Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
HER
W hen my eyes open, my surroundings are hazy.
The scent of pine air freshener fills my nostrils, accompanied by the soft whir of an engine. The dull ache in my temple makes it hard to focus, and my vision is blurry. But at least I know I’m alive.
Where am I? How did I get here? I stay still as I attempt to gather my bearings, though I strain to piece together the fragments of memories that dance at the periphery of my mind. My recollection of events gradually trickles back—the park, the bench, and then the sudden prick of a needle in my neck.
I shoot up, adrenaline coursing through my veins. But I’m met with a wave of dizziness that forces me back down into the seat, my head spinning as I groan. Closing my eyes, I suck in a few gulps of air. A gentle hand comes to rest on my shoulder, and a voice breaks through the quiet .
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, his timbre laced with concern. “How are you feeling?”
The dryness in my throat makes it hard for me to speak. “Where am I?” I manage, my voice coming out in a hoarse whisper.
He doesn’t answer, his sight focused on the road. Rubbing my eyes, I blink away the sludge. As my vision clears, I see the figure in the driver’s seat—who is none other than my kidnapper. The unfamiliar surroundings fade into the background as the realization of my predicament sinks in.
I’m trapped in a car with a fucking serial killer.
“Welcome back,” he taunts, his voice dripping with amusement even through the voice changer. Wearing a mask, his expression is unreadable. But I can imagine him smirking as he adds, “Did you have a pleasant nap?”
I try to swallow, but my throat feels like sandpaper. “What the fuck did you do to me?”
Again, he ignores my question and switches on the radio. Radiohead’s Creep is playing. He turns up the volume and begins tapping his foot in time with the beat. The lyrics send a chill down my spine.
“Pretty ironic, don’t you think?” he muses.
Thoughts of escape swirl through my mind. I must think fast. With trembling hands, I reach for the door handle—but he slams on the brakes, bringing the car to a screeching halt. Despite wearing a seatbelt, I nearly pitch forward, almost smashing my head against the dashboard.
“Are you fucking braindead?” he snaps, clutching the steering wheel. “Do you think you can just run away from me?” He puts his foot back on the gas and the car takes off. “Don’t even think about trying to escape again, or things will get a lot worse for you. My hospitality only stretches so far, Gwen.”
Stunned, I sit here, feeling like a mouse in a maze with no way out. I need to think of something—anything—that will get me out of this mess alive. But what?
“If you’re thirsty, there’s a pack of water in the backseat,” he says, his tone shifting on a dime. “There are also some granola bars if you’re hungry.” I stare at him in disbelief, and he has the nerve to chuckle as if everything is perfectly fine. “Don’t worry, Little Finch. Nothing’s poisoned.”
I bite back a scream of frustration at that stupid fucking nickname. But I know that if I try to argue, he’ll probably gut me. So I swallow my trepidation and reach into the backseat, yanking a bottle of water from the plastic rings. Greedily, I suck down the liquid and pray that my chauffeur won’t suddenly remember that he isn’t a generous person.
We drive in silence, save for the radio. After I gobble up a granola bar to sate my grumbling stomach, he finally breaks the silence.
“We’re almost there,” he states, his gaze still on the road.
I swallow. “Where?”
He turns into a darkened lot and parks in a secluded spot. “You wanted to prove your loyalty to me, didn’t you? Well, this is your chance.” He cuts the engine, unlocks the doors, and makes a shooing gesture. “Time to get out.”
Feeling numb and confused, I climb out of the car, my mind whirling with what might come next. A large warehouse looms in the darkness nearby. Multiple metal bars secure several windows, while others are boarded shut. Distantly, I hear a generator humming.
He grabs my arm and leads me closer, snapping me out of my trance. My eyes, for a moment, drift toward the license plate as he practically drags me to the building.
“Don’t bother remembering the plate number,” he says, jangling the keys in my face. “It’s a rental . With no paper trail to be found.”
Trying to snatch the keys from him is pointless, so I glare at him instead. “You stole it?”
