13. Kinleigh
THIRTEEN
KINLEIGH
My wet hair cools my bare shoulders, exposed from the thin tank top I’m wearing, sending a shiver rattling up my back. My breathing still not settled, I push the spatula around the pan, stirring up the cooking eggs.
I was late to start breakfast this morning, and today is what my father calls intake day. On days where he’s receiving a new shipment of human beings, he’s even more intolerable than normal, if humanly possible. I don’t know if it’s the manifestation of a deep-seated guilt for how atrocious his acts are, or if it’s just a mask he wears to turn already terrified women and young girls into abhorrently scared. I, however, do not want to be his focus.
The toaster dings and several slices of wheat bread jump. I fish them out, burning the tip of one finger. I bring it to my lips, soothing the tiny ache, as the other hand works more bread in the machine.
From the stove, I pull out the sausage and biscuits, and set it onto the counter next to the eggs on the burner, letting them cool. The cardboard plates are set out, sheets of foil at the ready, but as I’m clicking the burner off beneath the eggs, the backdoor swings open and without looking, I know my father’s body swallows up the entrance. He's likely returning from a ride out to the storage facility underground where he keeps them—wherever that may be this time.
He’s a holder, that’s what I’ve learned over the last nine years. The women are watched and collected by other men far away from here, and slowly, they are transported to various locations, on the way to their buyers.
In his office, he has a file of spec sheets on all of the victims that come through Buffalo Trails. Neely used to be the one to make sure everyone arrived, that no one had made the foolish attempt to escape. In seeing those spec sheets used to verify that their “load” had indeed come in full with nothing missing, I also saw the values.
Women who could bear children go for more, but nothing costs more money than a virgin. And the best way to guarantee a virgin? Take a girl so young she has no knowledge of hymens or erections.
The first spec sheet I stumbled across with a child on it made me vomit right there in my father’s office. Had I not contained it in the wastebasket, I’d likely be dead. Because I am not allowed in the office—no one is.
The door slams shut, and my body tenses the way it always does when he is in the room. One by one, he tugs on the fingers of his gloves enough to loosen them, finally plucking them off. Pinching his hat, he lifts it from his head and sets it down, too. Am I watching him? No. I am listening . Something I do more intently than most.
I memorize the noises of certain actions, cataloging them in my mind to provide me comfort later. I don’t like the sound of a knife being sharpened, but at least if I know it is, I can cast aside the fears that come with curiosity.
I have listened to him take off his hat and gloves many times. Next, I hear his boots click against the wood as he crosses the kitchen. He’s behind me a few paces, and when I hear his belt, I know just what mood he’s in.
I focus on the eggs I’m plating up, ten of the fourteen plates already done. The spatula wobbles in my grip as sour words melt into my ear from behind. “Go down there when I’m gone again and see what happens.”
The hair on the back of my neck rises and a clump of egg falls to the stove as I shakily fill plate eleven. I pray silently that the belt was a threat, just a warning, that he’s going to let me finish my job and leave me be.
This is punishment for seeing Colton, for touching him, I know it is. And though I know the evil thing he’s about to do, even worse is the fact he took my skeleton key. I couldn’t find it anywhere this morning.
My eyes burn as his hands go to my waist, shucking down my jeans and panties in just two hard pushes. I know what’s coming because it’s far from the first time.
Dandelions , I think to myself, trying hard to conjure an image of my favorite flower. His hand sifts through the back of my hair almost softly before he closes his fist, igniting fire beneath my scalp. Shoving me forward, he notches himself at my entrance, and without warning, shoves inside with one push.
I don’t scream out. I don’t flail or fight. Scrambled eggs smear across my face, my chest pressing against the baking sheet of hot sausage and cooling biscuits. The metal of the tray and the heat in the food both burn me, my skin scorching and blistering almost instantly, excruciatingly.
