Brody
There’s something loose in my head. Every hour down here, it rattles louder. Rage, hunger, confusion. All fused together like wires sparking under my skin.
I barely remember anything from the other night, I was so fucked up on drugs and alcohol. I blacked out completely.
I pace the hall. The urge to destroy something—her, myself, the world—swells and surges until I can barely breathe.
Everything is fucked. Nothing lines up the way it should.
I tell myself I’m in control, I remind myself why this has to happen.
Keep her caged, make her talk, make her crack until the truth spills out.
I need it. I need to know if she’s just another fucking liar or if she really is poison.
If Marcus used her, if she was in on it, if she killed my mother by just existing.
But every time I see her—shaking, ruined—I feel the power slip. I want to make it all make sense. I want to own her, break her, make her beg. I want to hurt her so bad she finally admits what she’s done. Or maybe so she finally forgives me for being a monster.
I can’t tell the difference anymore: love, hate, control, mercy. It’s all just noise.
If I let go, if I stop, I’ll drown. If I keep going, maybe I’ll finally feel clean. She’ll give in. She has to. I’ll make sure of it.
When I found out that Richard was planning on having his men take her, I snapped.
I would never get her back if that happened.
She would be gone for good. I know what kind of techniques Richard uses for torture or revenge, and there is no way in hell I will let him touch her.
If anyone will get the truth out of her, it’s me.
So, I intercepted the van, killed the men, and took what’s mine.
The memory stains my hands. Everything I do, I do for her. Everything I wreck, I wreck for her.
I pace the halls. Sometimes I listen to her in the basement. The little noises she makes. Sobbing, sometimes. Sometimes nothing at all, and that’s worse.
I want to go down. I want to see fear in her eyes. I want her to feel the way she made me feel. Alone. Torn. Useless.
Every thought circles back to Marcus. The way he destroyed my mother, destroyed everything good, and got away with it.
He thinks Lola is still his. I know better. He never earned a fucking thing. He only took.
I hear Lola breathing. The heater kicks on. Somewhere, the wind howls. The daylight is covered by a sheet of gray snow. Nobody knows where we are. Not even a god.
I go down to her. The basement air is cold. The steps groan under my weight. I want her to be scared. I want her to know I could snap her in two if I wanted. The thrill of it is a poison I keep swallowing, again and again.
She’s curled on the mattress. New clothes cover her body, but I know what’s underneath. Her skin. The bruises. My marks.
Her eyes go wide when she sees me. I stand over her, fists clenched. She pulls the blanket tighter, but it doesn’t matter. I see right through her.
“You get it yet?” I say. Quiet. Enough to echo.
“You understand what you are down here?” She doesn’t speak.
Her shoulders shake. She’s so easy to ruin.
“I’ll spell it out for you,” I say. I’m closer now.
Voice lower. “You’re nothing, Lola. You’re mine.
You wake up when I say. You piss when I say.
You don’t even get to breathe unless I allow it. ”
Her jaw shakes. She tries to look at anything but me.
“You still want to run?” I demand. She’s silent. “I saw you, you know,” I say. “Saw the look in your eyes when you bolted for the door. Did you want me to chase you? You did. You always want me chasing you. Pathetic.”
She shakes her head. Just the tiniest bit.
I grin. Wolfish. “You think you’re so strong. You’re not. I can break you any second I want.”
I reach for her, and she flinches. I like it.
I grip the back of her neck, her pulse hammers under my palm. She’s fever-hot. “You ache for it, don’t you?” My grip gets tighter. “You want to be owned. You want to know I’m in control.”
Tears start to slip. They glisten on her face, making her prettier. Her eyes shine, wet and blue as bruises. Little trembling pearls down her cheek. I want to lick the tears off, taste the fear, swallow it and make it mine. I want everything. I want too much.
Always have.
I run my thumb under her eye, smearing it. Nothing gentle. “Good,” I say, too soft. “Let me see how weak you are.”
Lola clenches her jaw, bites through it, still trying to pretend there’s any fight left.
She’ll never win.
I crouch in front of her, eyes locked on her. The way her collarbones jut, but I still want to press my teeth to every inch. “You ever gonna tell me the truth?” My words echo. “Or do I have to break you for real?”
She doesn’t answer.
I grab her by the chin, force her head up, and slam it back into the wood. Not enough to split, but enough to shock. She gasps. Color rushes up her neck.
“You get cute ideas, down here in the dark?” My voice is just a snarl. “Think about lying to me again? You think if you keep your mouth shut, I’ll just stop asking?”
I never stop.
I lean in until I can taste her breath. Cinnamon and coffee. Fear, under all of it. “You want it easy, Lola? Talk. Otherwise, we do this the hard fucking way.”