He chuckles, deriving pleasure from my irritation. My brow creases deeper, only fueling his laughter. “Let’s just say it was procured for a … special occasion. Now, I thought you wanted to prove your loyalty?” He drags me to the side of the warehouse and points to the broken window. “Get going.”
I grip the pane, hauling myself up and inside, being careful not to slice myself on the remaining glass. An eerie darkness greets me, along with the scent of must and decay, and I squint to see my surroundings. He hops in behind me and clicks on a flashlight, illuminating the area.
I follow him further into the warehouse, stepping cautiously over the debris and rubble in our path. Suddenly, he stops, and I almost run into him. He places a finger to his lips and shushes me.
“Hear that?” he whispers.
I strain my ears but hear nothing. He clicks his tongue, an annoyed hint in the sound. “No sense of hearing,” he mutters before continuing further into the warehouse.
My confusion mounts as I jog to keep up with him, wondering what he heard that I couldn’t. We make our way over to a room in the back of the warehouse. He pushes the door open, motions for me to follow, and goes in. As I enter, he flips on the light, and I see a man I don’t know, tied to a chair.
“What the fuck?” I mumble as the stranger blinks awake, his scream muffled by the gag tied around his head.
My killer shuts off the flashlight and goes over to the desk nearby, its top cluttered with sharp instruments caked with rust. I cock my head as I step closer—and realize those aren’t just your typical tools you’d find in a normal garage.
This is no ordinary warehouse , I think, the sobering reality crashing into me all at once. It’s a goddamn torture chamber!
“This sketchy little fuck is Colton Avender, freelance photographer for the Fallbank Chronicle,” he says, taking one instrument from the desk.
My heart races as I slowly back away, my breathing growing shallow. But before I can make a move for the door, he grabs me by the arm and pulls me close, his grip unyielding. The mask is expressionless, eyes empty and black like the void as he stares at me.
“Help!” Colton yells through the gag. His eyes are bloodshot and wide with terror.
“Don’t even think about running away,” my killer says, his low voice a warning. “You won’t make it out alive if you try.”
I’m trembling now, my mind spinning as I try to make sense of this horrifying situation. Colton pleads, but my killer ignores his cries and goes over to him.
“Colton here has a particular hobby,” he says, kneeling to grab one of Colton’s fingers. “One that you should be quite familiar with.” He breaks the finger with a loud snap, making Colton howl in agony.
A bead of sweat forms on my forehead. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say as calmly as possible, not daring to make a move.
“He’s the one, you know.” He positions the pliers—and rips the nail from Colton’s digit. Tears and snot stream down his face as he wails, blood flowing from the wound. “That’s five.”
I clench my fists, confusion transforming into anger. “Stop it with the cryptic bullshit and tell me what the hell is going on here!”
He huffs like a parent frustrated their child doesn’t understand such a simple concept, and strides over to the desk. Opening one of the boxes, he pulls something out and shows it to me. As I take in what he’s presented to me, my mouth falls open, my stomach bottoming out as things fall into place .
“He’s your stalker,” he states, showing me the pale imitation of my father’s mask—the same one I saw that night in front of the apartment building. “He’s the one who left you the rose, the threatening notes. Destroyed your things.”
“As if what you do is any better,” I snap.
He shrugs, unfazed. “I’m just doing what needs to be done. Someone has to make sure he doesn’t bother you anymore. That’s where I come in. He won’t be able to hurt you again—not if he wants to stay alive.” He unsheathes his knife, the blade glinting menacingly in the dim light. “So, the question is, do we let him off easy?” He forces the weapon into my hands. “Or do we make him pay for all the pain he’s caused?”
I stare at him, my brows knitting in bewilderment. Is he testing me? I didn’t expect to walk in here and be offered revenge on a platter. But now that it’s presented to me, I can feel it bubbling underneath the surface.
After a few tense moments of contemplation, he says, “This guy has quite the history of stalking and being a creep to women.” That gets my attention. “Oh, don’t you know? You’re not the only one who’s experienced his twisted affection. At least you didn’t end up six feet under like some of the others.”
