KINDLE EDITION

Published by Lili Saint Germain

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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance it bears to reality is entirely coincidental.

Produced by Lili Saint Germain at Lili Saint Germain Publishing

Formatting by Max Henry of

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Copyright© 2014 by Lili Saint Germain

All rights reserved.

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Two Roads

About the Author

I loved Jason Ross for seven years. One together, then six spent apart, while I festered in my rage

and he grieved my supposed death.

Then finally, we were reunited again.
He knew me as a stranger before he finally saw me for who I really am.
Juliette Portland.
A dead girl. A lover. A murderer.
My heart was finally whole again.
But none of it matters anymore.
Because now, it’s all been torn away.
I don’t know how much longer I can stand this.
Before Dornan breaks me.

“Shallow cuts.”
I whimper again, struggling against my ropes as darkness threatens to pull me under.
And I want it to pull me under. Mercy. Blackness. Please, just let me pass out.
He stops, his black eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he surveys his handiwork. My head sags

forward, my chin hitting my chest, and I can see the scores of small cuts he’s marked into the skin on
my stomach. So far, he’s avoided my tattoo, and the scars that hover below it, but he keeps touching
it, caressing me there, and I know he’s planning something painful for that spot.

I’m tied to a chair today, my wrists bound behind me. My ankles are completely numb, tied

tightly against the chair legs. Some days he ties me to the bed, each limb stretched painfully and
attached securely to the corners of the bare frame. There’s no mattress, and the bedsprings bite at my
back as he takes his pleasure making me bleed. I’m still wearing the same thing I had on when he
snatched me - a black T-shirt, sliced open down the front so that it hangs loosely at my sides and
black cotton bra and panties. He’s taken my jeans from me, probably so I feel the bitter cold at night.

Or to have easy access to my legs so he can drag his knife along every inch of exposed flesh.
He still hasn’t raped me. Hasn’t even touched me down there. It confuses me, and it makes me

afraid. I want him to get it over and done with. Do what he’s going to do, instead of leaving me for
days at a time, starving and cold, as my blood dries on my skin, coating the tops of my thighs.

“Shallow, shallow cuts,” he murmurs, his low voice rocky and rough. I moan as he drags the

blade through my skin again, breaking it open like paper and pressing his fingers into the wound he’s
created. He leans forward and I whimper again, knowing what he’s about to do.

I jolt back suddenly as his tongue scrapes along my opened skin like sandpaper, claiming the

blood that he’s spilled, drinking in my sorrow. His breath is hot against my cold skin, his tongue like
a dirty worm burrowing inside of me.

Agony.
I’ve been down here for so long, I’ve lost track of time. There’s no sunlight in here, only

concrete, dampness, and cold. At night I freeze, and during the day I swelter. That is the only way I
know if it’s night or day, and even these things are starting to become muddled. I count my days by the
fresh wounds, having nothing else to reference time with.

It doesn’t matter, anyway. I could have been down here for a day or a year, and the fact remains

the same:

I am never getting out.
I know this now. I fought against him for the first few days, until he broke me. Starved me and

beat me and broke my spirit. It’s shameful, really.

I always thought I was stronger than this.
Assumed that he’d never be able to break me - but he did. So quickly.
“I’ve got a surprise for you today,” he says, his mouth quirked into a dark smile, a smile that

feeds off my suffering. A smile marked with my blood, his full lips coated in a red sheen.

Surprises are bad. I don’t like his surprises. They always hurt me, make me bleed. I don’t even

know if I’ve got any blood left to bleed for him.

I cry softly as I remember the last words he spoke to me in his office before he pressed the rag to

my face, and held it there until the noxious fumes in the material stole my consciousness.

“I know you think this is going to be bad,” he had said, his grip against my face almost

enough to break my jaw, “but however bad you think this is going to be? It’s going to be so. Much.
Worse.”

The door to my room - to my dungeon - slams shut loudly, and I jerk awake from the sleep I’d

finally been able to succumb to.

It feels like I’ve only been asleep for a moment at the most, and when I see my blood still wet on

his bottom lip, my suspicions are confirmed.

Damn. I was really enjoying that brief interlude of calm unconsciousness.
He’s not holding the knife anymore. Instead, he’s got a small vial of something in one hand, and a

slim plastic package in the other. He places both on the small wooden table that sits just inside the
room and stalks over to me.

I gasp as he undoes my ropes. Blood rushes to my ankles, which creates incredible pain, too. I

cry out as he fists a hand in my hair and drags me from the chair, throwing me onto the narrow single
bed face down. Wire springs grab at my wounded skin, tearing at me, and I force myself to lie still,
my face pressed into biting metal, and my eyes staring at the bloodstained floor beneath it. I don’t
even fight as ropes are wrapped around my ankles and wrists, flaying my aching limbs in four
directions, making me completely vulnerable to his whims.

“Look at me.”
I turn my head to the side and see him sitting on the chair I’ve been tied to for the last several

hours. He rips the plastic package open with his teeth, and I feel my eyes grow wider when I see it’s
a hypodermic needle. I swallow thickly as he stabs the tip of it into the small glass vial he’s holding,
and draws liquid into it.

“What’s that?” I ask, stunned and scared.
He tuts. “It won’t kill you, if that’s what you’re wondering.” He scoots closer, brings the sharp

metal tip down to my arm.

It’s automatic, my struggle. I cry out at him as I fight my restraints, as I press my knees into the

bed and try desperately to get up onto them.

“Stop.” One hand on my back, pressing me down, but I ignore him. He chuckles. “I didn’t think

you had any fight left in you, Julie. I was getting disappointed there.”

I continue to struggle, even though I know it’s futile. In the position I’m in, legs wide and ankles

tied painfully tight to the bed corners, I’ve got no leverage. Face down, with my arms painfully
twisted into ropes behind my back, I can’t get away. All I’m doing is wasting my precious energy.

“I said, stop.” He’s less amused this time, trying to stop me as I thrash around, drawing away

from the tip of the needle. I can only hope that he needs to hit my vein, and can’t just shove the stuff
into my arm.

His smile disappears and he recaps the syringe, shoving it in his jeans pocket. He twists me

painfully so I’m on my side and covers my mouth with his large hand. I kick and scream, but he easily
holds me in place. I panic as he reaches down with his other hand and pinches my nose shut with his
thumb and forefinger.

I gasp against his palm, desperately trying to suck air in, but I get nothing. Before I know it,

blurry grey dots are in front of me, and then the world goes black.

***

Black and light. Unconscious and awake.
I can’t remember the last time I fell asleep normally.
Was it beside Jase the night before we fought? The night before I went and fucked everything up?
We should have just run away.
But I couldn’t. The vengeful fire that burns within me hasn’t abated - it’s just been temporarily

smothered by my torment and despair. My plan to wreak revenge, interrupted by Dornan’s sick
fascination with my blood and screams.

My most primal desires, my basest emotions, are still tied to my desire to see Dornan suffer and

die. In the long hours as my legs cramp and my arms go numb, I fantasize about the different ways it
could happen.

Maybe he’ll put the knife down. Maybe I could pretend I was still unconscious and take him by

surprise. Hide behind the door and storm him as he enters, dig my fingernails into his eyeballs until
they burst. Oh, the pathetic fantasies that swim in my mind.

But I can’t get away. I’m always tied to either the bed or the chair – or—more humiliatingly—

held by a wrist as I pee in a bucket in the corner. Thank fuck he takes me to the toilet once a day. But
even in there, I’m chained to the wall and given exactly ten minutes to get done before he comes back
in to get me. So there’s no escaping from there, either.

He’s smart. He knows that no matter how much he hurts me, I’ll always try to run away at the

first opportunity. There’s no Stockholm shit going on here. I hate him and he hates me and only one of
us is leaving this fight alive.

So until I find some kind of way to outsmart him, to overpower him, to just fucking get past him,

I’m screwed. I’m as good as dead.

When I come to I’m still tied to the bed, face down in a pile of bedsprings. A sharp pain in my

arm lets me know the needle has found its vein. I moan as liquid burns a fire inside me, spreading
from my elbow to my shoulder and then enveloping my entire body. It hurts like nothing else I’ve ever
had injected into my body, and I panic as I wonder if he’s decided to just be done with me and kill me
already.

He must see the panic in my eyes, because he laughs.
“Don’t worry,” he practically sings. “It’s not poison. At least, not the kind you think it is.”
My limbs feel heavy and my brain feels like it’s been stuffed with tissue paper. It’s all scrunchy

and vague inside, and I can’t quite see from one thought to another, each synapse shrouded from the
next.

“I thought you were going to kill me,” I say, confused. Why am I talking? I curse myself for

engaging with him and bite down on my lip to try and wake myself up a little.

“Are you afraid?” Dornan asks.
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation.
And that’s when it dawns on me. He’s given me something that makes it almost impossible for

me to resist his questions. A sedative. A truth serum of some kind.

The name of it swims somewhere in my brain, the brain that no longer has a filter.
“You’re a fucking coward,” I say, noticing that my words are slightly slurred. “You should be the

one strapped down like a fucking animal.”

He grins. “Maybe. But look who’s top dog today?”

He traces a line down my arm, and though I can barely feel it, the casual affection he feigns

makes me quiver noticeably.

“Do you like it when I touch you like that?” he asks quietly, his gravel voice rattling my chest.
I blink slowly, groggily. “It confuses me,” I answer. I’ve never felt more vulnerable in my life.

Well, maybe once. But right here, stripped of every ability to resist his questions, I feel dumb and
drugged and completely fucking at his mercy.

And so very, very alone.
I glance up at him and I can see how much he’s enjoying this - this absolute position of power

and domination. Not even my mind is safe from him now. All of my secrets, the ones buried deep, are
his for the taking.

Elliot. Jase. Grandma. Kayla. Oh, Jesus. Nobody is safe right now. Please, fucking please don’t

ask me about them.

He seems to read my thoughts, or perhaps he’s just reading the panic washing over my face in

crushing waves that threaten to drown me.

“Tell me,” he says conversationally. “Did you like it when I fucked you, Juliette? I’m not talking

about six years ago. I’m talking about in the clubhouse just weeks ago.” He trails his hand down to my
ass, covered only with a pair of black panties. He slides his hand under the thin material and grabs a
handful of ass, squeezing tightly.

“When you gave me your body to use exactly as I pleased? When I licked you here?” he slides

his hand out of the material and reaches through my legs, pressing against my sensitive nub.

“Yes,” I reply blankly, staring off into the distance. I can’t lie. My brain won’t let me. But I can

tell the truth.

Memories of our horrifying tryst come back to me like a tidal wave. His mouth on my most

sensitive of places. The way he filled me, every last part of me smothered by his larger-than-life
presence, until I was drowning in his darkness.

“Ask me what my favorite time was,” I say quietly. He seems taken aback.
“You’re going to kill me anyway,” I shrug as much as my restraints allow, which isn’t much, but

he gets the idea. “Don’t you want to know how I liked you best?”

My voice is shaking, but I speak quickly. I want to get it out before he punches me or strangles

me unconscious.

He laughs throatily, regaining his self-control. “Of course,” he says. “Tell me all about it, baby

girl.”

I smile to myself as the words begin to form through my drugged haze. “I loved it when you held

me against the wall and fucked me until I saw stars,” I say in a calm, measured voice. “I loved the
way you made me come alive as you choked the life out of me. Because I’d just licked the tears from
your face, and I could taste your grief on my tongue while you squeezed my sorrow away.”

My lips quiver into a smile as he roars loudly. Fucker. I’ve still got it, even drugged, bound and

half-naked. I’ve still got that fire burning inside me that just wants to completely fucking obliterate
Dornan Ross and everything he’s ever touched.

He snatches the knife up and for a moment I think he’s going to completely lose his shit and stab

me to death, but instead he flips me over. I moan as the bed springs grab at me, trying to stop me from
moving. After he’s finished I’m laying on my side, my blank hip pressed into the bed and my tattooed,
scarred hip sticking up toward the ceiling.

“I don’t like that you covered my marks, Julie.” He brings the blade down and now I know what

he’s got in store. I feel my eyes widen as I take a sharp breath, and then the searing, ripping pain
begins.

“No matter,” he spits, cutting into my skin. “I’ll just put them back.”
The only thing that relieves the pain in any tiny way is making a lot of noise. It gives the pain

somewhere to go - a voice in the world. It acknowledges what’s happening to each screaming nerve
ending that’s being ripped apart.

So that’s what I do. I open my mouth, and I scream, and I don’t stop screaming until he’s finished

cutting any trace of Elliot’s beautiful work from my flesh.

After he’s finished cutting my tattooed flesh away, leaving a mess of weeping blood and pain, he

leaves. But first, he unties me. I wonder why, until he throws me a stained towel that used to be white
and gestures to my stomach.

“Keep pressure on it,” he says, his black eyes gleaming in the harsh light. “If you fucking die on

me before I’m finished with you, I’ll come down and drag you out of hell myself.”

As he slams the door, I stare at it blankly, holding the towel to my stomach to staunch the

bleeding. The pain is worse than the needlework from any intricate tattoo, and more intense than any
blunt-edged knife dipped in fire and pressed to unmarred flesh. But I don’t cry anymore, despite the
flames of pain licking at my torso. I’m just relieved that I’m alone, and untied, and for the moment,
alive.

