Chapter 20 #2
"This place doesn't seem like it would belong to you; you're so polished and put together.
This cabin seems like a place someone who needed to escape the world would come.
I assumed you enjoyed your position in the Kings, after all, it's your family.
" She walked around the room, examining the pictures, running her hand along the dusty surfaces, and taking in the atmosphere.
He needed to get her attention back on him.
Keep her from finding something she didn't need to see.
He walked towards her, placing an arm around her shoulder and guiding her to the bedroom.
"Exactly," he said softly. "We all have corners we retreat to.
Even the ones who help build empires. There's a lot about me you don't know.
It will take time for us to build trust. We'll get there.
I'll explain things to you when we have more time.
But for now, let's get you settled. I need to get back as quickly as possible. "
He settled Elanah into the guest room, guiding her gently, almost ceremoniously, as if she were royalty rather than bait. The claw bathtub in the bathroom caught her eye immediately, and for a moment—brief but genuine—she seemed enchanted by its vintage elegance.
While she ran the water, he promised to return with food and clothing, as well as something soft to change into after her bath.
Something "comfortable." Then he stepped into the small kitchen and assembled a simple tray: vegetable soup, fruit slices, and chamomile tea.
Nothing threatening. Nothing that would raise a question.
He stirred the tea slowly and methodically until the sedative had dissolved completely.
When she drank it, her muscles would loosen. Her eyelids would droop. Her guard would fall.
There was just enough time. if he hurried to get the sample he needed and get it in the freezer before he left if the Collector played his cards right.
The Collector moved with quiet precision through the narrow space of the cabin, navigating the boobie traps only he knew about before he descended the stairs to the lower level.
Elanah lay bound upstairs, sedated and unaware, tucked into a narrative only he knew the outcome of.
But the prisoner in the cage—he was different.
He was the hinge on which this particular part of the story would turn on.
Without his cooperation, the frame could falter.
Sure, he could get what he wanted another way. But it would cost him—time, energy, precision. And the plan to paint Elanah as complicit in the murders? That would remain unfinished. He didn’t have time to circle back.
So he slid the mental mask into place. The one that softened his voice, steadied his gaze. The one that mimicked empathy, feigned concern. The one that made monsters look like men.
Then he reached for the real mask. The one that hid his face from the prisoner. Cold. Blank.
He unlocked the door. And stepped into the persona he’d built for this man—brick by brick, lie by lie, over two long years. The voice was familiar now. The mannerisms second nature.
Cold. Measured. Inflected with just enough emotion in it to make him feel real, still enough distance from him to be sure he wouldn't know who he was.
To the prisoner, he was a shadow. A constant presence—in the hum of the vents, the creak of the floorboards, the silence between questions.
He’d broken him long ago. Not with fists. But with isolation and gaslit suggestion, and the slow erosions of truth the prisoner once thought were true.
Those days were over. The end of his prison sentence was drawing near.
At the top of the basement stairs, he paused. Let his pupils adjust to the murky dark. The stillness was sacred. Like the hush before the curtain lifted.
Then he flicked the switch. The fluorescent light sputtered, blinked—then sighed into life.
The stage was set. He was ready to perform.
There, curled on the cot behind steel bars, was the prisoner. he lay ragged, motionless, half-submerged in sleep or surrender.
"Wakey—wakey—little Prince," the Collector murmured, his voice dipped in mock affection, the cadence meant to be soothing.
"It's time you started earning that freedom you keep asking about.
I need something from you to help you get it," the Collector continued.
"It's a small thing, really. Might even help you get out of this hellhole sooner than you think if you play your cards right. "
The man stared, waiting for him to tell him what exactly he wanted from him this time.
"I need your DNA," the Collector said calmly. "Your sperm, to be more exact."
The silence that followed was one of confusion. The man blinked as if he were unsure if he'd misheard.
Two specimen cups slid across the floor, stopping just short of his feet.
"They're sterile," the Collector added, almost casually. "You'll want to follow instructions. Contamination defeats the purpose after all. There's a spare just in case. ."
The man remained motionless, curled on the cot, breath starting to hitch.
The Collector stepped back into the shadows, his voice soft now. Surgical.
"You do this— and we're closer to release.
Or don't be sensitive— read more into it than you need too…
and we pivot. But you won't like the alternatives; they are far more painful.
