Chapter 9 | Kate
NINE | KATE
I’m fully clothed, but it doesn’t help the icy metal of the chair from biting into my skin. My body is trembling profusely from the chill blanketing my body in this enclosed concrete room, tainted with the metallic stench of blood and piss threading through the particles in the air.
Bile lingers in my throat, threatening to be another bodily fluid splashed all over the floor.
I should run and sprint for the door, but my fight or flight instincts are paralyzed by the gruesome scene filling my vision.
Somehow, it's just as restricting as the zip ties that secure the dead man to the chair across from me. He’s in front of a wall and a table of unknown devices, guns, knives, and other torturous things that will add fuel to the nightmares I’m already plagued with if I somehow make it out with my life.
Which is looking slim, considering the handsome man who caught me on the dock is pacing back and forth enough to wear holes in his designer shoes. Yet his strides are controlled as he twirls a knife in his bloody fingers like it’s a typical night.
For him, it probably is.
As I said, I should run. But he said if I obey him, my blood won't blend with the scarlet already caked on his hands.
Oh, God.
Why am I considering that this psychopath will let me live after I saw him plunge his knife into the side of this poor man’s stomach? It was foolish to pray that the window I was observing through was one-sided.
Chances are, he’s going to kill me anyway, and my heart or single kidney is going to end up in some stranger who doesn’t give a damn about my life that was perfectly intact when it was taken from me.
Images of my family flash before my eyes.
My beautiful, loving parents and sister, Natalie, who have done everything to help me escape the horrific situation I found myself in when it was obvious that law enforcement couldn’t be bothered.
I guess that’s what happens when you live in the biggest city in the state, and there are more pressing matters to deal with than a boyfriend carving her girlfriend like a turkey at Thanksgiving.
Restraining order or not, it hasn’t mattered.
Not even proof of the scars lacerating my stomach could entice them to take action.
“We don’t have enough evidence to press charges,” they said.
Bull. Fucking. Shit.
Running away was the last resort. Sometimes it still feels like I’m watching my life with an imaginary bag of popcorn and a glass of wine while I try to yell at myself about how stupid I am that I didn’t do something when I first saw the signs.
Every day is another day my family could be in danger for maintaining silence about my whereabouts. But it's become clear that Xander’s hunt for me scratches his urge for entertainment. He hasn’t contacted them yet, but that doesn’t mean he won't.
What happens when I’ve evaded him so long that my family becomes the only place left to look for answers?
To find me?
The last time I contacted them was over six months ago. I rummage through my mental boxes, trying to remember if I even said those three words to them that I’ve said absentmindedly so many times.
I love you.
Words that usually come so naturally, but it's not until something like this happens that I realize how much weight they hold.
I should’ve said it more—intertwined more meaning and love into them the way they deserve.
He pauses, walking toward me to brace his hands on the arms of the chair, caging me in. He peers into my glazed eyes that are still shedding tears. There clearly isn’t an ounce of compassion in those entrancing bourbon eyes that burn with a fire that could scorch anyone who draws near.
They’re a warning.
“Is he…dead?” I force the words out shakily as they slice through the eerily silent room.
He tilts his head, studying me with a stare that makes me feel like a microbe under his scope. “His pain is so excruciating that he is in and out of consciousness. He didn’t answer my questions.” His stern tone adds extra force to that last comment.
My poor heart shudders behind my ribs. “I come from a medical background. It would be a miracle if he survives those, even if he does answer you.”
Deadpan, he says, “I’m not planning on letting him live, darling.”
No. No. No! Is this what might await me?
My hands shake, so I clasp them in my lap tightly. “And if I do…answer your questions, you’ll let me live?”
His head wobbles side to side. “Not sure yet. You’ve put me in quite the predicament.” A tremor racks through my body, and his lips tilt just slightly enough that my body doesn’t seem to agree with my head about how we feel about this man.
He’s alluring in the worst way.
“But I can promise you that this will go a lot easier if you tell me what I want to know. Starting with why you were on my dock the other day,” he tsks. The tendons in his hands strain as he grips the arms of the chair forcefully.