It makes me think of the last thing he said before he slammed the door and left me in here.
If you fucking die on me, I’ll drag you out of hell myself.
I believe him.
Mostly, though, I’m glad that my comment had the desired effect – get him so angry he forgot

what he was here for. Getting the truth from me. My mind already feels a lot clearer than it did, and
relief soothes me like a balm. He didn’t ask me about Elliot. He didn’t ask me about Kayla. He didn’t
ask me about Jase.

I’d give every last scrap of my battered flesh to keep them safe. He can cut it all away so there’s

nothing left but blood and bone, and I’ll die happy if it means they all survive Dornan Ross.

A few hours later, I can tell night is approaching. The air around me has turned from thick and

muggy to slightly chilly, making me shiver violently, still damp with my own blood. I have to peel the
blood-soaked towel from my torso to get it away from my skin, and then when I look, I wish I hadn’t.
My entire left side is a mess of blood and bits of torn flesh. Hacked is about the only word that could
accurately describe what he’s done to me. He’s effectively excised the top layers of my skin so that
no trace of ink remains.

It looks horrific. It hurts more the longer I stare at it, wondering how it will ever heal with no

flesh to knit back together, but then I remember that it doesn’t need to heal, because I’ll be dead soon.

At some point I must nod off, because when I come to, it’s to a tray of food sliding along the floor

toward me, and to the door slamming shut quickly behind it.

A chance to escape, and I was too fucking slow to even open my eyes.
Too fucking slow to even try. I’m pathetic.
I survey the food tray with interest; I’m suddenly reminded of the grueling flight I took to

Thailand to have my surgery. I cringe inwardly as I realize that was mere months ago, and now I’m
sitting in a death chamber, waiting for the Reaper to take me.

The same feeling of claustrophobia I experienced on that long flight is kind of like what I’m

going through now. One shitty meal delivered at some point during the long hours. I’m uncomfortable,
and I’m not in control, and I just want to get off this ride.

I crawl over to the metal tray and survey today’s contents. A sandwich made with dry bread and

deli meat, a small red apple, and a glass of water used as a makeshift vase, holding a bunch of the

most potently sweet-smelling flowers I’ve ever encountered. I don’t touch the flowers, despite how
pretty they are with their long, thin green stalks and sprays of tiny, white bell-shaped blossoms
hanging down. I swallow thickly as I wonder what kind of message Dornan is trying to send by
including a deliberate gesture reserved for lovers and mourners.

I grab hold of the sandwich and disassemble it as best I can. Salami and cheese, cut in half, two

seemingly innocent triangles on a plastic plate. I’m so hungry, and yet every time they bring me food,
I’m terrified. Eating something Dornan has served me always makes me nervous with every bite,
convinced I’ll bite into a human ear or a piece of glass or poison. So far I’ve been fine, but I still
don’t trust.

Thorough inspection done, I grab one of the triangles and devour it. At first I tried to eat slowly,

but I can’t. I’m starving, and this one meal a day is barely sustaining me. Plus, I’m afraid if I take too
long to eat it, someone might come in and take it off me before I’ve finished.

As soon as the food hits my stomach, a wave of nausea shakes me. I hurry to the bucket in the

corner of the room and retch painfully, vomiting up everything I’ve just scarfed down.

The food tastes strangely metallic on the way back up. Desperation and hunger rises with the last

heave of food and I spit the taste away from my mouth as fresh tears prick at my eyes.

Poison. He’s fucking poisoning my food.
I’m starving, and I look upon the other half of the sandwich with both desperation and disdain. I

want to eat it. I want to devour it. I’m ravenous and I need something to fill my hollow stomach. But
not something that’s going to make me vomit.

I sit on the floor, huddled against the wall opposite the door. Watching. Waiting. Glancing at the

half sandwich. The seemingly innocuous apple that’s probably full of maggots. The glass of water that
has the stems of a highly poisonous flower immersed within. He’s fucking poisoning me.

Finally, I can’t stand it any longer. I hurl myself upon the last half of the sandwich, ramming it

into my mouth as fast as I can, unable to stop myself even though I know the end result will likely be
more vomiting and subsequent hunger.

The second half of the sandwich eaten, I pep-talk my fragile self. Even if it’s poisoned, you need

sustenance. You need to eat or you’ll die . I brace myself against the wall and choke uncomfortably
as fresh nausea rises in my chest, burning like acid. Keep it down, keep it down.

Finally, after what seems like forever, the urge to open my mouth and bring everything back up

gradually lessens. My stomach still churns away, but the food stops trying to escape.

I sit there for what seems like hours, waiting. For what, I’m not sure.
Maybe for death.
And death returns eventually, his knife back in his hands. I slide up to my feet unsteadily, feeling

fragile as a feather, like I might crumple if he breathes on me. He smiles as he watches me waver on
my feet.

“Nice flowers,” I huff. “Did you think I was too stupid to realize they’re fucking poisonous?”
He ignores my words. “I was trying to be romantic, Julie. You’re my baby girl, aren’t you?” He’s

playing with the blade in his hands, the same slim switchblade he stabbed into my thigh months ago,
when he thought I was a girl called Sammi.

I shudder. “What did you put in the food?”
His smile turns to a look of irritation; a frown and a smirk all in one. “That won’t work, Julie.

Distracting me. You should know that by now.”

I snort, the energy it takes to converse almost too much to bear. “You put something in it that

made me sick. Why don’t you just kill me already?” I glance at the blade in his hand. “Aren’t you
tired of this?” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer, just stares me down with those black eyes that remind me so painfully of

other eyes. Jase. I push the thought of his beautiful face away. Because it hurts too much to even think
of him.

I will never see him again.
I take a tentative step toward Dornan and his blade, my legs shaking with the sheer effort of

trying to move limbs that are literally starving and wasting away.

He doesn’t step back. Doesn’t stop me. I guess he knows at this point that I can’t overpower him,

can’t outsmart him, can’t get past him. There is nothing I can do to him that could cause him to worry.

I reach up slowly and curl my fingers around his fist, the one that clutches the switchblade.
“You could do it now. Slice my neck open.”
I don’t want to die. I’m not encouraging him to pull the proverbial trigger and splatter my brains

on the wall out of any bravery or lack of regard for my life. It’s not about being brave.

I just want this to be over.
Amusement fills his face as he uses his free hand to peel my fingers from his fist.
“I’m not tired,” he says, chuckling. “Do you really think you’ve suffered enough?”
I think of when the suffering started, of the seven scars that are now gone from my flesh, of the

burning and the agony and the sorrow of it all.

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I do.”
“Well I disagree,” he says. “In fact, I think we’ve only just started.”
Anger wells up in my chest and I snap. “You’re poisoning me now?” I screech. “You’re fucking

poisoning me?” I point emphatically at the bucket of puke in the corner. “You coward. Use your
hands. Use your knife. Only a coward would poison his fucking prisoner.”

He reaches out and stabs my chest with his finger, making me step back until my back is up

against the wall.

“I’ll tell you why you’re sick,” he says. “It’s not the sandwiches, baby girl. It’s the poison inside

you. It’s the souls of my sons tearing you apart from the inside out.”

He grins, his words nonsensical but nevertheless a disturbing visual. I shudder as I imagine

worms that look like Chad, Maxi and company crawling in my veins like sludgy syrup, black and
toxic, burning through my veins until I’m nothing but a bleeding, infested corpse.

“Is that the sons I’ve already killed?” I snap, “Or the ones I’m still going to?”
His wide grin twitches, and suddenly, I’m so fucking over this dance that we’ve been doing for

the past few weeks, so fucking tired of everything.

“If you’re going to poison me to death, you might as well just shoot me,” I say morosely, before I

can stop myself. Jesus Christ! I want to slap my hand over my mouth, to shake myself by the
shoulders. What’s wrong with me? I’m strong, I’m unbreakable, I’m vengeance personified - and yet
I’m asking my enemy to just hurry up and shoot me already.

“You’re pathetic,” Dornan growls, amusement in his voice.
I feel crazy. I am literally going insane in this room with him.
“So are you,” I reply, before I can stop myself. “Four sons dead before you even fucking noticed

me.”

His amusement at my apathy transforms to unbridled rage as my words hit home. He bunches his

fist and draws it back, aiming directly for my face.

At the beginning, I used to flinch. I used to shield my face with my hands, trying to avoid the pain,

but as Dornan’s fist travels toward my face in slow motion, I smile and ready myself for the pain.

Crack! My head snaps back, hitting the wall behind me with enough force to knock me out for a

moment. I feel my body crumple to the floor, paper-fragile and ready to shatter completely, my eyes
slammed shut but my lips are pursed into a triumphant smile.

Because every time he strikes out at me is one step closer to death, and with it, an eternal sleep; a

blissful relief from the tyranny of this agonizing existence.

And I’m so very, very tired.

Something cold pours over my head and I gasp, spluttering as I jerk awake.
I peer up to see Dornan standing above me, an empty water glass in his hand and a look of

irritation on his face so scathing, it makes me want to giggle.

I’m a pile of tangled limbs on the floor, and I can taste blood in my mouth. The fresh blood

swims around on my tongue, mixing with my saliva and the old blood that’s stuck to my teeth after
weeks of being hit in the face. So much blood, it has become a normal thing for me to taste.

I lean over and spit some of the blood on the floor beside me, completely uncaring at how that

might look. After all, Dornan’s the only one watching, and I’m pretty sure he’s used to my blood by
now. The room reeks of dying - of dried metallic blood, and piss, and resignation. It doesn’t reek of
death yet - death has a completely different smell to actually dying. Death smells of rotting flesh and
old blood that’s no longer circulating, no longer able to well up on a blade’s painful cue. Dying, my
dying, is full of energy and pain, but death is quiet and cold and so very final.

Soon, I’m sure of it, death and I are going to meet in this room, and then I might finally have some

relief from this hell.

***

Time passes, but everything remains the same. The torture. The food. The sickness. Until one

day, Dornan visits me, and he does something different.

“Do you want to die today?” he asks me. I stare at the ceiling from my spot, tied to the bed frame,

still wearing the same bra and panties and ruined shirt.

How nice of him, giving me the choice. I shiver as his hand slides down between my legs.
“Do you know what the French call an orgasm?” I gasp in surprise as he applies pressure to my

clit and begins to knead it ever so gently. Tears prick at the corner of my eyes as I fight to retain some
semblance of control.

It feels awful. It feels good.
I’ve had nothing but pain for the past days and weeks. Nothing but blood and electric shocks and

water boarding. Nothing but knives and broken glass and hate.

“They call it petit mort. The little death. What do you want today, baby girl? The little death? Or

the big one?”

He stops, and I take a long, shuddering breath attempting to compose myself.
The word please sits on the tip of my tongue, feathery and desperate, and I physically bite down

to stop myself from uttering it. Begging would be foolish. Begging just makes it worse.

He licks his bottom lip thoughtfully and grabs the knife from beside my head, holding it vertical

with the pointed end of the blade pressing lightly into the bare flesh directly above my heart. I try to
recoil, but flat on my back, there’s nowhere to go.

“I could cut out your heart,” he says, pressing the tip of the blade a little harder. I wince as it

breaks into my skin, a nasty, stinging warmth bubbling up from my chest. My blood. Again. He seems
to read my thoughts.

“I wonder how much blood you have left inside you, Julie?” he muses cruelly. “I could drain it

all out of you, slowly. I can make your death last a lifetime.”

Part of me wants to say Better get started, then but I don’t. I close my eyes tightly as his other

hand takes some of the blood seeping from my chest and pushes my bra down, smearing the blood
over my nipple. It’s warm at first but turns cold almost immediately, and I cringe as I feel my nipple
stiffen to a hard peak.

He repeats the action on my other nipple, pinching it hard. The cold blood makes my skin prickle

and I shiver involuntarily.

“You like that?”
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter as he dips his fingertips in the wound on my chest and applies that

same finger to my clit, pushing my panties to the side and rubbing shallow, wet circles.

“Open your eyes,” he says.
I don’t. He responds to my disobedience by pressing the knife harder into my chest.
“Open.Your.Fucking.Eyes.”
The blade reaches deeper into my chest, hitting that hard spot above my ribcage. I cry out and

open my eyes.

“Good,” he says. “Now, you didn’t answer my question did you?”
I just stare dully into his black eyes.
“Do you want to die today, Julie?”
Fresh tears prick at my eyes and anger blossoms in my fragile heart.
He started this. He got what he deserved for killing my father and setting his sons upon a

defenseless teenage girl.

“Funny,” I whisper. “I never gave your sons a choice.”
It’s suicidal talking like this, but I can’t help it. I’m battered and broken and beyond caring what

happens next. Rage fills his features and he clenches his teeth so hard, I could imagine them shattering
from the pressure.

But as Dornan’s knife sinks deeper into my chest, millimeter by agonizing millimeter, I can’t help

but struggle. I pull at the ropes binding my wrists and ankles, twisting while at the same time trying to
keep my chest from moving. Trying to keep Dornan’s blade from going any deeper.

Is this it? Is this really the end? It can’t be, not yet. Surely he’s not finished with me.
And of course, he’s not. He removes the knife from my chest with a sickening squelch noise and

places it beside my head. I turn my eyes and strain to see it, laying on the coiled bedsprings beside
me. It’s so tantalizingly close, but with my arms bound tightly, there’s no way I can reach it.

I’m torn back to the moment by his hands at my panties. He tries to yank them down, but my

weight is on them and they won’t budge past my thighs. And I’m not exactly helping him out with my
dead weight and my clenched thighs.

He reaches for the knife and with two swift movements, he’s sliced my panties off and thrown

them on the ground. Now I’m wearing nothing except the shirt and the bra he’s already cut open.