If you'd like I'd be happy to tell you about the process.
It's called electroejaculation. First I''ll insert a probe in your ass near your prostate.
The probe is designed to send electric pulses through the gland until you ejaculate.
Under the right conditions it might not be so bad—.
" The Collector shrugged, " but— if you force my hand and make me perform the procedure. I'll ensure its painful. Trust me—"
"Stop already— I'll do it. I won't pretend to understand—how could giving you my sperm help me get out of here?
I've already given you my life, been locked in this cell for— I don't know how many days anymore—,"the man grasped at his forehead with one hand holding it as he tried to recall.
" I've lost count—. And you won't even do me the curtesy of showing me your face.
And you expect me to trust you, not to hurt me?
", his voice cracked as he spoke still hoarse from inactivity.
The Collector stepped closer, crouching now, just outside the cage bars, his eyes locked on the man.
"You don't understand because you still think you're part of your own story.
You're not. You're a paragraph in mine. And I need that paragraph to scream.
The only question that remains is if that scream will belong to you or someone else.
Now stop twisting what I'm telling you and just do what I ask.
It's for your own good trust me." The Collector smiled to himself.
He needed the man alive, but he didn't need him whole.
A little bit of torture before he released him wouldn't hurt.
The thought of seeing his blood on his hands aroused him.
It had been far too long since his last kill. This moment would have to get him through until he captured Mynx and her brat of a sister, Cyndi.
The man spoke again, pulling him from the momentary daydream.
"I'm going to need my hands free to do what you're asking. I hardly have any strength left, lifting my hand once is a struggle, but repeatedly, I'll never be able to do it with these on." He held the heavy chain up slightly.
The Collector studied him.
His frame was brittle, his skin caked with filth—starvation had slackened his muscles, confinement had dimmed the light behind his eyes.
His fingernails were cracked, rimmed with blood.
His body refused to heal in the environment he was being forced to endure.
Whatever he’d been was gone—starvation had made him pliable, confinement had made him forget.
Why not give him the small comfort? Ensure his attempt.
He turned without answering, the fluorescent light casting his shadow long across the concrete wall ahead of him before making the concession.
"Fine— you have ten minutes," he called back. "After that, I pivot." He reached for his keychain and removed the key to the cuffs and tossed it into the cell. It landed with a slight Tink on the concrete floor. He'd retrieve it later.
Where was he going to go anyway. He was locked behind steel walls of his bolted cage and the miles of silent woodland that wrapped around the cabin like a grave, all ensured that.
His odds of escape were less than nonexistent, and if he did, his chances of survival were even less.
The Collector could linger, could play with his head some more, but that felt indulgent considering his time crunch. There were things to do—details to secure. He needed to check the perimeter and make sure his cameras were still in place.
He needed to check his phone, needed to see what damage had begun to bloom at Blood Lust.
There were ten missed calls and several texts.
He banged his hands on the steering wheel. He didn't have time to be here but he needed that sample before he could leave.
He pulled up the feed.
Blood Lust’s members were being corralled—tight formation, nervous movements. His team hadn’t moved yet.
They were waiting. For him.
Shelby— Where are you? Things have gone way into left field here. Hector is gone….. Raven needs you. Sub-basement Code Black
Felton— Security Code—Black has been enacted. Building Secure. All persons within. Advise of special handling.
"Fuck, fuck…fuck." He pounded his fist on the steering wheel agitated.
Stoker-- Initiate Flash Protocol— eta 30 mins to inbound. Hold it all down till I get there Felton
Felton- Copy that
Shelby I'm enroute ETA 30 mins tell him to wait for me.
Shelby—- HURRY
The timer was ticking. He needed the sample. He needed to go.
The Collector hurled his phone into the passenger seat and stormed back down to the basement—so fast he nearly lost his footing, almost snapped his neck on the stairs. The sample was waiting, just outside the cell. The prisoner had rolled over, already asleep.
Good. He didn’t need conversation. He needed silence. Speed.
He grabbed the vials, climbed back up, secured the door, and shoved the sample into the freezer at breakneck speed.
He slammed the door to the cabin behind him.
This shit was getting old. He was ready to burn it all down and walk the fuck away.
He picked up his phone he had one more call to make. Thomas.