Chapter 8
EIGHT
Chantal
The beige jumpsuit is more than welcomed after the evening I’ve had.
…which really is saying something because three hours ago I would’ve rather worn a bedsheet over this monstrosity.
But three hours ago I hadn’t been intimately bathed by a dead man while he explained in calm yet gruesome detail how he plans to not only destroy my father and the Callahan Clan, but sell me off to the Russian mob like I’m a handbag at a consignment shop.
Priorities shift real quick when you’re staring down the barrel of becoming some Bratva oligarch’s new sex toy.
Sorcha toweled me off and dressed me without a word, moving so quickly it was as if she was afraid her boss would turn his ire on her at any second.
I couldn’t even bring myself to protest because… what was I supposed to do? Fight back? Run for it again?
Kinda hard to do when you’re butt-ass naked and surrounded by a group of armed masked men who don’t blink twice when a guy’s brains are blown out.
Seriously, Lochlan Callahan executed his own soldier with the casual ease of someone popping a zit.
So yeah. Beige jumpsuit it is.
Now I’m back in my musty little prison cell, curled up on this creaky bed that probably hasn’t seen fresh sheets since the turn of the century, and I can’t stop shaking.
It’s not even that it’s cold in the room, though there is a permanent draft in this house.
It’s more so because I’m terrified out of my mind. I’ve never been so scared in my life. If the situation felt bleak before, it feels utterly hopeless now.
Lochlan Callahan, the man who’s supposed to be six feet under in some prison cemetery plot, just ran a loofah across my bare skin like he was caressing a lover. He was so gentle, all while the energy he exuded was dark and nefarious.
Even the way his gaze tracked over my naked body sent a chill down my spine. I tried my damnedest to act unbothered and as confident as I usually am, yet my insides twisted. My thighs quaked as he helped me into the tub and then proceeded to bathe me.
He slid that soapy loofah over every inch of skin and across every thick curve I have. He took his time, each second its own eternity that left me so dazed I could hardly speak.
It wasn’t at all what I expected after trying to flee the premises. Especially not after he blew his guard’s brains out.
But maybe that was why he did it—it was some sort of sick and twisted mind game. His way to keep me on my toes.
It would explain why he detailed exactly what he plans to do with me. How he plans to hurt my loved ones and then sell me.
The fucking audacity.
Only a man would think it’s appropriate to tell the person he’s bought that he plans to put them up for sale again—while he demanded they strip naked for him so he could bathe them!
I thought Greg was at the top of my shit list. Lochlan Callahan’s giving him a run for his money.
But Lochlan’s a different breed than Wall Street guys like Greg who are predictable and have decorum about them.
Lochlan’s a wild card, capable of anything at any moment. The man’s unhinged. Straight up certified.
I drop my face into my hands and groan through my fingers. Unfortunately, every time I close my eyes I see the guard’s head snapping back as blood sprays everywhere.
I can hear the wet thud of his body hitting the floor.
Sleep isn’t happening tonight. I already know that.
For a while the house is silent. Hours go by and I’m able to lay down and at least attempt to get some semblance of sleep.
Then the screams start.
From some other part of this huge, creepy Addams Family house, a man shrieks as if he’s being skinned alive.
I spring up in bed, heart hammering and eyes widening in shock.
The sounds only grow louder. They pierce the walls, sounding more agonized the longer they go on. It’s obvious this man is in excruciating pain.
Whoever he is, he’s basically being tortured.
My hands clap over my ears, though that doesn’t do much to shut out the disturbing noises.
Soon the screams and howls of pain are followed by other male voices. Laughter echoes just as loudly, as though there’s comedy to be found in whatever brutality’s going on.
“No,” I whisper under my breath, squeezing my eyes shut. I press my hands over my ears even more firmly and shake my head. “Please stop… please somebody make this stop!”
My pleas go unanswered.
The screams go on for at least an hour, rising and falling throughout the otherwise quiet night. No matter how hard I try to tune out the sounds and focus on other thoughts.
Impossible when it’s basically surround-sound-level volume.
I’m a woman who goes to the spa every Sunday for a full facial and body massage.
I shop on Fifth Avenue with a line of credit that has no spending limit, and it’s not unusual for me to spend evenings at some ten-thousand-dollar-a-plate gala or fundraiser thrown by an insanely prestigious organization in need of a tax write-off.
My life is very—let’s say—cushioned.