In an instant, before I can blink, he’s straddling me, still fully dressed, his pants unzipped, and his

cock hard and ready in his palm.

And once he begins, I want to die. I want him to stab me with the knife. Anything but this.
I can’t describe the feeling so much as what’s happening to my heart. It’s breaking, like an old

porcelain mug—the crack that goes deep but just looks like an innocent little line in the pattern, until
one day you lift it to your lips to drink and it shatters in your hand, sending boiling hot liquid down

your chest, scalding your skin and making you scream.

That’s what my heart breaking feels like.
He leans over me, his tattooed arms on either side of my head, so that no matter where I look, all

I can see is Dornan. He fills my gaze just as he fills me inside. Roughly. Painfully.

I begin to cry as I close my eyes, tears running down my face and pooling in my ears, some

making it past and sliding down my neck. He doesn’t miss them either; swooping down, he presses
his lips to the tender spot just below my ear.

“Does that feel good?” he asks, smiling widely, his lashes drooping ever-so-slightly from the

pleasure he’s obviously feeling.

I shake my head angrily back and forth. No. It doesn’t feel good. It feels like I want to die.
The springs pull at my hair as he continues to drive into me, pushing me up the bed with every

upward thrust until I’m convinced most of my hair is embedded in the bed springs forevermore.

“I’ll try harder,” he murmurs, biting my neck as he reaches down and applies a thumb to my

swollen bud of nerves.

My legs begin to shake and my breath quickens as I fight to resist his touch, the way he’s

scratching the itch inside me. If I weren’t tied up, if he weren’t a monster, we might be two lovers
entwined, bringing each other close to the edge, to—as he called it—the little death.

I can’t. I won’t. “Please, stop,” I beg, as the circles he’s rubbing threaten to make me explode.
What’s happening to me? The way he’s touching me shouldn’t matter, because it’s Dornan. The

man who destroyed everything; the man who is destroying the last pieces of me right now on this bare
bed. I should feel nothing, but after weeks upon weeks of horror and pain, the primitive part of me is
screaming for this release, for this small act of pleasure, for some fucking break from the relentless
agony that is my existence.

But my brain interjects – my higher intelligence demands that I can’t possibly let this happen.
“Stop!” I cry, louder this time. What else can I do? This is far, far worse than any pain he’s

inflicted on me yet.

Because my body likes it.
He doesn’t stop. He kisses me instead, right on the mouth, and before I can think to bite down I’m

opening my mouth wider, groaning, exploding into a million dying stars. My heart sinks as I clench
tightly around him. Pleasure and devastation mark my voice as I weep and come underneath him,
crying out into his mouth.

“Good girl,” he says, his grin wicked, his pace quickening. I close my eyes and sob as he pulls

out of me, and a moment later I feel hot spurts cover the spot on my torso where he’s excised all the
pretty colors and left a giant, weeping mess of blood.

I squeeze my eyes shut and continue to sob brokenly as his weight shifts from the bed, my loud

wails tearing through the tiny room.

He waits patiently while I cry and scream, making noise until there’s nothing left. Then, I stare at

the low ceiling, at the spider webs and cracks and the dull, flaking paint that someone must have put
up a long time ago. He stays still beside me for so long, I almost forget he’s there.

“I thought it was pain that would break you,” he says finally. “But pleasure? What a fucking

surprise.”

He reaches down and wipes the tears from my cheeks, then sucks every bit of my blood and my

tears from each fingertip.

“And as far as tears go,” he adds darkly, “I think yours taste the best.”

Confucius said, “Before embarking on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.”
Now I know why.
And now I know, that there is something worse than death.
This.

My arms and legs alternate between fire and numbness, and I can feel my back bleeding from the

bed’s springs caught up in my skin. I stopped crying a long time ago, and the blood and semen on my
stomach has long turned cold, most of it sliding slowly across my hip and dripping onto the floor
underneath the bed frame.

I’ve got nothing left inside. I don’t want to fight anymore. I don’t want revenge.
I just want to die.
The door opens and I continue to stare at the ceiling impassively, refusing to acknowledge him. I

count the cracks in the paint and try not to shake when footsteps approach the bed.

Not that. Not again.
A face comes into view and my eyes widen when I see it’s not Dornan. Nobody else has ever

come in here the entire time I’ve been imprisoned in this place. But now, there’s a young Hispanic
guy undoing my arms as I stare up at him, his face stirring some vague, faraway memory long buried. I
briefly wonder where I’ve seen him before. He must be a club prospect or a Ross cousin, but his eyes
are a piercing blue, so if he’s a relative, it’s distant. He’s got a teardrop tattooed just underneath his
left eye, and when he moves to the right I can see a tattoo of a gun on his neck. The rest of his visible
skin seems pretty unmarked, which will no doubt change if and when he’s initiated. His head is
completely clean-shaven, the harsh bulb that dangles from the ceiling making the top of his head shine.
He looks young—twenty-five, at the most?— and pretty fucking ferocious. He kind of reminds me of a
pit bull. He’s not unattractive - just the opposite, in fact. He’s good-looking, he’s just fierce. Which I
guess is the whole point.

“Who are you?” I demand. I thought I’d be more ashamed at the state I’m in, but since he isn’t

looking at me, I don’t really care. It’s like I’m not even inside my body. I’m just an onlooker,
observing from the sidelines as my body slowly fades away.

He undoes the last rope and I immediately sit up, bringing my knees up to my chest to cover my

almost-naked body as much as I can.

His blue eyes swivel to me and I have to fight myself not to cringe. He’s the most intense

motherfucker I’ve ever encountered stare-wise, and that includes Dornan, chilling as that sounds.

“I’m your worst fucking nightmare,” he says, smiling like an arrogant bastard. He’s got a slight

accent that I guess is Mexican.

“I really doubt that,” I reply deadpan, thinking of Dornan. Nobody could possibly be as evil as

him.

I’m about to add some other snide comment when he straightens and pulls his T-shirt up and over

his head, throwing it at me. I grab it quickly, wondering that the fuck he’s doing.

“Put that on,” he says. “Unless you want to walk around with your tits out on display. I don’t

mind either way.”

I roll my eyes, quickly losing my ruined shirt and bra that Dornan cut open at the chest. I pull the

T-shirt over my head, thankful for the warmth. It swims on my frame, almost reaching to my knees.
The guy isn’t fat; he’s barely even solid. No, it’s me that’s shrinking to the size of a fucking twelve-
year-old from lack of food.

“Of course you don’t,” I say.
He raises his eyebrows and looks around the room. “This place fucking stinks,” he says.
“Yeah,” I agree. “It does. Wanna let me out?”
He gives me a stare so withering I physically shrink back. Jesus, I’m going soft. I never used to

shrink back from anyone. “Yeah,” he says, smirking. “How about I let you out and see how far you get
before one of my bullets hits you, eh?”

I tug the shirt down, covering my ass as I stand on shaky legs. I’m not as able as I think I am, and

I stumble straight away. Instinctively, I put my arm out to grab hold of something, and he catches me.

I look at him warily. “What’s your name?” I ask softly. “If you’re going to hunt me, I might as

well know who you are.”

He gestures for me to walk in front of him, and I can’t quite believe my luck when he points at the

open door.

“Go.”
“That’s a weird name.”
My sarcasm is lost on him. He gestures to the door. “I don’t have all fuckin’ day.”
He releases my arm and I walk in front of him, glancing back every few seconds.
“Don’t try anything,” he warns.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I answer. I wonder if I could pull the door closed quickly enough to

trap him in here and then run, but as I’m studying the doorframe the urge to run is suddenly quashed by
something hard in my back.

“Happy to see me?” I say, irritated as fuck that he’s got a gun pressed into my back.
“Something like that,” he replies, ushering me out of the room where I’ve just spent my last month

and probably more.

It is daytime, and as I make my way down the hallway, my eyes burn. I squint, letting myself be

guided by this guy to God knows where. When we get to a closed door at the other end of the hallway,
he gestures for me to open it.

“What’s in here?” I ask
“Not getting shot,” he replies. “As opposed to staying out here, which is getting shot.”
I roll my eyes and turn the doorknob, pushing the door open. A bathroom. Holy Jesus, is he

actually letting me have a shower? I look at him incredulously and he gestures with the gun. “Get in
and clean up. There are clothes there. If you try anything, you’re fucking dead. Got it?”

“Sure,” I say. “Mr.…?”
“Mr. have a fucking shower before I change my mind.” He gestures with the gun again, more

aggressively this time, and I move toward the shower. It’s nothing special, but I’ve got a month of old
blood on my skin, and I’m eager to wash at least some of it away.

“Wait,” I say. “Where’s Dornan?”
His face goes tight and he steps forward, jabbing me in the chest. He gets the spot right where

Dornan sank his knife, the soft bit of skin above my heart, and I wince as the fragile skin breaks open
again, sending fresh blood blossoming through the thin white fabric of the guy’s shirt.

“Shit,” he says. “What the fuck happened to you?”
I stare at him in disdain, the pain of my wound opening making me pissed. “I killed too many

Gypsy Brothers,” I say sharply. “You better keep your eye on me.”

He laughs. “Girl,” he says as he closes the door and steps past me, turning on the hot water, “You

ain’t got enough strength to pull the trigger if I hand you this gun myself. Get in the fuckin’ shower and
wash that blood and shit off you.”

I turn away from him and shrug out of the shirt, balling it up and throwing it in the corner.

Covering my breasts with my arms, I step under the hot water.

It feels so amazing that I completely lose the will to argue or talk snark to this guy. I just pray he

doesn’t try anything on me. I really don’t have the energy to fight anyone off right now.

I feel a slight breeze and look up to see the exhaust fan switch on, and suddenly the guy has

launched himself at me. I gasp as he wraps a meaty hand around my throat, the other on my mouth, and
backs me into the corner of the shower.

“Do you recognize me?” he hisses in my ear, before returning his crazy blue eyes to mine. I stop

fighting for a moment, thinking about that possibility.

“Nod if you do.”
I nod, because I did recognize him the moment I saw him, but I can’t for the life of me remember

where.

“Do you remember who I am?”
I shake my head emphatically, because I don’t. I have no clue. I remember being shocked, and

afraid, and I remember it was from before, but I can’t remember what context it was in.

“That’s good,” he hisses. “Let’s keep it that way.”
I go limp against his grip, his words ringing painfully in my ears. “Take your fucking shower,” he

says, louder now. He steps back and pulls his gun out again, standing rigidly between me and the
door, his gun a warning that he taps against his leg.

I massage my throat as I step back under the spray, no longer caring what he sees. In my

peripheral vision I see rivulets of my blood washing off me and streaming down the drain, but I don’t
take my eyes from his.

“Time’s up,” he barks. “Get out and get dressed.”
I nod slowly, shutting the water off and taking the towel he’s handing me like an obedient little

lamb. I towel most of the water from me before hanging the towel back on its hook and dressing in the
clothes he hands me. A black oversized T-shirt and a pair of grey sweat pants that swim on my
radically shrinking frame. There is no underwear, but I don’t care. I bunch the loose material up on
one side of the sweatpants and tie a crude knot in the material to stop them from sliding off me.

The guy gestures with his gun to leave the bathroom and I do, slowly and with reluctance. He

ushers me up the hallway and back into my horrid little jail cell, and I almost cry when I approach the
door.

“Your eyes look just like hers,” the guy says offhandedly, and a lump forms in my throat.
“What?” I remember I’m not wearing blue contacts anymore, and that my eyes are back to their

natural green, just like my mother’s eyes. My mother.

“Is she here?” I ask shrilly, and the guy pushes me back.
“Shut up!” he hisses. “Get back in there and wait.”
He raises his eyebrows and emphasizes wait, and I guess he’s telling me to wait for him? But

then again, maybe he’s not even real.

“What’s your name?” I ask again.
He ignores me, pushing me back into my cell and handing me a fresh bucket. Lovely. I decide that

until he tells me his name, I’m going to give the motherfucker a nickname. The Prospect. It suits him.

“Wait,” I whisper, putting my hand on his arm as he turns to leave. “Why are you here today?

Where is Dornan?”

His eyes cloud over as he turns back to me momentarily. “He’s burying his sons,” he says.
I let my hand drop from his arm as a cruel smile widens on my face, so wide I feel like my face

might break in half.

He raises his eyebrows as he steps out into the hall. “You’re the weirdest girl I’ve ever met,” he

says, slamming the door behind him.

A funeral. How delicious.
The dormant vengeance inside me bursts to life again, carried on the wings of newfound hope,

however fleeting that hope might be.

The afternoon is positively luxurious, at least for a crazy girl. I huddle in the corner with my new

clothes and the open wound that has become my entire midsection even stops bleeding for a little
while.

I miss the sun. It’s bright in this room most of the time - the light bulb is hardly ever dimmed - but

it’s not real.

Nothing here is real except the pain.
I contemplate my future as I wait for Dornan to return. I know he’ll come for me after the funeral.

He’ll make me pay. Adrenaline and fear knot awkwardly in my stomach as I wait for him to come in
and hurt me. Maybe he’ll rape me again. Maybe he’ll put a gun to my head and force me to my knees.
Or maybe he’ll carve my heart out and eat it for dessert.

I jump forcefully when the door explodes open, and my reckoning stands there in the doorway.

His eyes are red-rimmed and I can smell the bourbon coming off him in waves. It’s so strong, it’s as
if he’s bathed in the stuff.

He’s wearing a suit, and carrying a briefcase, and every inch of my skin rises in goose bumps as

I smile widely at him.