Malice and hatred boil within me. I draw a steadying breath, trying to control the tide of fury that threatens to overtake me. “What do you suggest we do?” I ask, my knuckles turning white as I grip the handle of the knife.
He snakes an arm around my waist, while the other tightens against my hand, keeping my grasp firm on the hilt. “I think it’s time someone put a stop to it.”
Colton squirms, trying to escape his bindings. I step forward, giving him a bitter smile. He gulps, the fear in his eyes palpable. I untie the gag and tear it from his mouth.
“Oh my God! W-what the fuck are you gonna do to me?!” he babbles, probably pissing himself.
“I’m here to make sure justice is served,” I say, feeling myself slip into a haze.
“Fuck you,” he snarls, spitting blood at me.
Crimson tinges the edges of my vision. My killer appears behind me, guiding the knife forward. I press the tip into Colton’s throat. Then push it more, indenting his flesh painfully slow. I pause to watch him. He’s pale. Shaking. Terror clouds his gaze.
I feel powerful .
“Any last words?” I ask him.
Colton shakes his head, a sob escaping his throat. As I lift the blade, a flash in the corner of my eye catches my attention. I crane my neck to see what it is—and there, in the shadows, I see him. My stepfather stands there, his eyes narrowed in disgust, a can of beer in his hand. He comes closer, his features clear as day underneath the flickering bulb. My heart leaps into my throat, his gaze never leaving mine as I lower the knife.
“Poor, poor little Gwen,” he taunts, tsking. “This isn’t the only path you can take, but it’s the one you chose, anyway. You’re just like him.” He rips open his shirt, revealing split flesh. Gaping wounds that relentlessly pour blood, soaking the grimy floor. “Just like your father.”
I feel my rage rising, and I take a step forward. “No,” I say firmly. “I am nothing like him. I will never be anything like him.”
He cackles maniacally as I grip the knife, waving it at him. “So this is how it ends, huh? You really are your father’s daughter.”
I clap my hands over my ears. “Shut up!”
“He ruined your life,” he says, leaning closer. “And now you seek some warped version of redemption in the form of bloodshed. Just. Like. Him .”
“Shut up, shut up. Shut up!” I shriek and lunge at him, swiping the knife in a wild arc of fury, and drive it into his chest. It hits the mark, and my stepfather crumples to the floor like a ragdoll. The room is silent as he heaves his last gasps. I stare at him blankly, too shocked to weep as I find myself on the floor.
Someone places a hand on my shoulder, snapping me out of my hallucination. I look up to see my killer, and something inside of me shifts.
“I can’t do this,” I say simply.
He squeezes my shoulder, digging his fingers into my skin. “Gwen,” he breathes, his patience thinning.
Emphatically, I shake my head. “I’m not a murderer. My father and I are not alike. I can’t do this. Please …”
He snatches my arm and harshly tugs me up. “I thought you wanted to prove your loyalty,” he growls.
My eyes blaze as I forcefully remove my arm from his grasp. “I can prove my loyalty without killing anyone,” I insist, pushing the knife into his gloved hand. I feel him staring at me from behind the mask, assessing me coldly as I add, “I can’t go through with this!”
Tension thickens the air, and he gazes at me for a long moment. Finally, he takes a deep breath and speaks. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want. I won’t make you—but know this. If you walk away now, there will be no turning back. You’d better be prepared for the consequences.”
I have no time to consider his words when Colton grunts, “Crazy bitch.”
In one swift motion, my killer plunges the blade into Colton’s heart. Colton takes a shuddering breath, his eyes frozen in fear as his life ebbs away. “Fucking piece of shit.” He retracts the knife. “Shut up and die already.” He then slits his throat and turns to me, leaving Colton to choke on his own blood.
I gasp, a wave of nausea washing over me. But I quickly restrain my revulsion as I watch him wipe the blade clean with cold, robotic detachment. I can only stand there, shock seeping into every muscle until I feel nothing. It isn’t until he trains his gaze on me that I spring for the door.
Unfortunately, he’s faster than me and reaches it first.
“Where do you think you’re going?” He waves the knife at me like he’s scolding me. “Stay right there, if you know what’s good for you. We still have some unfinished business.”