He’s so close, we’re breathing the same air.
Even over the metallic stench of carnage permeating the space, his masculine and smoky scent glides into my lungs as they rapidly inflate and deflate.
I think I’m about to hyperventilate.
My heart is on overdrive, and my body can’t keep up. My own body might finish me off before he does, like a baby bird that can easily succumb to stress alone.
If I’m going to die, I’m not sure which way is worse.
The lump lodged in my throat stays even when I swallow roughly. “I wanted to enjoy my coffee in peace. I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal.”
One hand clutches the knife. The other is drumming on the arm of the chair with bloody fingers. “A sign that says restricted isn’t a suggestion. Not very good at following directions, are we? Which brings me to my next question. How did you get down here, Kate?”
His use of my name has my blood coursing through my veins like cement.
My name slipping off his tongue is like a bucket of ice water poured over exposed skin, but it also has an unexpected current of warmth penetrating somewhere unreachable.
My teeth are damn near close to chattering from the terrified adrenaline and cold atmosphere that is trying to drown me.
“How do you know my na—”
Before I can finish the question, he lifts the knife and positions the tip at my knee.
It’s probably the wrong time to release sarcasm, but I squeal, “There wasn’t a restricted sign on the door.”
His jaw jumps, his eyes narrowing. I sharply inhale, remaining completely still as he digs the tip of the blade into the fabric of my gray work overalls above my knee cap.
Tears pour over my bottom lashes heavily now, leaving searing trails in their wake before falling to my chest. I only had a little bit of mascara on, but I’m betting it's swiped all over my cheeks like modern art.
My chaotic, ragged pants drift between us, but he doesn’t let up or let me distract him. He starts slicing upward at a controlled pace, not at all deterred by the hysteria slowly taking over my body.
“A girl lost her phone on the ride, and it went down a grate. When I looked down, I saw the tunnel. Finding the secret door in the closet was just dumb luck.” I don’t think I’ve ever talked so fast, but my damn life is on the line here.
His condescending laugh doesn’t waver his attentiveness as he continues cutting my pant leg open to expose my skin to him.
“Dumb luck? I’m not a naive man, darling. Give me more credit than that. All our entrances are hidden. Secure. Which means you were looking for them, whether you like to admit it or not.”
He picks up his speed, and the rush of cold air that glides across my thigh has my eyes dropping to see the slit he’s cut in my pants.
As he gets closer to the dip where my hip meets my thigh, blackness starts seeping into the corners of my vision.
Hard, crippling panic creeps up my throat like the long legs of spiders tapping on the inside of my esophagus.
The blade isn’t making contact with my leg, but I swear I can feel the cold touch of the metal hovering just above my flesh.
Flashbacks slaughter my vision, my body pressed below Xander’s as he thrusts in and out while the tip of the knife slides effortlessly through my skin.
I was too young to understand blood play.
I guess it shouldn’t have come as a shock, considering he was the phlebotomist who drew my blood at the drive where we met.
His passion for his job was evident. In fact, his love for his career was one of the things that drew me to him.
But his position was a cover to conceal his true obsession, and I didn’t realize it until it was too late.
My tear-stricken face is uncomfortably hot.
His movements pause, drawing me back to the present. “Two times! I’ve caught you trespassing twice. Why is that?”
“This is all just a coincidence,” I sob. “I swear.”
He removes the blade, and although I should be filling my lungs with a breath of relief, I don’t.
He points the tip of the knife toward me, and it's the first time I notice the sheen of blood on the blade glimmering in the fluorescent lights. “I don’t believe in coincidences. I believe things are done with intention, even when we aren’t aware of it.
This is the second time I’ve found you lurking where you aren’t supposed to, and there are far too many connections between complications with my operations and your coincidental whereabouts. ”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“No?”
I shake my head, sinking my teeth into my lower lip. The salty taste of tears coats my taste buds.
He leans over my fragile frame, lifts the hand holding the hunting knife featuring carved designs on the blade, and drags the blunt end of the cool metal along my neck.