“Were they open or closed?” I ask, smirking the way he does. Because I know. He’s wearing a

suit, pressed and proper, a white death lily tucked into his shirt pocket.

“What?” he asks, slurring his words ever so slightly. I estimate him to be a little drunk, but not

enough for me to gain any real advantage.

“The caskets,” I purr. “How bad was it? I bet those boys were burned up real good.”
“Fucking slut,” he rages, dropping his briefcase on the ground. As he storms toward me I shuffle

back, trying to keep out of his grip. When his arms come at me in a tackle attempt, I slither down the
wall and dart between the small spot he’s left open beside him. Once I’m behind him he whirls,
growling, but before he can stop me I’ve got the chair raised in my hands, striking out with the legs.

It takes almost all of my strength to swing the chair at him, and he grabs onto two of the legs

easily. Before I can get out of the way, he’s pushed the chair back against me so forcefully, I become
airborne, flying back and hitting the edge of the bed with a dull thud. The pain in my back is
immediate, and I slump to the floor, momentarily paralyzed.

I raise my head in time to see him toss the chair to the side and stalk toward me. I roll onto my

hands and knees, crawling toward the door, but he’s too fast. Rough hands knot into my hair and pull
hard, forcing me to my feet if I want to keep my scalp. I groan at the sharp pain of a million hairs
being pulled out of the soft skin on my head, and stumble quickly toward him to stop the screaming
pain of being scalped. He keeps one hand fisted in my hair and sets the chair straight with the other.
Slamming me down into the seat, he works quickly at securing my wrists behind my back with what
feels like a zip-tie. He doesn’t bother with my legs this time.

It’s not like I’m going to be able to do anything much to defend myself, anyway.
He picks up the briefcase and sets it on the bed, snapping it open with a satisfied smirk. Despite

my need to look cool and collected, I crane my neck to see what’s inside, but the angle is wrong and I
can’t see anything.

“What’s the surprise today?” I ask him.

“It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you,” he replies, holding up a clear vial of fluid in one hand

and a needle in the other.

“More drugs to try and make me tell the truth?” I ask. “Come on, Dornan! You’re running out of

shit to torture me with.”

He turns, grinning as he stabs the sharp syringe into the vial. He draws up the liquid and makes a

show of flicking the tip of the needle, spraying a little fluid out of the end.

“Am I supposed to be scared?” I ask, acting bored. Truthfully, I am scared. I couldn’t resist last

time he gave me that stuff, and it was a miracle I made him angry enough to knock me out before I
divulged something I shouldn’t have - something about Elliot, or Jase, or the money my father stashed
away for me before Dornan killed him. The safety deposit box number floats in my mind, a number I
memorized before I destroyed the paperwork, and I begin to panic.

Dornan tilts his head to the side. “Breathe, Julie,” he says. God, I wish he wouldn’t call me that

name. The same name my mother used to moan at me when she was too whacked out to get up and
answer the front door. Or cook. Or do pretty much anything. Julie, do this, Julie, do that, Julie, why
do you hate me? Her green eyes swim in my head as I remember The Prospect from only hours ago,
giving me a moment’s peace and a troubling memory that I still can’t place. Do you remember me?
Yes. No. I don’t know.

“You’re going crazy, Julie,” Dornan says, interrupting my thoughts.
“Tell me about it,” I retort. “Takes one to know one, right?”
He laughs at that, squeezing his thick hand around my upper arm until a fat, blue vein rises to the

surface. I jump when he stabs the needle in, and squeeze my eyes shut tight as something warm and
soupy makes it’s way into my bloodstream.

Oh, Lord. Whatever this is, it’s good. I suddenly feel like I’m floating on a cloud of

marshmallows. I’m so completely blissed out, I don’t even notice the other needle sinking into my
pale flesh. I can feel the sun shining on my face, which is kind of impossible since we’re in a
windowless room, and also, it’s night. But none of that matters. For the first time in forever, I feel
amazing.

Heroin. The drug that destroyed my mother. Is that what he’s given me? It doesn’t matter. I can’t

catch onto a single thought, I just do not care, and when the second needle slides into my arm, I only
hope that it’s enough of this shit to last a long time.

In the moment, I don’t even care if I die. In fact, if I get to die on this cloud of bliss, I’ll happily

go.

And then
PAIN. AGONY. RED. BLEEDING. PAIN.
I open my mouth and scream, a howl of suffering that makes Dornan laugh. Everything becomes

fast and harsh and bright as the sharp reality of my situation sinks in anew. I can’t hear anything above
the roaring of my own skittering heartbeat in my chest. I gulp in a lungful of air as my heart strains and
struggles and skips all over the place.

Dornan’s voice comes to me through the thick, soupy fog of panic that’s immobilizing me.
“Breathe, baby girl.”
I can’t breathe. I take shallow, rapid sips of air that do nothing except make me almost pass out.
Thwack! A hand slaps at my cheek, leaving a sting that cuts through some of the murky stupor and

panic that grips me. “Juliette, get your fucking self together.”

I could hyperventilate until I pass out, but the next thing I know, another sharp pain is at my arm

and more of the good, marshmallowy stuff is in my blood, soothing me, making me calm almost
instantly. I can still feel my heart beating rapidly, but with every breath it slows a little, loosening
until I feel good enough to think.

He looks pleased. “I’ve got something to ask you,” he says. “And if you give me the right answer,

baby girl, you can have as much of the good stuff as your twisted little heart desires.”

I eye him warily. “I don’t believe anything you say, you monster.”
He chuckles. “I might be a monster, baby girl, but if I’m a monster, then so are you. Do you think

we’re born like this? A knife in one hand, a gun in the other? It’s life, baby girl. Life happened to me
just as surely as it happened to you.”

“You should have protected me then,” I respond bitterly, “instead of taking everything I ever

loved.”

He regards me with those deep brown eyes. He doesn’t speak for a long time, and the silence

scares me more than any words he could say to me.

“And yet,” he says in that gravelly voice, “you were going to take my son from me. My lover.”
“I’m not my father,” I whisper. “You can’t get to him by hurting me like this.”
He stares at me like I’m the dumbest person ever born. “I’m not trying to get to him anymore,” he

says sharply. “He’s fucking dead. He got what he deserved for trying to steal my family from me.
Now, this here between you and me? This is personal. It became personal when you tricked your
lying ass into my bed and murdered my sons.”

I give him the most withering glare I can muster. “They deserved worse,” I say quietly, “for the

things they did to me. The things you told them to do. Monsters, all of you, and I’m going to wipe the
rest of you out if it kills me to do it.”

I don’t know how, but the desire to make them suffer—especially Dornan—burns inside me

along with the last of the drugs he injected into me. Now that I’m a little more lucid, my brain begins
to connect the dots and I guess at what he’s done to me - given me a downer, then an upper, confusing
the hell out of my body in the process. It’s a form of torture I’ve read about, but never experienced.

Until now.
Dornan taps his foot impatiently, as he sits perched on the edge of the bed in front of me.

“Where’s my money, Julie?”

I roll my eyes. “That shit again? I told you, I.Don’t.Know.”
He purses his lips and I remember how he sucked my blood from me just days ago. The thought

makes me shiver in my seat.

“John Portland wasn’t a fucking idiot,” he says, standing and running a hand through his hair.

“And neither was that fucking whore, Ana. It’s got to be somewhere.”

I shrug my shoulders. “I keep telling you, I don’t know where it is, Dornan. Do you think I’d be

here if I did?”

He snaps his gaze to me, and I can see he’s seething mad. Oh, shit.
“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I do. I’ve replayed every fucking moment we’ve spent together before I

figured out you were John’s bastard, back to get your vengeance on me for whatever you think I did to
you.”

My eyes fill with tears. “What do you mean, what I think you did to me?”
He doesn’t respond, just sets his jaw stubbornly.

I blink and a tear falls on my cheek, so salty it stings my skin.
“You were supposed to protect me,” I whisper, almost choking on my own words. I don’t want to

show my weakness, I can’t stand it, but these damn drugs make my tongue loose and my eyes water.
“And you took me from my mother. You pushed me into a ring of animals and told them to attack. You
let them take that from me.” I swallow back tears as I finish my sentence. “And you watched.”

His face stays impassive but I see his fist tighten as his dark eyes remain fixed on me. I wonder

what he’s thinking about. I remember the story he told me, of the day I was born, how he was the first
person to ever hold me. I weep as I wonder if he’ll be the last one to hold me, too.

Or if he’ll make me die alone.
“How could you watch me come into this world,” I whisper, “and then take my world away

from me?”

He stares at his shoes, dark leather dress shoes fit for a funeral. I imagine him kicking me to

death with them. It’s something he’d likely take great pleasure in.

He ignores me as I gaze up at him, the most human I think I’ve ever seen him. The mask is

slipping, too much death and destruction seeping into every facet of his existence. It’s the first time
I’ve ever really seen him look vulnerable. Sure, there was that lapse he had after Chad’s funeral, but
not like this. He’s him, and I’m me, and we’re locked in this hell together until one of us cashes out or
dies.

He busies himself with the vials of drugs and I watch, unable to tear my eyes away.
So the devil has a heart. Is that better, or is it worse?
“Tell me,” he says gruffly, stabbing a needle into one of the vials again. “Tell me, did my boys

know it was you before you killed them?”

A chill sweeps over my skin as I remember the look of shocked recognition in Chad’s eyes,

while his heart seized in his chest.

“Yes,” I say thickly.
He sits back down in front of me, the flimsy, bare bed frame creaking under his weight. He looks

at me from under his lashes as he plays with the full syringe in his hands. It’s double what he gave me
the first time, if it’s the sedative he’s holding.

“Tell me,” he demands. “Tell me what it was like.”
I almost laugh, but catch myself. He wants to know what it was like? To watch the light die in

Chad’s eyes? In Maxi’s? To hear the blast rip through the air and know I killed more of them? Or
maybe he wants me to recount the day he picked me up from my home, my safe place, and stole me
away. Perhaps he’d like to hear how I felt when his demon spawn took turns holding me down and
fucking me half to death. While they made Jase watch. What it felt like to realize I wasn’t leaving
there alive. How I wept when I realized I was going to die underneath the man who I’d called family,
the man who was supposed to protect me from the evils in the world instead of delivering me to them.

What it was like to know my father died at his hands?
I don’t care what he’s asking, though, because my answer will remain the same. I’m not giving

him one more ounce of my memories so he can feast upon my sadness with delight. I still have a
minute amount of power here, despite being physically powerless.

No. I’m giving him absolutely fucking nothing.
I clench my jaw. “No.”
He smiles darkly, and it’s the first time I can see the hurt and the sadness under the malice in his

expression. He reaches out and squeezes a hand around my arm again, my vein popping to attention,
the needle sliding in with a sharp prick. Warmth floods me and my head lolls back. Too much.

I feel my heart begin to skip in my chest.
“You should’ve told me, Julie,” he says. “Now you’ve made me angry. Now you’re going to

die.”

It’s the last thing I hear. I can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Jesus, I can’t think. How much

did he give me? He emptied an entire needle of that shit into me. Heroin. I think of my mother’s huge
green eyes as my eyes fall closed and my body relaxes completely.

As I think, it’s not the worst way to die.

It’s the end for me. I can feel it. My heart thuds slowly before petering out to a whisper. And

then…nothing. It’s quiet in here. Dark. Still.

I am at peace.
I feel acceptance. I feel relief.
Because it’s finally over.
Because I’m finally free.

When I wake up, I’m not in heaven.
I’m in hell.
Fuck.
Rough fingers skate along my collarbone, and I start to shake. Everything is so heavy. Even

dragging my eyelids open is the biggest effort. I’m crying, and I don’t know why - but I feel so fucking
sad.

It takes a moment to realize where I am. Lying on the bed, the one without a mattress, my wrists

limp by my side, not bound for once. I’m not sure if my ankles are tied and I don’t have the energy to
care. I don’t have the energy to do anything.

“Wakey, wakey,” Dornan coos in my ear, his breath hot on my neck. I tense, trying to pull away

from him.

“Sleep well?” he asks, sitting back in the chair I was just tied to.
I just glare at him.
“You’ve been out for hours,” he says. “You must be hungry.”
I narrow my eyes, wondering where he’s going with that. As if he cares about my appetite.
“I should feed you my cock,” he says, laughing. “But those teeth, mmm-hmm. I don’t think I could

risk those.” He strums his fingers on the side of the bed, seemingly upbeat. “I suppose I could break
your jaw. That’d stop you from biting down.”

I ignore him. It’s just words. If he were going to do that, he would have done it by now. He’s just

goading me.

The packages on the table beside him make me pause and think back to why I’m here in the first

place, feeling like I just woke up from death. “You gave me a hotshot,” I slur. “I thought I was dead.”

He smiles, showing a set of straight white teeth that would rip my flesh from my bones if it took

his fancy. “You were dead. I brought you back.” He holds up a cardboard package that says
NARCAN on it, and I stiffen. Holy Shit. That wasn’t a close call. He really did kill me and bring me
back to life. I was dead.

“I told you you’d die for taking my sons from me,” he whispers, leaning in close and nibbling at

my earlobe. “I never said you’d stay dead. That’s much too kind.”

I swallow thickly, meeting his gaze as he moves away from my ear.
He tips his head back and laughs, a long, booming noise that rattles my chest and makes me want

to scream.

“Oh, Julie,” he says. “You’re in my world now. You know what they call a man who can take

life and give it, too?”