My heart hammers against my ribs, suddenly very aware of just how much trouble I’m truly in. Colton is dead. Is that how it’s going to end for me, too?
He grabs my arm and forces me back to the table, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps. He sweeps an arm across the table, making the objects go flying. Panic slams into me like a freight train as I’m tossed on top of the table. I’m paralyzed with fear, my mind unable to comprehend what is happening.
A shiver runs through me as his fingers inch up my leg before pulling out a length of rope from somewhere. “What are you doing?” I croak out in a strangled voice.
He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he wrenches my wrists behind my back and ties me up, securing the rope tightly. When he’s finished, I finally find the words to plead with him. “Please. Just let me go.”
He steps closer, and I feel the anger radiating off him like an inferno. My throat tightens as he leans in close, his words barely more than a whisper. “I’ll draw out your inner darkness soon enough.” He tugs down my jeans and panties, discarding them elsewhere, and frees himself from his pants. “And if it takes breaking you entirely apart to put you back together again how you’re meant to be”—he slides inside of me, making me moan from the stretch—“then so be it.”
My pussy wraps tightly around him as he pushes deeper, groaning in my ear. “Fuck,” I moan, my body quaking as I succumb to the thrill of feeling him bare for the first time.
He stills, his breathing ragged; it seems he’s just as equally affected. Grabbing my hips firmly, he starts thrusting. I feel every inch of him. I match his rhythm, allowing myself to get lost in the moment, and drop my head back in pleasure.
He snatches my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Don’t look away,” he growls through clenched teeth.
I can feel his intense gaze behind the mask. The tension between us is palpable, and I feel myself melting into him. He pulls up my sweater, watching as my breasts bounce out of it. I whimper as he twists my nipple, my pussy tightening on his cock.
“You like this, don’t you? You like fucking a murderer.”
I bite my lip, suppressing a moan. “No.” Yes!
“Are you sure?” He tugs my other nipple. “You’re so wet for me.”
“This is so fucking wrong,” I groan, staring into the black holes of his mask.
He releases my chin and grabs my hip. “But you love it.” He pumps into me, making me cry out as he increases his pace.
“God, fuck,” I cry, scratching at the wood of the table. “Harder! I need it!”
“You want it rough, huh?” he growls, his tone dripping with something akin to animosity. “I’ll give you rough .”
Something about the way he speaks gives me pause. But he slams into me with such force that all my thoughts vanish, leaving me with no time to decipher the meaning. My eyes leak tears from the intense pleasure, blurring my vision. His grip on my flesh is bruising, each thrust coming harder and faster than the last.
“I’ve been dreaming about taking you, filling you to the brim with my cum,” he grunts. “I’m going to come inside of you. You’re going to take it like the dirty little slut you are.”
“Please, I?—”
“Call me Damon.”
I blink, momentarily stunned. Did he just reveal his real name to me? “Damon, please. I need you. Fill me with your cum!”
His cock swells at the use of his name. Before I can think too much about it, he drives his length deep inside with a savage thrust. He wraps his hand around my throat and reaches between us to rub at my clit. The combined sensations multiply with each snap of his hips until I’m close to bursting. He squeezes my neck until stars dance in front of my eyes, my sight blurring at the edges.
“Tell me you want my cum inside of you,” he commands, his cock pulsing.
“Please,” I barely manage before his grip slackens, allowing me to speak. “I want your cum inside of me!”
My plea is like a trigger because suddenly he’s thrusting even harder and faster than before. His grip on my throat tightens painfully, his moans growing louder and more desperate as he hammers into me. I’m so close to passing out when he lets go of my neck, and I feel myself flying off the precipice. I scream as his hands wrap around my waist, pulling our bodies together. He stiffens with one final thrust, filling me with hot cum.
I want to collapse on the table, my wrists aching from the burn of the rope. But he keeps his arms around me tight, holding me in place, making sure all his cum stays inside.
I shouldn’t have liked it. I should hate it—hate him .
But even as he pulls out another needle and jabs it into my neck, I can’t make myself.
What the fuck is wrong with me?