I’ve given Simone shit in the past for how sheltered her upbringing’s been, but the truth is, I’m not really that different.
I’ve been lucky enough to grow up as a Black girl in a bubble, protected from the evils and fucked up mess that’s the real world.
If there was one thing Daddy did right, even as self-obsessed as he is with his political career, it’s the protection he’s afforded me.
Soft girl life forever.
…but that’s also left me vulnerable in situations like this, where I’m trapped in a hellhole with unknown men, forced to listen to screams for hours.
My delicate nervous system isn’t set up for this kind of trauma.
At some point, as my ears ring with the shrieks of agony and the cruel laughter, I slip off to sleep. It’s like my consciousness can’t stand another second and completely checks out.
It’s early morning when I come to.
Dawn is lightening the sky when I jerk awake, not to the disturbing screams from last night, but the sound of car engines.
Groggily rubbing at my eyes, I slide off the bed and pad over to the barred window.
A group of masked men are getting ready to head out. Two of them cross the overgrown grounds carrying a heavy sack between them. It’s wrapped in shiny black plastic, sagging in the middle.
My stomach drops as I realize what it is.
They’re carrying a body bag.
A fucking body bag!
I stumble back from the window as if I’ve suddenly been burned by the iron bars. That would be less jarring than this. Than the realization these men so cavalierly haul dead bodies around.
Was that the guard Lochlan executed in front of me or the man who was shrieking all night long?
The knot in my stomach twists as I realize I don’t even want to know. I’m sickened and disturbed either way.
The four walls waver in front of me. I stagger the rest of the way to the bed, barely able to hold myself up anymore.
Either I’m dizzy from how nauseated I am after what I’ve witnessed or the lack of food is finally getting to me.
Probably both.
My body’s starting to revolt, demanding relief after the week I’ve had.
One thing’s for sure—I need food. Real food.
Even Sorcha’s sad little trays would be a blessing right now.
But morning turns to midday and no one comes. Not Sorcha and damn sure not the guy who got a bullet to the head last night (and who I stabbed with a fork).
I’m left to my own devices, feeling as if I’m withering away. It doesn’t matter that I’m thick with plenty of curves; a girl’s not used to this kind of starvation.
All I can do is think about how much I hope Simone and the others are looking for me. That Dad is doing all he can to bring me home (even if Lochlan claims it’ll never happen).
By late afternoon I’m so lightheaded I have to lie flat just to keep the room from spinning. My thoughts go to the many meals I’ve turned down out of stubbornness.
…because they weren’t up to my standards.
Girl, what standards? You’re a prisoner! You’d be grateful for a packet of mustard right now!
The door finally opens when the afternoon light is gradually fading for dusk. I sit up so fast I almost black out.
Sorcha scurries into the room without the tray she’d normally be carrying. Instead she’s clutching what looks like a dress. The silky burgundy fabric is draped over her arms like an offering. Her gaze avoids mine as she lays it on the bed and starts backing toward the door.
“Mr. Lochlan requests your presence at dinner tonight, miss.”
I shake my head as if misunderstanding. “Dinner as in… with him? As in the two of us sitting down to a meal?”
“Yes, miss. He asks that you be dressed and ready within the hour.”
“And if I refuse?”
Sorcha’s face pales, making her look even sicklier than usual. She fixes her eyes on the floor and says, “Please, miss… it’s best for everyone if you just… please get dressed.”
Then she’s gone, and I’m left staring at the door as it snaps shut.
Dinner with Lochlan Callahan? The same man who’s taken me prisoner?
Normally I’d be flattered by a man wanting to take me to dinner. But this is obviously an exception. It feels a lot more like a threat than a treat.
I slide off the bed and take the burgundy dress into my hands, realizing I’m so fucking hungry it doesn’t even matter anymore. I need food that badly.
Though something tells me whatever Lochlan’s got planned for tonight, there’s going to be a catch.
The dress Lochlan’s picked out for me is weirdly perfect in terms of fit. The cut is even flattering: the bodice portion constructed so that my boobs look extra scrumptious and my waist is cinched. The bottom half is tailored to my measurements, hugging my ass and thighs while still being classy.
It’s off-label, which would normally be an immediate no in my book, but after the week I’ve had, it feels like the first real luxury I’ve had since being kidnapped from the Maldives.
The burgundy color looks great on my darker skin tone.
Very classy and demure.