I stare at him, guessing what he’s about to say. And true to form, he doesn’t disappoint me.
“They call him a god.”
I would laugh if I had anything in me, but I’m empty and cold.
I close my eyes again. “So, what?” I ask. “You’re just going to keep killing me and bringing me

back to life? I don’t think it works like that. My body will give out eventually. And then you’ll be left
here all by yourself with nobody to hurt.”

He shrugs. “You’re young and healthy. I think you’ll last awhile.”
“Whatever,” I snap, opening my eyes and staring at the ceiling. I don’t want to look at him, and

I’m so goddamn tired I just want to sleep, but I need to keep him in my field of view in case he does
something.

In case? Huh. More like for when he does something.
“I’ve spent so long daydreaming about all the ways I’m going to make you suffer. And now we’re

finally here, and you know you’re never getting away from me.”

I got away from you once, I think. But he’s right. I am never getting away from him this time.
“Who’s going to save you this time?” he asks. “The rookie cop who happened to stick his nose in

where it didn’t belong? I don’t think so.”

My entire body freezes as he mentions Elliot. Holy fuck.
“I’m going to find him, Julie. Your little boyfriend thinks he can hide from me, but I’ll find him

soon. And when I do, I’m going to make you watch while I gut him like a fish.”

He knows about Elliot. What else does he know about? Does he know about Jase?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say stubbornly, staring at the ceiling.
He laughs, a deep, throaty chuckle that shakes me from my scalp to my toenails. “You’re a

terrible liar, baby girl. You should’ve stayed in Nebraska with Grandma. I’m gonna find her too, and
I’m gonna make her die slowly for hiding you away from me. Everybody will know. You. Are.
Mine.”

I blink back tears as he falls silent for a while. I don’t care about me. This is what I deserve for

playing with fire. To burn and suffer. But Elliot? Grandma? Kayla? The thought of Dornan hurting
them is too much to bear.

His cold fingers fidget with mine. I don’t even have the strength to pull my hand away. “You

understand, don’t you, baby girl? That I’m just cleaning up your mess. These people are going to die
because you’re a selfish bitch.”

A wave of anger builds inside my chest. “You want me to understand you?” I bite out. “I’ll never

understand you. I’ll never understand the things you’ve done.”

His voice is a gravel whisper, a rock tugged along my bare nerves. “That’s where you’re wrong,

baby girl. You’re just like me. I killed your father, I ruined your mother, and you tried to wreak your
revenge on me.” He pauses, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But I’m smarter than you,
better than you, more depraved than you, little girl. You ventured into my playground and now I’ve
got you in my web.”

I turn my head to the side, my eyes boring into him, and if looks could kill, he’d be convulsing on

the ground right now.

“What do you get when you cross two vengeful beasts?” His teeth gleam in the dim light the

naked bulb throws off, and I imagine him cutting my heart out and devouring it whole. I can’t help but
ponder his question. What do you get? You get him and me locked in a battle of wills, trapped
together in this place of torture and pain. You get two animals fucking and killing and biting and
tearing each other apart in pleasure and pain. You get blood and agony and ultimately, one of you
ends up dead.

I just didn’t think it would be me.
“You get a war,” he answers his own question. “And I’m the fucking winner.”
“Really?” I murmur. “Body-count wise, I’d say I’m winning.”

He smacks the smile right off my face, a mighty backhand that rattles my cheek and leaves a

metallic taste in my mouth. I’m so used to tasting my blood now, it’s no longer foreign. It’s just part of
my existence. I’m glad I affect him, glad my words cut him the way his knife cuts me every day.

“You think you’re winning?” he asks, standing so that he is towering over me as I lay tied to the

bed. I shrug. He must have no idea about Jase, I think. That reassures me. I want to keep it that way.
And if he says he can’t find Elliot, then hopefully that means Elliot is smart enough stay hidden until
things blow over.

Which, knowing Dornan, means forever.
“Mark my words, baby girl. Everyone who ever helped you is going to die.”
He winks at me, grinning as he leaves the room. As the door slams behind him, I feel the bed

frame shake, and silently pray to anyone who’s listening that he’s just bluffing.

But I know Dornan Ross.
He doesn’t bluff.

Another couple of days pass, and I’m in real trouble. I’m sick - really, really sick, and Dornan

hasn’t come back. Once a day, The Prospect unlocks the door and slides a tray of food to me, before
slamming it shut again. I wish he’d talk to me. But he doesn’t, nobody does - and I huddle in the
corner, wheezing and coughing until I throw up.

And nobody fucking cares.
I’m burning up before long, and this time I know it’s not just the lack of temperature control in my

windowless dungeon. Sweat pours from my forehead and makes my back itch, and my lungs feel thick
and full. It’s impossible to take a full breath.

I can’t breathe in here.
One day, they’ll slide a food tray in here and find me dead.
I decide that might not be so bad, but my stubborn primitive brain demands that I try and survive.

It’s so annoying - I try to squash the thoughts like ants, but they keep multiplying like toxic amoeba,
urging me to fight.

And I just want to give up.
In the end, I get creative. Or maybe, just desperate. Instead of trying to call for help—because

they’d never answer, anyway—I switch positions, laying my body on the floor across the doorway.
The door to this room opens inwardly, so somebody is going to have to hit me with the door to get in
here. Maybe it’ll work, maybe not, but I need something to change before I go completely insane.

In the times when I’m asleep, I have vivid nightmares. A knife through Elliot’s chest, a pillow

over Grandma’s face, and I can’t even say what I dream of him doing to Elliot’s daughter, it’s so
depraved.

So when the door slams into my stomach, and the person attempting to open it swears loudly, I

respond with a low, guttural groan. I scrabble to my knees, head still spinning, and I’m relieved when
I see it’s The Prospect. The dude who let me shower. The nice one who told me I had eyes just like
her.

“I’m sick,” I say to him, backing up my story with a genuine hacking cough. My chest rattles with

mucous; my breathing is ragged and desperate.

“Please,” I say, my arm darting out to close around his wrist. “You said I looked just like her.

My mother’s here. She’s a nurse, she can help me.”

He snatches his hand away, narrowing his eyes at me. “What the fuck do I care if you’re sick?”

he asks.

I feel my face fall. “Where’s Dornan?” I demand, trying to peek down the hallway. A look of

annoyance passes across his face as he kicks at me with his steel-capped black boot. “Get back
inside,” he says, pressing himself and the food tray through the narrow opening and slamming the door
shut behind him.

I scoot away, giving him some room to stand.
“That’s your mama out there?” he asks, his eyes darting around the room.
“Caroline?” I reply. “Yeah.” I fucking knew it. I knew that bitch would be here with Dornan.
“You know she’s got no idea who the fuck you are, right?”

I stare at the ground. There’s an awkward silence, until finally he nudges me with his boot. I look

up to see he’s extending his hand to me. “Come on,” he says. “Get up. Eat something.”

I look at the tray of food in his other hand with renewed enthusiasm. “The starve-out’s over?”
He shrugs, hauling me to my feet with zero effort. He seems like an incredibly intense asshole,

but he’s somehow different to the rest of Dornan’s mongrels. Is it my imagination, or does he seem to
dislike Dornan? I wonder if I could somehow convince him to help me.

I bat my eyelashes at him, smiling as much as I can while I feel like I’m dying from the fucking

plague, and search his face for any indication of his intentions.

“What’s your name?” I ask softly.
He laughs, plonking the tray on the small wooden table beside him. “Oh no, nina bonita. Don’t

flutter your pretty eyelashes at me. I’m not going to help you.”

My heart sinks, but somewhere in the back of my mind, that phrase registers. Nina Bonita. The

pet name Mariana had for me.

“You just called me pretty girl,” I say excitedly.
“Oh yeah?” He chuckles. “The girl speaks Spanish. Good for you. Eat your food and stop

blocking the fucking door.”

He turns to leave, and I catch his sleeve as he moves. He freezes, staring at my hand like it’s bird

shit on his shirt.

“You’re Colombian,” I whisper.
His face turns to thunder, his hands to tight fists. I back away as fast as I can without even

thinking.

He stalks over to me—his steps slow and agonizing—and it’s all I can do not to throw my arms

up in front of my face.

“I’m Mexican,” he says darkly, towering over me. “Born and fucking bred. Don’t ever fucking

mention Colombia again in this house or I will shoot you in your Nina Bonita face. Got it?”

I’m shaking. I nod my head.
“Words, girl. A nod means shit to me.”
“Yes,” I say dejectedly.
“I thought you were nice,” I call out as he opens the door. I almost stamp my foot, but I’m not five

years old. Fuck. I really did think he might be useful in getting out of here.

He pauses, chuckling dryly. “The boss thought you were nice too, baby. Look how that turned

out.”

He slams the door with force. As I stare at it, I think to myself, yeah, you’re right.
But you’re Colombian.
Mariana was Colombian.
I have to wonder if he’s somehow connected to her. A younger brother, perhaps? A son? She

would have been young to be his mother, but it’s entirely plausible. But if so, what’s he doing here,
now, under Dornan’s thumb?

Is he like me?
My mind goes full speed with wild conspiracy theories for the next hour, until I have to stop

myself and think about something else. I’ll go insane otherwise, and I’m already pretty close to
insanity as it is.

But his face doesn’t leave my thoughts. Should I remember him?

Despite The Prospect’s threats to kill me after I called him a Colombian, it seems he doesn’t

want me to die.

A few hours later, there’s a soft knock at the door, before the key turns and my mother enters the

room.

I stare at her in shock. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed frame, my mouth falling open as she

enters. Because despite my vague suspicions, I didn’t dare hope that she would actually be here.

She could be my way out.
My mother enters the room with a stack of clothes and a first aid kit. She doesn’t look at me right

away. She stops in front of the small wooden table that sits between the bare bed frame and my chair.
I watch idly from the corner of my eye, my vision rejoicing at finally having something new appear in
front of it. It’s been too many hours of counting the cracks in the floor and alternating between being
so hot I want to explode, and so cold I feel like my veins are ice. I’ve stopped throwing up now,
because there’s nothing left inside me to throw up, and the bucket next to me now contains only
yellow bile.

I’m sick. Really fucking sick.
As I watch her movements, I can’t help but wonder if she’s been taking drugs - or if someone

else drugged her. As I catch a glimpse of her vacant green eyes, I guess that it’s the second one. Her
gaze is completely empty. There’s nothing there.

“What did they do to you?” I whisper as she moves around. She mostly ignores me, fussing with

food trays and piss buckets and cleaning the blood from the floor as well as she can.

And this time is no different. She carries on her tasks as if I’m not there, an invisible girl

strapped to a chair in a dungeon of horror and doom.

“Mom,” I say. “It’s me, Juliette.”
She doesn’t give the slightest indication that she’s even heard what I’ve said. I grasp for

something, anything that might snap her out of her drug-addled haze and back to me. I search my
childhood memories for a story, an event, a stuffed toy that might jolt something within her.

It was a shitty childhood. I can’t think of anything.
“Take your shirt off, please,” she says. I look at her oddly, before shrugging my shoulders. What

the fuck? I don’t care anymore. I shrug the T-shirt off and drop it beside me. I cover my breasts with
one arm, lifting them up to give her a clear look at the mess that used to be my stomach and hip. Used
to be a tattoo, and before that, used to be my scars. But now, it’s just a mess of dried blood and flesh
that can’t heal. It’s a fucking mess.

“This is getting infected,” she says softly, taking a piece of gauze and dabbing at my stomach. As

soon as she touches the raw wound I scream out, and she pulls her hand back.

“You need antibiotics,” she says. “I’ll get some for you.”
My first thought is to wonder how the hell she can be so drugged, but still lucid enough to

diagnose me so effortlessly. Maybe her years of nursing training are imprinted on her brain
somewhere, untouched by the heroin. Who knows?

She goes to leave again and I panic, thinking over my options. What do I do? What if she doesn’t

come back? Could I take her as a hostage? But instead, she opens the door slightly and speaks to
someone outside. I crane my neck, trying to see who it is, but I can’t.

She closes the door and returns to her first aid kit, busying herself with packets of gauze and

things while I watch with disinterest.

She turns back to me. “I’ll bandage it in the meantime.”
When she pulls out a pair of surgical scissors, my eyes light up. Fuck, yes. A weapon. A sharp

one. That I can hide. I fight to keep my face neutral, and watch with painstaking patience as she cuts
around a large piece of thick gauze. She places the scissors on the table beside her and kneels in front
of me, pressing the gauze to my large wound. I wince—the slightest pressure on my stomach agonizing
—and try to focus. I look straight past the traitorous bitch who birthed me once upon a time, and feast
my eyes upon the pair of scissors that I could stick in Dornan’s jugular.

She finishes sticking the gauze to my skin with surgical tape, leaning back to study her

handiwork. I choose this moment to reach over to my left and grab the surgical scissors, quicker than
her drugged eyes can comprehend. At the same time, the door opens, and The Prospect steps in. As
soon as his eyes land on me, he’s airborne, launching onto me and crushing my hand with his.

“Drop,” he demands, squeezing my hand. I keep hold of the scissors, his weight on me agonizing

as he presses against my freshly bandaged wound. I don’t let go of the scissors, instead trying to
snatch my hand away.

But it’s useless. He’s incredibly strong—hell, a five-year-old would be stronger than me right

now—and he pulls my arm around, smashing my fist against the hard side of the metal bed frame,
sending the scissors flying. “Ahhh!” I yell, as my weapon is lost. I feel tears prick my eyes and
angrily blink them away, trying to kill this dude with my eyes alone.