Her pulse throbs under my fingers. I squeeze, not letting it go easy.
She chokes on a laugh. “You think I’m scared of you?”
I want to shake her. I want to split her open, see what color her fear is inside.
“You should be,” I whisper, dead cold. “You should beg me to play nice. Because all you have is what I allow. If you behave, you get food. You get warmth. Maybe even get my hands or my cock or whatever makes you feel less empty. If you want to be a brat? Then you get nothing.” Nothing means nothing.
I want her to picture it. To taste it. “No light. No water. I’ll leave you down here until you starve.
I’ll rip out every inch you think you own, just to hear you cry. ”
She tries to hide it, but I see the flick in her gaze. She hates the way my threats get to her. She hates that her body tenses, legs clamped together like she’s holding back not a scream—but a moan. That sick wanting, buried somewhere even she can’t kill.
I let go of her jaw. Let her head go limp. “You only get what you earn from now on. You want the good shit, you make me happy. You play games, you pay for it.”
If I let myself, I could almost feel sorry for her. For me. Monsters in this little tomb, gnawing on old wounds.
“Start talking,” I tell her. “Tell me everything about Marcus. Tell me what you do for him. Don’t leave anything out.”
The moment she tries to lie to me, it’s in her eyes. It’s always in the eyes. The way her chin tucks, shoulders round, like there’s a secret burning holes in her tongue and she thinks if she swallows it fast enough I’ll just let her go.
Not a fucking chance.
I want the truth. I want every memory, every humiliation, every hour Marcus poisoned her head and used her body and made her less than human. I want it all.
She tries to breathe. Tries to gather herself. I don’t let her. I close my hand around her throat, just hard enough for her pulse to leap under my thumb. She gasps; color flushes up her jaw. She’s still pretending to be strong.
I squeeze tighter. “Talk, Lola. Tell me about Marcus. Tell me about his fucking network. The men. The clients. The jobs.”
She chokes, but the tears don’t fall yet.
“He keeps me hidden. I’m just a pretty thing for him to parade when it helps him close a deal,” she stammers.
“Sometimes he sends me as bait. Sometimes for photos. Sometimes for worse.” Her lip trembles.
“I don’t remember all the names. I never got to know them. ”
I watch her, searching for lies. Fuck if I’ll let her off easy.
“For worst. What does that mean?” I keep my voice low.
She flinches. “It means whatever the fuck they want. Sometimes I just have to dress up and flirt and let them stare. Sometimes it’s more. Dinner parties. Hands on my legs under the table. His men watch. If I fight, he gets mean later. He tells me it’s all business. That I’m an asset.”
I want to punch a hole in the wall.
She keeps talking, voice cracked, words spilling out between shaky breaths.
I lean over her, close enough to see every twitch. “That’s it?” My voice is empty. “That’s all he did?”
Her fingers twist in the blanket. “No. Sometimes he’d tell me to—” She stops. Swallows. “Sometimes he’d watch. Make me sit on men’s laps. Let them touch. Not always. But enough.”
I see red. My knuckles ache. I want to slam my fist into the fucking wall.
“Did you like it?” I ask. I need her to hurt. “Did you ever want them?”
Her eyes snap to mine. Wide and furious. “No. I hated it. I hate you for asking.”
I clench my jaw. I want to believe her. I don’t know what’s real. My mind stings. “Don’t lie to me, Lola. I’ll know.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not lying. I swear. You don’t know what it’s like.”
I don’t. I never will. I pace once, twice, then crouch back down, hands trembling. “He ever mention my mother?” I say angrily. “The accident. Did he ever say a word about her?”
She shakes her head. “No—never. He only talked about business. Control. He never said her name.”
I watch her. I want to rip the truth out of her mouth. I want to believe she’s clean, and I want to prove she’s filthy. I don’t know which I want more.
“I’m telling you everything I know.” Her hands, free, clutch the blanket tight. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
I stare at her. The anger is a fever. The ache to control, to possess, to finally know. I can’t kill it. I don’t know what’s right. I don’t know if I’m saving her or breaking her for good.
“I keep my promises,” I say, rough. “You talk, you get something. That’s the deal.”
She nods, wary, desperate.
I reach behind me and grab the food. An apple, half a sandwich, bottled water. I toss them beside her on the mattress. My hands shake. I can’t look at her. “Eat,” I mutter. “Rest. But don’t get comfortable. We’re not done.”
She snatches the food, shoves a bite in her mouth with shaking hands. I watch her swallow, watch her eyes close in relief. For one second, I hate myself for giving in.
I back away, turn, and leave her alone in the dark. My mind’s a fucking war zone. Nothing makes sense. All I have left is this fire consuming me.