His eyes latch onto the three-inch scar below my earlobe, but that doesn’t stop him from gliding the blade over the risen, ugly skin.
I choke back the cry that wants to release, my body trembling so much that I would be the reason if it pierces through my skin.
His control in this situation is frightening.
“Do you still have the same answer?” he murmurs. “Or do we need to release some of the blood that’s rushing to your head so you can think straighter?”
Holy shit.
How can something so beautiful be so lethal?
Everything about him is hypnotic. The way those bourbon eyes remind me of melted caramel on a fall day.
The way his broad shoulders stretch the material of his impeccable suit.
The way the dark ink embedded in his skin peeks through the glaze of red on his hands and beneath the collar of his button-down.
He is strikingly and dangerously handsome.
His other hand, calloused and hard, moves to cup my neck to hold me still. They are the hands of a man who inflicts pain and cruelty on whoever crosses him.
I happen to be a bystander who got caught in the crossfire.
“Do it,” I challenge. “You’ll have innocent blood on your hands.” I’m doubting it would be the first time. “But once you realize you are wrong about me, I don’t think it would put a dent in your sympathy, which clearly doesn’t exist. You’d be doing me a favor anyway.”
Those balls of fire in his eyes bounce between mine; I assume they are carefully dissecting my words. He would be doing me a favor. I’m so fucking exhausted from running. I may still have a family, but what does it matter since I can’t see them anyway?
His eyes narrow, analyzing mine before he releases my nape and takes a step back. “You don’t even know me, Miss Hannaford.”
Somehow, collecting a little bit of strength, I lean over, pinning him in place as we stand off. “Likewise, Captain.”
He twirls the knife again, entrancing me with the soft and precise movements of the blade spinning in the light. “What am I supposed to do with you?” There’s a subtle hint of teasing blended with his sigh. Barely, but it's there, enough to loosen the imaginary shackles imprisoning me in place.
“Let me go.”
“No can do, darling. I don’t trust you. But I won't hurt you. Not yet anyway.”
“I just watched you stab a man. You think I trust you?” I toss back at him.
He grips the knife's handle to stop its movements, slicing through the air. Our eyes dance, his jaw tensing. Several heartbeats pass before he rakes a hand over that cropped beard. I wonder what it would feel like between my—
Not the time, Kate.
He props his hands on his hips. “Are you prepared to do whatever it takes to prove that this is a coincidence?”
My heart patters obnoxiously. “Depends.”
“One month.”
My eyes lift to the ceiling in confusion. Huh?
When they settle on him again, his face is twisted into a scowl. “If you want to escape with your life, I need you under surveillance for one month.”
I wipe my hands over my eye sockets. This must be a dream. There’s no way he’s suggesting what I think he is. When I put my hands down, he’s standing closer, all brooding with his thick arms folded across his chest.
A nervous, post-crying laugh bubbles out of me. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen. I have a job.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Deadpan, I can’t hide my disbelief. “Will you now?” His firm nod doesn’t instill any confidence in me. “No. I’m not going to let you hold me hostage for something I didn’t do.”
“You’ve got two options, Kate.” He presses the tip of his blade against his pointer finger, rotating the knife.
I watch in fascination, wondering if he’ll draw his own blood.
“One, you end up with this knife silencing your heart before we toss you to the bottom of the ocean during our next lobster run.” What the hell kind of lobster business is this guy running, where he murders people when he doesn’t get answers?
“Two, you come with me for a month and leave with your life if you're not related to this clusterfuck I’m dealing with. I need to be certain you aren’t tied to whoever is fucking with my family's business.”
Realization starts to dawn on me. Between this psychopath covered in blood and the suffocating concrete walls, I almost forgot where I am. He sheathes his knife, drawing my attention to the Glock attached to his hip. It’s as if he knew the knife would petrify me more.
“You said ‘family’s business’.” The lump in my throat expands as I try to ignore the other weapon. “Who is your family?”
Out of all the things I thought might kill me today, it isn’t him saying, “I’m Preston Lachlan.”