He glares at me, shifting off the bed. “I help you and this is how you repay me? Fuck, girl. That’s

the last time I’m nice to you. The big man’s gonna let you rot in here.”

I tear my gaze from him, staring at my mother again. She’s fiddling with her first aid kit, drawing

something up into a needle.

“What’s that?” I ask, sliding off the bed and backing away. I don’t want any more drugs. I’ve

been numbed enough. I’m sick of floating in a half-conscious void of marshmallowy pain. It’s fucking
depressing. And it sure as shit doesn’t help me breathe any easier.

The Prospect shoves my shirt back at me. “Put that on,” he says. “While you’ve got the chance.

It’s the middle of fucking winter, cholita, you’ll freeze to death before Dornan gets back.”

I pull the T-shirt over my head, his words hitting me a few seconds later. “What did you say?” I

whisper.

He just stares at me. “Hurry up, nursey. We gotta clear out of here.”
I back away, trying to get away from the needle. The Prospect puts his hands up in a placating

gesture. “It’s fucking medicine. You don’t let her do it, I’ll flip you over and stick it in your bare ass.”
My eyes go wide, which seems to amuse him. “The medicine, I mean. Damn, girl, he’s really done a
number on that pretty little head of yours.”

I roll my eyes. I’m backed into the corner of the room, and there’s nowhere I can go.
My mother speaks softly, her words devoid of any emotion. “You need antibiotics. Your cut is

infected.”

I hold my arm out to her, shaking my head in disbelief. “It’s not a cut,” I say, tears in my throat

like a tight, hot lump of bitterness as I speak angrily. I wince as she jabs the needle into my upper arm

and presses down on the plunger. It stings. A lot.

“Fuck!” I yell, snatching my arm back.
She shrugs. “It’s thick medicine. It needs a big needle.”
Now I wish it had been heroin.
“Fuck!” I repeat, massaging my arm. My entire upper arm is on fire, reminding me of the tetanus

booster I had to have before I went to Thailand for my plastic surgery. Just a few short months ago.
And that reminds me again.

“It’s winter?” I ask The Prospect. “What month is it?”
He waggles his eyebrows. “Now that would be telling.”
I roll my eyes, clutching my arm. “I’m gonna die down here, and you can’t even tell me what

fucking month it is?”

“It’s November,” my mother says softly. “November third.”
November third. I count back in my head, certain she’s lying. Because if it’s November, that

means I’ve been in here for three fucking months.

I choke on that, trying to suck in air as my throat closes in panic. I grab at my throat. “Three

months?” I scream. “I’ve been here for three fucking months?!”

I’m suffocating. I’m going to die down here. Three. Fucking. Months? It can’t be right. The

Prospect reaches a hand out to me, maybe to help me, I don’t know, but I hit it away, pummeling on
his hard chest with my pathetically weak fists. He catches my wrists easily, slamming me back against
the wall. I look across to see my mother standing there, first aid kit in one hand, her job apparently
done. “What the fuck are you looking at?!” I scream at her. I’m suddenly so fucking full of rage. I’m
drowning in it. “You fucking traitor!”

“Hey,” the guy says, but I ignore him, addressing my mother. “You’re meant to be my mother and

I’ve been dying in here for three fucking months?”

My words barely pierce the drugged fog enveloping her, but they do. She frowns ever so slightly,

tilting her head to the side.

“Hey, girly” the guy says, wrenching my chin toward him. More tears flood my eyes as I glare

into his cobalt blue eyes. “Say my name!” I scream at him. “I’ve been down here for three fucking
months, and she’s my mother, and you can’t even call me by my name?!”

I’m exhausted. I let my hands drop to my sides, and in response, he loosens his grip on me

slightly.

“Juliette,” he says in his thick accent. We stare at each other for a moment, his eyes impossible to

read, until eventually he breaks away, addressing my mother. “You can go now.”

She leaves just as gently as she came in, bumping into the doorframe on her way out. The door

closes with a soft click and as soon as she’s out of earshot, we’re staring at each other again.

“You could help me,” I say desperately. “I have money.”
He smiles reluctantly, letting me go as he steps back. “No, no, no,” he says, waving a finger in

my face. “I cannot help you. I’m a Gypsy Brother. And you’re a Gypsy killer.”

I snort. “Oh, really, you’re a Gypsy Brother? Where’s your tattoo? Where’s your leather cut?

Huh?”

He smiles, his eyes gleaming, and lifts his shirt up, turning around so that I can see his back. A

huge, freshly inked tattoo adorns his entire upper back in a curve, identical to the tattoo Jase sports on
his back. GYPSY BROTHERS.

Fuck.
“Oh,” I say. He gives me a knowing look over his shoulder, dropping his shirt so it covers his

torso again. Turning back to me, he stares at me for a long while before he speaks.

“Don’t try to get her to help you,” he says, jerking his thumb toward the door. “She might look

like your mama, but there’s nothing between her ears anymore, girl. Nothing but Gypsy Brothers.”

I lean back dejectedly. He’s absolutely right. She’s completely fucked up. Beyond help. Useless.
“How’d you get involved in this life, anyway?” I ask, attempting to continue the conversation.

Suddenly, I’m terrified to be alone in here. I don’t want him to leave. He’s easier to cope with than
Dornan.

His tattoo flashes in my mind and all of a sudden, my heart sinks. I’d been clinging to the hope

that he might be able to help me, but he’s one of them now. A motherfucking Gypsy Brother, complete
with the obligatory ink to seal his fate.

But he helped me. He let me shower. Brought me clothes. Brought me medicine. Brought me my

stupid mother. I’m so jarred by that, so confused by his random acts of kindness despite the fact we’re
supposed to be enemies. My head aches.

He grins, flashing a mouth of beautiful teeth. “It was a woman,” he says, opening the door and

stepping out into the hallway. “It’s always a woman.”

He shuts the door, and I’m alone again, with his words stuck in my head.

Dornan comes in one morning a couple days later. I’m mid-vomit, my head buried in a bucket. He

looks annoyed.

“I thought you said she was better,” he says to someone behind him. He steps to the side, and

behind him I see my mother standing there, her expression once again blank and droopy. Fucking
druggie.

She doesn’t answer him, and he snaps his fingers. “Caroline!”
She scurries forward, collecting the bucket in the corner, its only contents my urine. I’m not even

embarrassed anymore that these people are handling my body’s waste. It’s all become disturbingly
familiar.

He glares at my mother until she leaves the room, the urine sloshing in the bucket as she passes

me. I consider sticking a leg out and tripping the dumb bitch, but then I’d be the one with piss all over
the floor. And it’s bad enough in here as it is.

He waits beside me as I finish hurling my guts up, my mother scurrying back into the room with a

clean bucket.

“Caroline,” Dornan says, his tone impatient. “What the fuck is wrong with her?”
I sit up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Apart from the obvious,” he jibes, glancing down at me dismissively.
“I think her wound is septic,” she says hurriedly, not meeting his gaze.
“You think?” he asks. “Or you know?”
“I’m ninety percent sure,” she says. “Also, she’s developed pneumonia. The mold doesn’t help.”
He nods, running his tongue over his teeth. “Will the sepsis kill her?”
My mother shrugs as I listen with interest. “Yeah, mom,” I ask, my tone like acid. “Will it kill

me?”

She looks utterly confused, looking between Dornan and me with those pathetic drug-filled eyes

that I wish I could just tear out and squash underneath my heels. Dornan laughs. “Give her the fucking
medicine and get out, Carol,” he says shortly. “Don’t listen to what she’s saying. She’s mad like you.”

I laugh mirthlessly, drawing a knee up in front of me. As my mother readies a syringe full of

antibiotics, I start to hum, a song from my childhood, from before my mother was completely fucked
in the head and she still knew my name.

Dornan glares at me.
“Shut up,” he says.
My mouth curves into a fuck you smile as I continue to hum the lullaby from my childhood. And I

can tell I’m distracting her.

She stands in front of me, her movements unsure, as she fixes her gaze on me and listens to the

sounds coming from my mouth.

“Here,” Dornan snatches the needle from her and leans down, using his free hand to cover my

mouth. I try to pull away, but his grip against my face as he pushes my head against the wall is like
concrete.

“Tell me, Caroline,” he says, acting bored. “What happens when sepsis goes into your

bloodstream?”

She blinks slowly. “Uhh…”
Dornan raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Yes?”
“There’s…Um…acute blood poisoning. Septic shock. Gangrene.”
His eyes light up when she says gangrene. “Ooh. And how do you chop off the middle of

somebody’s body?”

She frowns. “You can’t.”
“So if this wound gets gangrene, how do we fix it?”
She shakes her head. “We can’t. Nobody can.”
Dornan grins. “And then?”
My mother appears flustered. “Septic shock—”
“You said that,” Dornan says sharply.
“Organ failure, massive shock, coma, and death,” She finishes flatly.
He shrugs his shoulders condescendingly as if to say, Oh well!
“And will it be painful?” Dornan asks.
She nods. “Oh, yes. Very.”
He chuckles, pushing my face and realizing his death grip around my mouth.
“Well, have fun,” he says, standing upright and ushering my mother from the room.
“What?” I ask, dumbfounded. He doesn’t answer, just slams the door closed. He didn’t even give

me the fucking medicine after all that. I have to wonder if he knows I’ve already had a dose – unless
The Prospect told him, I doubt my mother would volunteer any information. She’s practically mute.

I roll my eyes, pissed I allowed him to get to me once again. I’m so annoyed. At myself, at him.

At my stupid fucking mother for not even knowing who I am, let alone helping me. Even as a small
voice of reason in the recesses of my mind tells me she’s beyond helping someone else when she’s a
prisoner here herself.

Still.
If it weren’t for her, none of this would have ever happened.
If it weren’t for her, we’d still be okay.
If it weren’t for her, and her fucking drug addiction, my father wouldn’t have been a Gypsy

Brother, and we’d all still be alive. Maybe she’d be dead, from the heroin, but hell, she’d deserve it
for everything.

I hate her more than anyone. Including Dornan.
That thought is so fucking depressing; it’s enough to make me want to burst into tears.
But I don’t. Tears are for the weak. Tears are a luxury.
If I ever get out of here – the massive if – then, and only then, will I let myself cry.
Until then, I bite down on my lip, tasting blood, and continue to bite down until the lump in my

throat slowly fades away.

Days pass with agonizing familiarity. In the morning, I get a tray of food and a handful of little

white tablets that make me feel heavy and numb. In the afternoon, I’m allowed to use the toilet down
the hall. Too bad if I don’t need to go then.

Three months. I don’t believe it, and yet I know it must be true.
I wonder if Jase is looking for me. If he’s even alive. And Elliot…. Oh, Jesus. I wonder if

Dornan’s found him yet.

And then, Dornan comes back, with a smile on his lips and a sparkle in his eye that makes me

worry. He shuts the door behind him and places something on the table. A hand-held fucking Taser
that looks like it could take a cow down. Awesome.

“I found your little boyfriend,” he says. “Elliot McRae, huh? He’s something else.”
I begin to sob brokenly. No smart-ass responses. No numb indifference. That look in his eyes

tells me he’s satisfied. Did he kill Elliot?

It’s too much to comprehend.
“Why are you crying?” Dornan asks. “Tell me, or I’ll give you those drugs again.”
I don’t want the drugs. I’ve already started daydreaming about how delicious a shot of that stuff

would be, how blissful, and I’m two or three doses away from being addicted to the fucking stuff.

“Just tell me,” I beg. “Did you hurt him?”
He sneers. “Not yet. I don’t need to anymore. I’ve decided on a much more fitting punishment to

get back what you’ve taken from me.”

I stop sobbing and look up at him, daring to hope. “What?”
“Get up.” He eyes the Taser on the table deliberately and then glances back at me. “You don’t

want to be shocked, do you Julie?”

I don’t. I stand. He didn’t hurt Elliot. Relief floods my body. He didn’t hurt Elliot yet. The yet is

extremely disturbing, but I push that thought away, snapped back to the present by his demands.

“Against the wall.”
I’m empty of the will to fight. The little pills he is giving me are doing their job beautifully. They

make me compliant. Somewhere in the darkest recesses of my addled mind I hear a scream, an urging
to fight, but the syrupy medication that sloshes in my veins soon drowns that voice out.

It’s easier this way.
I walk slowly to the wall, turning and leaning my back against it. I stare at the floor in front of

me, stained with my blood.

“Get your fucking clothes off.”
I hesitate. Not that. I raise my eyes to his and see the warning there. He reaches out and picks up

the Taser, pressing the button so electricity sparks from the top of it. I jump, shrinking back against the
wall.

“Hurry.”
I fumble with my shirt, pulling it over my head and letting it drop to the floor beside my feet.
“Keep going,” he says, making the Taser spark again.
Feeling my cheeks burn, I slide the sweatpants down past my bony hips and wiggle them over my

knees, stepping out of them so I’m completely naked. The wall behind me is rough limestone, and I
wince as the bits of uneven stone catch at the sores on my back from where the bedsprings have cut
into my skin.

He stands, and places the Taser back on the small table. Approaching me, he bites his lip and

grins. He stands so close to me, I feel like he’s going to suffocate me with his presence alone. I stare
at his chin, level with my eyes, and wait to see what’s next.

I jump as his hands cup my breasts, almost tenderly. I grit my teeth as he slides the pad of his

thumb across one of my nipples, making it spring to life. Touching me like a lover. I wish he’d just
bash my head in instead.