His nails dig into my bare hips, and I think of the way Colton and I used to tie dandelions together. He made me a ring nearly every day, sliding it down over my finger as we’d lie on our sides, swapping stories and secrets, being so utterly in love that all of the world seemed right.
I won’t be able to eat eggs for a while.
He presses his chest into my back, leaning over me as he treads toward his finale. “I should make you scream so he can hear you,” he chuckles, thrusting one more time until I hear the telltale grunt and feel the flood of him inside me.
I hate it.
I hate it so much I want to vomit. Only, I’ve done that. I’ve burned my skin in the shower. I’ve drug a blade through my flesh. I’ve starved myself. I’ve done what I can to purge myself of the sickness he puts inside me, but nothing helps.
Putrid drops of his seed plunk against the hardwood as he hollows me, zipping himself back up. I pull my pants up, using the heel of my palm to wipe the tears away before he can see them. Then I focus on salvaging the scrambled eggs and filling the rest of the plates with the remainder of the food.
I can tend to my burns later.
There’s a first aid kit in my room I’ve been putting together continually for far too long. I have burn ointment in there, from the last time he got angry in the kitchen.
I clean up the dishes, wondering if my father had visited Colton downstairs and seen his fresh clothes, or if he actually watched the footage. I didn’t think he did, but maybe because he knows Colton means something to me, the situation means more to him.
Despite the fact I was just punished for going to the cellar while he’s gone, I fully plan to head down again with more food and supplies as soon as my father leaves.
The day I can no longer help is the day I lose my reason to live.
Once the kitchen is spotless, I head to the shower again—a ritual after he uses me. Between burning water and a rough-shucked loofah, I scrub until my flesh is nearly bleeding. Until I can’t feel his touch anymore.
My body sore and my skin hot from the scrubbing and the burn ointment I slathered on, I pull the fifteenth plate from the microwave, one I’d stashed away, and finally head for the cellar.
To think that the ugly thing that just happened took place with Colton downstairs fills me with a shame that burns so bright and hot I stop when my hand comes to the cellar door. How did I become this? When did I let fear run my life?
I forge ahead, opening the door and taking the stairs carefully on my wobbly legs, breath kept tight in my chest. I don’t chance a look at him until I’m safely off the last step, his plate balanced in one hand, the other still feverishly gripping the handrail.
I almost lose the plate when I lay eyes on him.
Another fresh injury, this time, his ear. Evidence of a beating is dried around his ear and down his neck, soaked into the collar of his flannel. It’s buttoned up, and I wonder if that happened before or after my father did this.
I rush to him, letting the plate fall to the bed as I take his face in my hands. His eyes hold nothing but tenderness and concern despite the fact that he’s in worse condition than I am. Colton may know that my father is a monster, but to the degree, I’m unsure. In some ways, I feel like I should protect him from the truth so that when he leaves here—when I set him free—he can live easily, without bearing the weight of my truth in addition to the heartache I’ve already caused.
“You got in trouble for me,” he utters, his eyes searching mine.
I’m going to die for you, too , I think to myself, letting his gaze work on me.
He can’t solve me, not without words, and it’s better this way. I stroke my thumb over his bottom lip, memorizing every bump and curve.
Chemistry burns between us, electricity sparking invisibly, the magnetic pull so great we physically edge toward one another.
“Don’t get hurt for me,” he whispers, his eyes drooping lazily as they fall to my mouth. “Please, Kinney, don’t risk yourself for me, the thought of it makes me sick. I want you to be safe, okay?” He pauses, both of us waiting expectantly for my silence. A beat passes. “Is it just the one camera?” he questions, still memorizing my lips.
I don’t nod. Rather, I wait for his gaze to return to mine, and I blink back years of devastated, anguished tears. I draw the tip of my tongue to the very corner of my mouth only slightly before taking it away. He searches my eyes for answers, and my heart races as I silently pray he finds them.
I move the tip of my tongue to the side of my mouth again and his eyes follow it this time before coming back to mine.
“Just the one, then,” he draws out.
