15. Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fourteen
Olivia
D eath tipped fingers roughly pluck at the binds restraining my arms behind my back. Even the slightest jerk on my abused shoulders has me biting down a cry of pain. Expectations of this monster had me wondering if he would ignore my request, choosing instead to humiliate me. The way something dark and taunting sparked in his eyes as he dribbled the water from his mouth into my own had me realizing cruelty is the nature of the beast. I can still feel the press of his fingers on my jaw, the bruising pressure that gave him access. He clearly knows what he is doing when tormenting a captive. That knowledge stokes my anger. The fucking Mafia.
Pain and relief blend like a symphony through my body as I wrap my arms around myself, ignoring his disturbing presence. My moment of relief is short-lived as he comes down to his haunches before me. I screw my eyes up tight, earning me a dark chuckle from his horrible mouth as he works the binds of my ankles.
“You know, it bothers my ego slightly that you, of all people, are disgusted by my presence.”
I wish I could block my ears to that taunting voice. It, like his image, is an assault on the senses, the sound of it disturbingly alluring with its deep raspy tones. Knowing my brother unleashed this thing on me has hatred seeping through my blood. The urge to kick out my foot as it’s released is powerful—to strike at the monster and hurt him. Don’t be a fool. He might rip me to shreds just for the attempt.
“Take your chance.” My eyes spring open in surprise at his words, as if he can read my thoughts.
Our gazes collide. The light from the ensuite catches on his horns as he cocks his head toward the open door across from us. I wrench my eyes from his. Everything aches as I stand, my butt from sitting on the metal for so long, my back and shoulders still screaming with pain. The monster gives me no room. He doesn’t back away, remaining instead on his haunches at my ankle. I can’t help but look down at the top of his furred and horned head, acknowledging his massive size. Hopelessness rings a sob from my mouth as I step awkwardly around him, eager to put some distance between us, my body protesting every movement.
Debris tinkles across tiles as my boots disturb the rubble of destroyed ceramic. Holding my breath, I grab the door. It protests loudly as it drags across the tiles, and I expect a violent objection. When the door hits the frame without me being stopped, I can finally breathe. For a moment, I stare at nothing. The urge to collapse into a heap is so extreme my knees buckle with the weight of my situation. To distract myself, I rake my eyes over the small space and pause in surprise.
It’s a trap. It has to be. He cannot be that stupid, or he expects me to be that stupid. I dumbly take a step toward the countertop, littered with tools of some macabre trade. The bile rising in my throat is quick and violent. Sickened, my eyes travel instruments of death. Knives, pliers, saws. I press my hand to my mouth, a desperate urge to muffle the sound of a desperate woman staring at her fate. My body betrays me, the urge to use the toilet stronger now as fear sweeps through me so fast I peel my jeans down and fall onto it. Growing up in communal living with hundreds of other students has taken away any shame. Nothing is private when you live in such close quarters. But with a monster just outside the door, the sound of your pee is suddenly obnoxiously loud.
Fuck the Mafia. Fuck him and fuck my brother. He undoubtedly expects me to be tempted to take one of these tools and use it when he leaves the room. Maybe it will be a knife up my sleeve, or some pliers to assault him with. Either way, it will be his excuse. Even worse, all this could be his excuse—a reason to check me, to rub those horrible velvet, claw tipped hands over my body. Cupping and searching. I shiver and convulse at the thought, disturbed.
Finished, I pull my jeans up before stepping to the counter. Turning the tap on, I stare at my image in the cracked glass over the sink. The broken shards distort the image of tear tracked cheeks and wild eyes staring back. My hair is a tangle, clumped in places and sticking to my forehead with my sweaty fear. Has Ironwood discovered me gone yet? A blade cuts through the thought. What could they do? Involve the police? The Mafia, from what I have read, has lined the pockets of many police forces.I can't rely on them.
Before I have fully framed an idea, I’m reaching for the largest of the blades, my hand strangling the hilt with white knuckles as I meet my gaze once more over the glass. If they want me to join my mother, I will, but I am not going down without a fight. Turning back to the door, I raise the knife out in front of me. As an afterthought, I grab the pliers. The metal is cold and heavy in my grip, and it eases some of my nerves. I tuck it behind my back and reach with my blade filled hand for the door handle and pry it open.
My eyes devour the room beyond, finding him with his back to me, leaning casually against the wall of glass. So tall. With hesitance, I step into the room. The sound of the door undoubtedly alerted him to my return, and yet he doesn’t turn. That unsettles me, as I raise my blade out toward him and edge toward the exit. His unmoved state prickles at my nerves and raises my hackles. He’s that fucking sure of himself. I can’t even give thought to the fact that there might be more people here. Or monsters ? The sounds of people fucking while I was trapped in the dark still rings in my ears.
“This is unexpected.” Finally he moves, just a turn of the head. “That’s a pretty big knife.”
His sudden liveliness makes my feet stumble.
“Fuck you,” I spit venomously.
His mocking laugh bounces off the glass as he faces me.