Getting me undressed so I feel even more vulnerable? Signature Dornan move. I try not to

tremble underneath his touch, but I’m terrified. Please, not that again.

He places his other hand under my chin, forcing it up so our eyes meet. The fingers playing with

my left nipple move to cup my breast, and when he squeezes it hurts so much I gasp. That elicits a
sneer from him, amusement dancing in his black eyes. He lets that hand trail down to my stomach.
Thankfully, the bandage taped to the place where my tattoo and scars once lived stops him from
dipping his fingers into the mess of missing skin, oozing blood, and possible gangrene. He brushes his
knuckles down my side, stopping at my unmarred hip.

“Julie,” he says.
I don’t respond. I just hold his gaze, and in my head, think of something better, like Ferris wheels

and kinder eyes.

“I finally decided what to do with you, Julie.”
I try not to react, but my body does it for me. Every bit of my exposed skin springs up into goose

bumps, and I shiver in the cold.

I want to ask, what? What are you going to do to me? But I won’t. I refuse to.
He can tell, I know he can tell how desperate I am. He grins, taking both hands and holding them

around my throat. Something dark flashes across his gaze and he squeezes, hard enough that I have to
gasp in little sips of air.

So he’s going to kill me. I don’t drop his gaze, but I let my body relax. No point fighting it. He’ll

strangle me to death, and then maybe he’ll bring me back to life if he’s in the mood. Maybe he won’t.

I don’t even fucking care anymore. I’m a zombie. A shell. A fucking notch on Dornan’s list of

wins.

But you killed four of his sons. You still fought your war pretty fucking well.
That thought makes me smile, despite the fact that I can’t breathe and I’m against the wall, naked,

and being strangled by the man who I once thought I’d be able to destroy.

“What the fuck are you smiling at?”
I think of Chad’s face when he realized who I was. Of Maxi, struggling violently as I rocked on

his lap, a pile of poisonous powder rammed underneath his nose. Of the carnage that greeted me in the
emergency room in Tijuana, when I managed to wipe out two more sons. And I can understand how
Dornan feels right now. He must be so fucking pleased to get his vengeance on the girl who took his
sons.

He loosens his grip on my neck. “Answer me. What the fuck are you smiling at?”
I hack up a lung, coughing as oxygen once again enters my body. The room stops spinning after a

few seconds, and I lean against the wall for support.

“Tell me what you were fucking smiling at or I’ll shove that Taser up your pussy and set it to

max.”

I feel my smile shrink a little. “I was thinking about how your sons looked when they realized

karma had come back to punish their asses.”

“Huh.” He licks his lips, and that infuriating goddamn smile is back again. Not the reaction I

expected.

“What are you smiling at?” Fuck! I can’t resist. I’ve played right into his pathetic game.

Admitting that I’m dying to know what he’s planning to do.

He takes a step back, letting his gaze rake up over my naked body. And when he finally speaks,

his words are so chilling, so devastating, they’re worse than anything I could have imagined.

“I’ve decided how you’re going to pay me back for taking four of my sons, baby girl. Killing you

and bringing you back to life is fun, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not nearly enough payment for the
things you took from me.”

He pauses, letting me digest that before he continues. He licks his lips again, like he’s about to

fucking devour me, and his grin is so wide, it’s as if his face might break.

“You’re going to give me back my sons, baby girl. All of them.”
I frown, confused. “What?”
He chuckles. “I’m gonna breed you like a fucking brood mare. I’m gonna keep you down here, in

this room, for as many years as it takes for you to give me four fucking sons. Until you repay what you
took from me. You understand? Get comfortable, bitch. You’re going to be down here getting fucked
and tortured and popping out babies until our debt is cleared. I’m going to be inside you here,” he
jabs a finger into my forehead, “and here,” another jab, this time to my stomach, “and here.” I gasp as
he rams the same finger up inside me without warning. “I don’t want you dead. I just want you to wish
you were dead. And I want my fucking money.”

I snort. “You’re delusional. I’m almost dead, you motherfucker! Do you really think this body

would even sustain a pregnancy after you’ve starved me, drugged me, poisoned me, and fucked me
within an inch of my life?”

Stark satisfaction dances in his eyes. “Aren’t I lucky then, that I already got inside you a long

time ago?” He presses something hard and thin into my palm and steps back, giving me the space to
look at what he’s handed me.

I stare down at the plastic stick, two lines intersecting in a circle. A plus sign. Positive. I laugh,

but it’s an empty noise, as inside I’m filled with panic.

“Good try, Dornan. I don’t buy it for one second. This is a fake.” I continue staring at the plastic

pregnancy test, turning it over in my hand, thinking how pathetic his attempt to scare me is. It’s a fake.
Of course it’s a fake. You can order these off eBay for five bucks, for fuck’s sake, and scare your
boyfriend—or your hostage—on April Fool’s Day.

“Have I ever lied to you, baby girl?”
I stare at the test, my heart hammering in my chest.
“I should’ve known something was up when you kept accusing me of poisoning your food.” He

continues. “I didn’t poison shit. I didn’t need to. I was already poisoning you from the inside with my
kid.”

I look back up at his face and my heart sinks. Because as I see the excitement and the satisfaction

in his eyes, I know he’s telling me the truth.

I choke, dropping the pregnancy test at my feet and scurrying toward the bucket in the corner. I

drop to my knees, barely making it before every bit of food and bile inside me comes up, hitting the
sides of the bucket with a sloppy splash.

As I catch my breath, staring down into my regurgitated eggs and toast, a million thoughts run

through my mind. If he’s right, it makes sense. Why I’ve been so fucking sick. The mysterious lack of
a period the entire time I’ve been down here, which I’d figured was my body in shock. Everything fits
together so well, I can practically hear the last puzzle piece slam home as the last of our dirty secrets
is exposed to the air.

Gasping on my knees, I don’t even react when I feel a sharp prick at my arm. Warmth and

numbness spreads through my limbs and I grab at the floor, trying to stop myself from crashing into the
bucket of sick in front of me. Warm hands hop under my arms and pull me up, and the image of a
marionette doll on strings slams into my drug-fuelled brain.

He turns me effortlessly, crushing me to his chest in a chokingly tight embrace. I feel my head loll

forward and hit my chest as tears leak from my eyes.

So this is what it feels like to be broken. He broke me. He wins.
“Congratulations, mama bear.” He says, kissing salt water from my cheeks. He tucks a stray hair

behind my ear and leans in close. “Looks like we’re in this for the long haul.”

“Together.”
He snickers, and the last bit of hope that dared to live inside me flickers like a candle against the

wind, wavers, and finally dies.

There are things worse than death.
But there is nothing worse than sinking into death, of allowing that numb bliss to sink into heavy

bones, inviting that nothingness to take the place of sadness and pain.

Only to be brought back, dragged from hell, resurrected.
There are things worse than death.
And now, I know all of them.

When I wake up, my limbs feel like they’re encased in wet concrete. The rapid-set stuff, that

starts to dry the minute it’s poured, and I have to fight to move.

Things feel different. My mouth is incredibly dry, probably from the heroin, and beneath me feels

soft and warm and completely foreign.

I smell those same pungent flowers again, the death lilies Dornan served to me only days ago,

and the sharp scent finally rouses me from my half-sleep. I open my eyes, and the light is blinding. I
cringe, closing them again, my heavy arms flung over my eyes to stop the piercing brightness from
burning me.

The sunlight.
My little dungeon of horrors doesn’t have windows. Doesn’t have sunlight.
Where am I?
I force my eyes open again and wait patiently as they leak water and adjust as best they can to the

foreign light source. I’ve been in that dank little pisshole for so long, I don’t even know the last time I
saw the sun. However long it’s been, it feels like forever.

I sit up slowly, realizing I’m in Dornan’s room, second floor in Emilio’s Tijuana mansion. But

why? How?

My stomach roils, and everything comes slamming back into me like a fucking freight train.
Aren’t I lucky then, that I already got inside you a long time ago?
No.
It can’t be real.
But it is real. He never lied to me. He didn’t have to. I’m pregnant. I can barely think the words

in my head, they sound so devastating.

I already got inside you.
I clamber off the side of the bed, squinting my eyes open just enough to make my way to the

bathroom, the same bathroom where I stood and detonated those bombs months ago. I haven’t eaten
since the last time I threw up, and when I lean over the toilet bowl, burning yellow bile leaves my
body, hitting the water in the bowl with an inelegant splash.

Jesus Christ. If I really am pregnant – and I think I must be – there’s no way a baby could

possibly survive everything Dornan has done to me. The beatings, the starvation, the rape, the drugs.
It’s too much for anyone to bear.

But I’m still alive, despite it all. So I don’t know. Could a baby survive this hell?
When I’m done, I tear off a piece of toilet paper and wipe my mouth, then blow my nose. All I

can smell and taste is fucking vomit. I toss the toilet paper and flush the lot, then focus my attention on
the toothpaste that sits on top of the vanity. Yes. I can’t bear to think about how long it’s been since I
actually brushed my teeth. I think it was at Jase’s house. How disgusting.

I can’t find a toothbrush anywhere, so I squeeze a bead of the white paste onto my fingertip and

rub it along my teeth and gums. I rinse my mouth, but it still doesn’t feel right, so I repeat this action
several times until my tongue starts to burn with minty freshness. I get a quick glimpse of myself in the
mirror that hangs above the sink. Circles as black as night underneath my bloodshot green eyes. Three

months of blonde regrowth that cuts through the middle of my brown hair like a strip of lightning. Dull
flesh that clings to jutting cheekbones, and that’s when I look away. I look like a fucking prisoner of
war; I’m so thin. And I’m supposed to be pregnant? It can’t be real. Nothing could survive what’s
happening to me right now.

I look down and notice the foreign material feeling smooth against my skin. I balk when I realize

someone has changed my clothes. I was wearing an old pair of stained sweats and a baggy T-shirt
when I passed out, but now I’m dressed in a black silk nightgown, trimmed with black lace, that falls
to my knees. What the fuck?

The thought of Dornan dressing me like a doll is almost more disturbing than the thought that I

may be pregnant.

And that’s when I see the white packages stacked up in the windowsill next to the toilet.

Pregnancy tests. Five of them. Left there to taunt me.

Motherfucker.
My hand itches to reach out and grab one, to tear the packaging and pee on the stick, but I resist.

I’m not playing these fucking head games with him. Maybe I’m pregnant. Maybe I’m not. But right
now, I’m almost dead, and that concerns me more.

I turn the tap on again, splashing water on my face. I freeze when I hear a movement in the

bedroom, and turn the water off slowly, patting my face with a towel. Still holding the towel in front
of me, I inch out of the room, and when I see the broad shoulders and dark hair of a man sitting in a
wicker chair in the corner of the room, I freeze. Dornan?

No.
He turns, and I gasp.
“Jason?” I whisper. He unfolds himself from the chair and quickly covers the distance between

us, ending up in front of me at arms length.

He doesn’t look right. Something is way off.
“I’ve been waiting for you to wake up,” he says solemnly. My mouth drops open in shock, and I

don’t even see his hand flying toward my cheek until it’s already too late.

My head snaps back, and I stumble on my feet, going backward but managing not to fall. I back up

as he advances, until the backs of my legs hit the bed.

“What are you doing?” I cry, trying to protect my face with my hands. He glances at the door, his

expression unreadable, and then back at me. Something shifts in his expression, and I freeze. He holds
a finger to his lips, gesturing for me to be quiet, and I can see the raw grief in his eyes as he
approaches me. He points at his ear, then the closed door.

We’re being listened to. Somebody is outside that door right now. That much is apparent.
Time stands still for one long moment as he reaches his hand out, cupping my cheek. He runs his

thumb along my lower lip, and as our eyes remain fixed on one another, he mouths the words I’m
sorry.

I shake my head. I was the one who stormed out of his house all those months ago. I should be the

one who’s saying sorry.

I love you, I mouth back. Lucky we’re not actually saying these words because the lump in my

throat wouldn’t let me speak if I tried. Tears prick at my eyes and I brush them away impatiently.

He looks pained.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats silently, and as the door creaks open, he grabs my arm and throws me

across the room. I land on my skinny ass with a dull thud, suddenly wishing it had more padding.

I struggle to my feet, heavy and still full of smack, when I see the reason for Jase’s sudden

violence. Dornan is standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, a cruel smirk on his face as
he stares me down.

I see movement in the corner of my eye and shift my attention to Jase, who is approaching me

again with violence in his eyes.

“You killed my brothers, you fucking whore,” Jase yells, coming at me. I scream, scrambling to

the other side of the bed as Dornan steps in front of his son.

“Hey,” he says, holding an arm out. “I’d like to do the same. But you can’t hurt her, son. She’s got

something I need. Isn’t that right, baby mama?”

My heart sinks. There’s no good reason he’d stop Jase from pummeling me to death, other than

the obvious - he’s protecting what’s inside me.

That’s the exact moment I realize he’s not lying about the pregnancy. Fuck.
Jase looks like he’s about to burst a blood vessel. He’s a fucking excellent actor. He deserves an

Oscar for this shit right here. Assuming he’s acting.

He grabs a handful of Dornan’s shirt and shoves him aside. “I’m gonna kill this fucking bitch,

pop,” he spits, storming me. I huddle in the corner between the bed and the wall, my hands in front of
me. It might be pretend, but I still don’t want to get fake-bashed. It hurts almost as much as being
beaten up for real. He reaches for me but misses, a sharp yank on the back of his leather cut taking
him away from me. Dornan pushes him into the wall, and I hear the plasterboard crack under the
pressure of Jase’s head knocking into it. My first instinct is to run, to huddle in the bathroom, but
instead I stay crouched in the corner, watching in sick fascination as Dornan raises his fist to his
youngest son.

