39. Lola
LOLA
Nine paces left. Nine paces right. I keep moving. If I stop, the ache in my ribs spreads and the defeat creeps in.
I watch the shadows, hunt for cracks, count my breaths: one. two. three. four—
I stop, turn, and sweep the door with my eyes again.
My body aches everywhere. My shoulder, still hurting from being thrown here. My cheekbone is red, thighs burning from the struggle.
Snatches of memory haunt me: the way Marcus looked at me before he left. That flat stare. Eyes that promised more pain, or worse. The absence of it, that dead-eyed neutrality that drains you until you’re nothing but a thing in his collection.
He is a dead thing walking. A cruel, demonic being.
I hear movement outside of the door. I know it’s him; it’s that sense of panic I always feel when his presence is near. Like how an animal freezes when they sense a predator. My nails bite my palms and my heart stutters. Not with fear, but with the readiness that only comes before violence.
The door kicks open so hard it hits the wall. I don’t flinch. Not this time. I square my shoulders and meet the monster head-on.
Marcus.
He enters with a slow demeanor. That inhuman calm, the kind only men like him master.
Marcus surveys the cage like he’s shopping for furniture. His gaze brushes over the cot, the cracked sink, the battered chair. He sets his sights on me last.
He sits in my chair without asking, filling the space so completely it’s like he brought the outside world in here to smother me. He crosses his legs, leans back, and grins.
Showtime.
I roll my eyes. “Didn’t think you were bored enough to come visit your favorite asset yourself.” I force the words through cut lips, add a lilt, make it sound like a joke.
He smiles, barely. Not impressed. “Favorite? You overestimate your value, Lola. You’re just the only one who needs this much maintenance.” He rubs his thumb and forefinger together. “Trouble. Always trouble.”
“Trouble keeps you young,” I shoot back, bracing my fists at my sides. “Or is this really about me? Thought maybe you’d have your guard do the babysitting. But here you are. Alone.”
He glances at the guard and shrugs. “I like to handle my investments personally when they pose a risk.”
“Let me guess. You’re worried. You’re losing grip.
Brody’s lighting matches in your empire and you’re too old to keep up.
” That does it. His eyes narrow, just a fraction, but it’s there.
A hairline fracture in the perfect mask.
I press. “You wouldn’t be down here unless you were scared.
Or did Brody embarrass you again? Maybe he’s already outplaying your entire crew. ”
Marcus doesn’t bite. He lifts one eyebrow. “You’re not as clever as you think. Distraction won’t work on me.”
I lean forward, plant my feet. “Distraction? You mean like putting me in a fucking cell while you hope the world forgets Brody exists?”
He laughs harshly. “Brody. Brody. Brody. That’s all you think about, isn’t it?”
I let him see my disgust, let my lip curl. “If I’m thinking, congratulations. You failed again. Newsflash: locking me up won’t fix your fuck-ups.”
He rolls his sleeves. “You want to know what is happening to your little pet project?”
I swallow, but don’t look away. “I want to know where you’re holding him. Or did you have to put him in a different room because you’re afraid he’ll come for me?”
Marcus loves every second of this. I can see it in the way he lets my words melt into the air. Like a cat with a mouse, testing the edge of my panic. He stands, circles. Steps so intentional they puncture the silence.
“I’m not afraid of Brody. But you should be,” he murmurs, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “He’s being moved north. Far north. Remote. No heat, no help. No one finds that place. Not even him. He disappears, like he should have years ago.”
A tremor runs through me. I clamp down on it. Don’t show him. Don’t.
Marcus comes closer, looming. “You want details? He’ll be straitjacketed in the woods, left for the snow. No more witnesses. No more threats. No more Brody.”
The blue bulb flickers. I imagine Brody; hands bound, eyes wild with hate, fighting the dark alone. Sickness washes over me in waves.
“Do it yourself, then,” I spit. “If you want something erased so badly, finish the job with your own hands. Stop hiding behind your pet goons.”
He leans in, so close I can taste his aftershave and the bitter rot of his breath. “Careful, Lola. You don’t get to dictate terms.”
I push him, my hands flat on his chest. “You’re a coward. You only come after the people I care about because even you know you’ll never really have me. You can break my bones and sell my name but you’ll die knowing you never owned me.”
He laughs. A real laugh, loud, then—
His hand whips out. The smack hits me across the face, so hard my ears ring, my lips split. I hit the floor, knees scraping, breath gone. Before I can rise, his boot finds my chest, pinning me to filthy tile. Pressure makes my ribs want to crack. My lungs spasm, desperate for air.
Marcus bends close. “You still love him. Even after everything. Foolish girl.”
I claw at his ankle as black dots fill my vision. “Go… to… hell,” I rasp.
He barely shifts. “You’ll never see him again. But that’s not what should scare you.” He presses harder. “Your mistake was thinking you could keep anything from me.”
My fingers slip. I gasp, my vision is dizzy. Still, I glare at him, channeling every ounce of venom and hate.
He crouches and grabs my hair before dragging me up like I weigh nothing and shoving me against the chair, face-first. My cheek burns; tears spring to my eyes. He yanks my legs apart. Cold air on bare thighs. His fingers force their way between. He wants to humiliate.
“You belong to me,” Marcus whispers, lips brushing my ear. “Your body. Your thoughts. Even your filthy daydreams. Brody’s shadow lives in you, so I’ll rip it out.”
He shoves two fingers deeper, grinding into nerves that sting with pain, not pleasure. “Pathetic. You’re not even wet.” He curls his hand, so violent I bite my lip to keep from crying out.
I shake my head, nails digging into the arm of the chair. “You can’t—”
He slaps my ass. “What? Tell me again how that animal makes you feel. How you ache for him while I bury you alive?”
I am not present. I am running, far, far away. I picture Brody. His hands, his mouth, the safety he never gave me but I pretend, just this once. I am not in this room. My hips jerk, desperate to end it.
It makes Marcus furious. “You fucking bitch. Even now, you think you have a choice. You dream of him, don’t you? You touch yourself at night and whimper his name.”
His grip is iron. Each thrust punishes me for every slight, every tiny rebellion. He twists relentlessly, forcing my body to flicker with unwanted sparks.
“Come for me,” Marcus demands. “Right now, or I’ll go and gut him myself.”
Tears slide down my face. I clamp my eyes shut, dig for anything left in me that can survive this.
Brody. I think of him. Not the boy I lost, but the boy who stared at me like I was the only living thing in his world. I picture his hands, larger than life, clutching me, keeping me tethered so I don’t blow away.
I do it. My body betrays me, a hot wave surges through my hips, and my legs tremble. I cry out, a feral-sounding noise, because Marcus forces it out of me.
He feels the finish. Grins, victorious, like he just won a war.
“See? Doesn’t matter who you think about.
In the end, your body obeys.” He wipes his hand on my thigh and lets me fall forward, crumpled and shaking.
He stands over me. “Behave, or Brody gets worse. Next time, I’ll bring pictures. Maybe I’ll let you watch.”
“Go ahead. You’ll never kill what’s in me.”
He turns, already bored.
I press my bruised chest, heave in a ragged breath. I count the seconds. One. Two. Three. Four. He can break my face. Break my bones. He can ruin my body, again and again. He will never own my hate.
I stay on the ground, watch the ceiling bulb stutter, and imagine snow, and Brody, and freedom so cold it burns.
I will outlast. I will. I will. I promise myself, with every beat of my fucked-up heart.
I will.