Reaching across the bed, I take the napkin draped over the plate and bring it to his ear, swiping at the traces of blood that are still wet. He winces, a soft grimace passing through his lips.
I’m sorry. I wish you weren’t here. I wish this wasn’t happening. I wish we could go back. God how I wish we could go back.
Carefully, I fold back the collar on his flannel, and gently tug down the collar of his t-shirt, swiping at as much of the dried blood as possible, my eyes watering. My father ruined us. He ruined me, but I won’t let him do this to Colton.
I want to give him some assurance that I’m working on his freedom, but I stop when my fingertips come to a silver chain looping his neck. Colton turns, his hair curling around the back of his collar as he faces me, our mouths merely inches apart. I pull the chain out from beneath his t-shirt, eager to see what weighs it down.
My body goes hot and my hands numb. I already know what’s on this necklace.
I drop the chain on the outside of his shirt and finger the silver ring on the end, the same ring this man presented me with when we were younger.
His massive hand comes down over mine, sealing the ring between us. “I never stopped loving you.”
All the air rushes out of me in a woozy breath as my watery eyes try hard to memorize his expression. Soon he’ll be gone, and if the universe is bringing me one last dose of Colton Beckett before I die, I’m going to make the most of it.
I don’t kiss him, though I want to more than anything. I want to remember our happiness, rediscover our passion—and I know if we kiss, we’ll do that.
What’s the point, though? Hurt us both again?
Treading my palm along his thigh, our gazes idle as I ready him for more. My eyes slink to the base of his throat where his pulse drums. He’s breathing hard, and so am I as I reach for his sweats eagerly. He’s hard when I find his cock, and my lower half warms at the rigid feel of him.
“Kinleigh,” he softly protests, but I keep going, because we need this.
He’s so hard for me, and his tender moans – ones that used to belong to me – bring an onset of emotion. His eyes close, and I’m grateful he can’t see the tears streaking my cheeks as I twist my wrist, working my fist up and down his erection.
I should wake up in the morning, roll over into his arms, reach down and find him this way. I should find my husband, Colton Beckett, and bring him to an orgasm which I take in my mouth at the last minute. Then we’d kiss and cuddle, he’d stroke long, strong fingers through my hair while we planned our day, starting off with a ride through our property together, on our horses.
I let my eyes fall shut, thinking of that exact fantasy, and just how real it feels. It’s not like when you envision flying or being a princess as a young girl– this fantasy feels like a page torn from the life I never had but was meant to live.
He whimpers and moans, and my body flushes with heat, my nipples hardening. The chain, the cellar, the secrets, the trauma, all of it falls away as I jerk him faster and faster, precum making his cock slippery. And finally, he grunts, loud and deep, before erupting in hot ribbons, painting his shirt and the bed between us.
His orgasms are big and messy, and I love them. His is the only male orgasm I’ve ever loved. He’s so erotic, everything about a big, strong man riding his horse, commanding the land, the sun on his shoulders and years worth of work holding his body up strong—he’s orgasmic in his existence. But his actual orgasm nearly destroys me.
When he opens his eyes, I’m already wiping him up with the tail end of my apron. I’m handing him his plate, ready to get on my feet and sneak back upstairs, when his eyes narrow, and his weak frame pushes off the bed. Colton reaches behind me, our eyes tangling in the dense emotional fog that lays between us, lifting the apron from over my head, exposing my collarbone and upper chest around my tank top.
My burns ache as he drags a blunt fingertip along one.
“Who fucking did this to you?”
I don’t say anything. These burns are nothing compared to the rest, and I don’t want Colton to know. I want him to think the burns are the worst of it.
He’ll never want me again if he knows the truth, and while I know I won’t have him—Forrest will kill me the moment I free him—want him to leave here still loving me, or at least, still loving the memory of us.
I loop the apron over my head and get to my feet, taking the stairs two by two as Colton calls my name, asking me to stay.
I can’t. If I want to set him free, I can’t stay.