeth into the thin flesh of his cock. And I fucking bite. Hard.
He releases a shrill scream as I clamp down, blood spurting around my mouth and dripping down my chin and throat.
Sadly, I don’t sever it. But I do enough damage that he’ll never want to stick it where it doesn’t belong again.
“You fucking cunt,” he wails, raising his hand and slashing at me with his knife.
I topple backward just as the blade connects with my cheekbone, cutting my face.
Connor lunges for me, blood seeping from his injured appendage as he slashes and thrusts and tries with all his pathetic might to kill me.
I’m quick, rolling and ducking at each swipe. But my arms are still tied, and I’m running out of space behind me. And out of energy.
“I’ll fucking kill you, you fucking whore,” he screams, his threat echoing throughout the nave.
And then it happens.
A gunshot rings out. Just one. But its piercing resonance ripples through the church like a tidal wave crashing over and over again.
Connor falls to his knees, the knife skittering across the small space between us as blood oozes from the hole in his stomach. He clutches at it and stares at me, blinking several times before collapsing forward and rolling over onto his back.
I watch momentarily while his chest rises and falls.
The fucker is still alive. A cockroach in human form.
My eyes slam to the front entrance of the church. To the tall, broad figure looming in the doorway like the dark angel that appears in my dreams.
Any thoughts I had of crawling over to Connor and stabbing him with his own knife evaporate before me. And all I can think about is reaching him. My dark angel. My big, dumb hitman. My life force. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deadly.
Two. One.
Live.