“No, thank you. I don’t fuck the devil’s spawn,” he says with a shrug, his words confusing me. “Have you ever used one of those to hurt someone?” He nods his head to the blade and dumbly I look down at my shaking hand clutched around the knife. “It’s messy and dangerous. You have to be in close quarters to actually use it. You also have to make sure your opponent has nothing on them that could do you damage.” He stretches his enormous body, the effect it has seeing his muscles bulge even beneath his dark sweater has me shaking harder. “With me, you would have to be fucking quick. Do you know where to stab a man to even kill him?” With my heart in my throat, I can’t even form a coherent thought, let alone words. “Here.” He points to his heart. “But you have to be mindful of ribs, so it’s always good to aim at the soft flesh between.” He points to his lower abdomen. “Here, liver and kidney. Incredibly horrible way to die, as it’s excruciating and slow. But it would give your victim the chance to return the favour.”
Again, the urge to block his voice is violent as I stare dumbly back.
“You probably want here.” He points to his throat. “Still could backfire, though.”
“Stop!” The sound of my raspy voice breaks the spell and I swing my arm, bringing forward the hidden pliers.
Time seems to freeze as I watch the metal sail across the room. A lucky throw—I am not entirely sure, but not lucky enough. His torso leans with inhuman speed and the metal smashes into the glass behind where his head was. The glass withstands the attack, likely because of fortification, and the pliers fall to the tiles with a heavy crack. As if I can’t believe my own actions, my stunned gaze meets those unnervingly human ice-blue eyes. He holds my gaze as a wicked smile pulls across his lips.
“You better start running.” His warning shakes me back to my senses as he rolls his neck and shoulders.
Heart hammering, I race for the door, trying hard to not listen for the click of those paws on the tiles. Wrenching it open, broken hinges make it swing violently so I have to duck to round it. The first direction I face is a dead end. The panic I feel makes me cry out and throw myself the other way. I sprint down a hall, past closed doors, praying no one emerges from behind them to join the pursuit. When I emerge from the hall, my feet slow involuntarily as my confusion deepens.
I shake myself into action and race through a kitchen towards more closed doors. There has to be an exit. With a cry of frustration, I wrench them open, gripping the knife out before me in my clammy hand as they swing without hindrance. Finding only storage closets and a gym, I finally spin to face the open space, blade out and ready. He hasn’t emerged yet and that both relieves and unsettles me. Not turning my back to the hall, I move to the next door and find a powder room. Frustrated, I turn back to face the kitchen just as he emerges from the hall. A broad smile splitting his face. Tears track my cheeks as I move sideways to put the long kitchen counter between us, but it does nothing to ease my anxiety.
“You need this.” His claw tipped hand holds up a key on a chain. “Also, there is an elevator that way.” He points to the far end of a living room. “Or the emergency stairwell through my gym.” He points toward the door I slammed shut in my frustration.
I side-step toward the gym once more, but he wags a sharp finger at me.
“I really hope you don’t think I am an idiot.” He swings the key again.
With pure and profound hatred, I hurl my knife towards him. It doesn’t even come close. I watch it with grim resignation as it goes wide and bounces lazily off the wall to clatter harmlessly to the floor. My eyes meet his horrible face once more, and I see my hatred reflected, and it’s like ice spreading through my veins. He’s been toying with me, something only a truly callous thing would do.
In one fluid movement he springs onto the kitchen counter, landing on his haunches, and I feel the marble quake through the tiled floor. He stands unhindered by the high ceiling and I can only stare, slack-jawed. With malice in his eyes, he moves toward me, his paws clicking with each step across the polished marble. His long legs eat up the distance till he drops down before me on the counter top arms between his knees holding the bench. He’s so unbelievable, his size, the predatory weapons on his body. Posed like this, I can almost appreciate the creation of him, as if his maker made some gothic castles terror inducing guardian spring to life. The hatred in his gaze is very real though.
For a moment, we just stare at one another. I am pinned beneath those narrowed blue eyes as they rove my face. Fear and uncertainty have me lifting my arms out before me, hands limp, wrists bared in a show of submission as acceptance overrides all thought of escape. I never expected it to end like this. A bullet to the head would have been kinder. He jumps off the bench. His height is immense and still we just stare in mutual understanding. I am his captive and he is my captor.
He raises a hand. The caramel fur coating the back darkens down the fingertips to the blackened claws at the ends. I watch, feeling nothing but exhaustion as it closes easily around both my wrists. In another life, I might have marvelled at the softness of the fur lining his palms. But not in this one. I cry out as he wrenches me forward by my wrists, his other hand rising to grip my hair at the nape of my neck. It takes one firm tug to force my head back and my face up to his. My cry gets lodged in my throat as I stare unabashedly into that horrible face of my own personal nightmare.
“You are so fucking vulnerable,” he murmurs, eyes still narrowed and moving across my face.
He steps into me, pushing me backwards so my boots drag uselessly across the floor and my head cupped firmly in his hand collides with the wall. I close my eyes as he presses me back, his powerful body enclosing me.
“You will submit to me.” With my eyes closed, his voice is an assault on the senses.
The tears fall harder beneath my lids at my conundrum. Open my eyes and stare into that nightmare, or keep them closed and let his voice confuse me. In the end, I keep them screwed up tight, praying he doesn’t speak anymore as we remain pressed against a wall, him driving home the fact that I am entirely helpless against him and completely at his mercy.