“Let me beat her to death, pop,” he says desperately. “Let me do it slowly.” He glances at me. “I

could make her death last weeks.”

Dornan laughs, looking at me with a mock-shocked expression, as if to say can you believe this

guy?

“She’ll die by my hand,” Dornan says to Jase, suddenly serious again. “And when I decide. How

the fuck did you get in here, anyway?”

Jase raises his eyebrows. “I got a spare key from the garage,” he says, shrugging his shoulders.

“Don’t you know all the doors in this place have the same key?”

Dornan glares at him, eventually letting Jase’s shirt go. He pats the shirt back into place and jerks

Jase toward the door.

“Go,” he says. “Wait. Give me the key first.”
Jase scowls, withdrawing a single key from his jeans pocket and tossing it at Dornan. Dornan

catches it in one fist easily, turning it over to study it.

“I’ll be back to sort you out, bitch” Jase spits at me, and I stare in horror that is kind of fake but

kind of real as he leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.

Relief and despair flood me. Relief because Jase is alive. Jase is okay. And by the look of

things, Dornan doesn’t know about us.

Despair because he’s gone again, just as quickly as he arrived, and I’m still here with Dornan.
Dornan looks at the closed door for a long time before he turns back to me with a look of

satisfaction on his face. He slips the key into his pocket and snaps his fingers. “Get up. Come here.”

I stand reluctantly, but don’t move toward him. He smirks and reaches into his back pocket, that

goddamn Taser suddenly in his hands again. He holds it in front of him and depresses the trigger,
causing a bright crack of electricity to spark between the two prongs at its end.

Dornan pockets the Taser and pulls something else out again. A syringe full of clear fluid. I

swallow thickly, wondering what it is this time.

“Don’t be scared,” he says, unbuttoning his jeans. “If you’re a good girl, and you do as you’re

told, you can have some of this.” He sneers. “It’s the good stuff, baby girl.”

“I don’t want some of that,” I reply sharply. “I’m not a fucking junkie.”
He smirks. “Neither was your momma.” Ouch. He sits at the foot of the bed, his back to me. He’s

so unafraid of me, he doesn’t even have to keep me in his line of sight.

“Strip.”
When I don’t move fast enough, he pockets the needle and pulls the Taser out again.
“Faster.”
Reluctantly and with considerable effort, I locate the hem of my nightgown and tug the entire

thing over my head, dropping it next to me. I’m dressed in nothing but a black pair of panties that are
new as well, the lace edging matching the silk nightgown. Jesus Christ. This is sick.

He shrugs out of his leather cut and holds it out to me. “Put this on.”
I take the sleeveless cut, shrugging it over my thin frame. It dwarfs me, but by some small

miracle, it covers my breasts. I tug it closed across my chest and look at him morosely.

“My turn,” he says. “On your knees. Take my shoes off.”
I roll my eyes, but kneel down in front of him, unlacing his boots. I tug on one and he lifts his

foot, letting the boot slide off. Once the boot is off I take his sock off, and repeat this action with the
other foot.

“Good girl,” he says. “I’m a little disappointed. I thought I’d get to kick you in the face at least

once for refusing.”

He stands. “Pants.” He smiles as he clarifies, “Everything. All of it. Off.”
I stare at him sullenly, noticing his dick pressing hard against the material of his jeans. Great. If

he makes me suck it, I’m going to bite the fucking thing off, even if he kills me for it. It’d be worth it.
I pull at the already unbuttoned pants, avoiding his erection as I tug the material past. Once they’re
around his knees I do the same thing with his boxer shorts, and I’m suddenly eye-to-eye with his
raging hard dick. I lurch back, suddenly nauseous again.

My reaction earns a deep laugh from him.
“On the bed. On your back. Now. Or I’ll shove this so far down your throat, it’ll come out the

other end.”

I scurry to sit on the edge of the bed, as far away as I can, and swing my legs up. I can handle the

punches and the kicks, the touches and the pain, but I can’t handle the thought of being mouth-raped by
him. Not today. I’m also keenly aware of the stun gun that sits on the bed beside him, and how much I
want to avoid giving him reason to use it on me again. The last time he did, I felt I was going to die,
and not a painless, delicious sleep-death like the hotshot of heroin. It was fucking horrible, and I’ll do
almost anything to avoid being shocked again. I lay myself in the middle of the bed, propped up on
stiff elbows, not letting him out of my sight. The rough leather of the cut brushes painfully against my
nipples, and I stay as still as possible to stop that icky feeling it evokes in my belly.

He leans down and fishes something out of his jeans. Crawling up onto the bed, he straddles me,

his hardness pressing painfully against my thigh.

He wraps that something around my upper arm, and I look down, seeing it’s a silk tie. Probably

the same one he wore to the funeral, I think to myself. That makes me feel marginally better. Until I
remember his plan for me, to breed me until I replace his dead sons.

Now I feel like shit again.
He produces a syringe from thin air and inserts it into my vein, pulling back so that my blood

flows into the syringe, mixing with the clear fluid to form a dangerous red-tinged cloud of nirvana. I
can feel myself tensing, waiting for that hit, and despair slams into me when I realize how addictive
this shit is. I’m already looking forward to it, looking past the needle completely, not even caring if it
might kill me. I’m already one step away from being addicted to this shit.

And I don’t even care. I just want him to hurry up and push the fucking plunger down and let me

have my fix.

Jesus. I’m even thinking like a junkie with junkie words. My mother would be so proud.
I glance at the syringe, hanging out of my arm, as Dornan moves his hand away and down

between my legs. “What, you’re not excited to see me?” he says, sneering as his hand obviously
detects no wetness.

I move my other hand toward the syringe, brazenly attempting to grab it in order to inject the

good stuff and at least make this a little more bearable, but Dornan slaps me away as though I’m a kid
with my hand in the cookie jar.

“It’s quid pro quo, baby,” he says, spitting on his palm and rubbing his saliva between my legs,

making my stomach roil. “Something for something.”

“I know what quid pro quo means,” I say, suddenly annoyed. “I’m not a fucking idiot.”
He laughs, pushing into me forcefully. I squeeze my eyes shut momentarily. I’m not ready, and it

burns.

“You’re especially tight today,” he says, moving roughly, quickening his pace. “I like it.”
I roll my eyes. “I think it’s called dry,” I reply sharply. “As in, not turned on at all. You disgust

me.”

He smirks, slamming into me harder, making me cry out. “You sure about that?”
I stare at the ceiling. Sad and worn out and numb. “Yep.”
“Well, I intend to get off,” he says, ripping the leather cut open and squeezing my breasts.
“I know,” I respond slowly, as if he’s an idiot. He responds by wrapping his fingers around my

neck and squeezing tight.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he whispers suddenly, moving faster. “You are mine, you know that,

right?”

I frown, looking at him in shock and revulsion, gasping for a breath.
“I own you,” he says through gritted teeth. “Say it and you get your reward.”
He puts his hand below the syringe, still full and sparkling as it hangs out of my arm. It isn’t

really sparkling, but in my head, it is. Yes.

“I’m yours,” I say blankly, licking my lips as I watch his fingers move.
“Good girl,” he says.
I swallow thickly, groaning as he pushes down the plunger on the syringe, flooding my body with

something better than the best orgasm anybody could ever have. Better than the best fucking sunshiny
day. Better than first love and forehead kisses and rainbows.

Better than anything.
Bliss.
“Tell me again who owns you.” His voice is suddenly far away, and he pries one of my eyes

open, forcing me to look at him as I ride the high inside my marshmallow veins.

“Say it,” he demands, louder this time.
I giggle, the drugs making their way through my limbs so heavy and soft. It’s like I’m a feather

floating in the ether.

“I fucking hate you,” I whisper, giggling hysterically as he digs his fingers into my flesh, roaring

as he comes, as he fills me with his hate. “You’ll never own me, you piece of shit.”

A moment later, when he’s finished, he backhands me across the face so hard I see stars.
It just makes me laugh harder, though.
I think I’m going mad.
But I don’t care anymore.

The next morning, I’m sporting a bruised cheekbone and a spectacular gouge mark in my arm

from the needle of heroin that Dornan dug in not very carefully. I’m woken by the door flying open,
and I push myself up to a sitting position in time to see Dornan standing in the doorway with a cunning
smirk, balancing a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in one hand.

He looks like he’s going to storm in and kill me, which isn’t very reassuring. I shift backward on

the bed, a sudden gush between my legs reminding me of what happened last night before he left.
Eww.

I look down to see I’m still naked except for his leather cut, and a rolling wave of nausea slams

into me. I put my hand over my mouth, swinging my legs off the bed and scrambling to the bathroom. I
barely make it to the toilet before I lose last night’s dinner.

Gasping for breath, I look to see Dornan standing in the doorway to the bathroom. “Take a

shower,” he says briskly. “Five minutes.”

I glare at him, shrugging out of his cut and tossing it on the ground before I step into the glass

shower cubicle. I slam the door forcefully, but not hard enough to break it, and he watches my every
move as I scrub myself with a bar of soap that smells like lavender.

After I’ve soaped everywhere and rinsed off, I shut the water off. He hands me a towel and I

snatch at it angrily, annoyed that he’s being nice to me. I preferred it when he was choking the life out
of me. This shit is just messed up.

He points to a scrap of folded white material on the counter next to the sink. “Get dressed. It’s

time to eat.”

He leaves the room and I snatch at the white clothing, shaking it open. It’s a white sundress, with

an empire waist and stretchy sides. It’s a maternity dress, for fuck’s sake.

I fling the dress on the ground and wrap the towel around me instead, stepping out of the

bathroom. I’m starving, but if he’s going to stay in here and watch me, I’m not touching his fucking
food.

A look of annoyance flashes over his features as he sees I’m not wearing the dress, but he doesn’t

say anything. He points to the wicker chair that overlooks the balcony, the plate of eggs and bacon
sitting on the table next to it.

“Sit,” he says, tapping the back of the chair. “Eat.”
I frown. “You were trying to starve me, and now you’re trying to fatten me up? I don’t think so.” I

cross my arms over my chest, water from my wet hair dripping down my shoulders and seeping into
the top of my towel. Luckily, the heat seems to be turned on in this part of the house, or I’d be freezing
cold.

“Juliette,” he says sharply.
I storm over to the plate, picking it up and hurling it at the window. I’m so weak that the stupid

plate doesn’t even break—nor the window—but it’s still satisfying seeing the eggs slide down the
glass as the bacon rains onto the carpet. My stomach protests, but I don’t care. I’d rather starve to
death than eat his food.

He nods, a grave expression on his face. Pulling his phone out, he dials and waits, never taking

his eyes from me.

“Bring that little servant girl up here,” he says to whoever is on the other line. “Quickly.” He

ends the call and pockets his cellphone, looking oddly calm despite my act of defiance.

He sits in one of the two wicker chairs, turning it to face me, while I stand there and drip water

on the carpet. What is he playing at? Suspicion bubbles up in me, keeping the hunger company. A
moment later the door opens, and The Prospect is there, but he’s not alone. He’s holding the wrist of a
young Hispanic woman, who’s eighteen at the most, and probably younger than that. She’s dressed in
a long-sleeved white shirt and a black knee-length skirt, some kind of uniform I guess. He pulls her
into the room and kicks the door shut behind him.

“What’s your name,” he asks the servant girl.
“Violetta,” she says quietly.
“Did you cook this food?” Dornan asks her pleasantly, his fingers templed in his lap.
“Yes, sir,” she says, nodding frantically.
“Well,” Dornan says. “Apparently it’s not good enough for my girl.” He flashes a fuck you smile

at me, then turns back to the girl as my panic mounts.

“Ese,” he says, snapping his fingers. “Today’s your lucky day. Stand right where you are.

Violetta, unzip his pants and start sucking his cock.”

“What?” The Prospect and I both say at the same time. The poor girl is too scared to even open

her mouth to question her asshole of a boss.

“Have you got a hearing problem?” he asks, shifting in his seat. “Or would you like me to give

you one?” He pulls his gun from his waistband and sets it on his lap as a clear warning. “Sometimes,
if the bullet doesn’t get lodged in the brain, I can get it in one ear and clear out the other.” He smiles
cordially, as if he’s talking about the fucking weather.

“Knees. Suck. Now. Do you need that in Spanish?”
“Boss,” The Prospect says, shifting from foot to foot.
“Shut up,” Dornan says. “You’re expendable. There’s a million other fuckin’ chili eaters out

there who’ll take your place, Mexicana. Stand there and do as you’re told.”

Violetta sinks to her knees, fumbling with the guy’s zipper, and in no time at all, she’s pulled his

soft cock from his pants. Poor guy. I don’t blame him for not being hard. It’d be pretty hard to get it up
with Dornan Ross calling the moves on your surprise blow-job.

“Well?” Dornan says, amused. “It’s not gonna suck itself, Violetta.”
She glances at Dornan before opening her mouth, sucking him in. I’m still staring, horrified.
“You,” Dornan says, distracting me. “Go and put your dress on. Pick up your mess. And eat

every fucking scrap of breakfast that Violetta cooked for you. Once you finish eating, Violetta may
stop.”

“You’ve got to be fucking joking,” I say, my mouth agape.
Dornan shrugs, a giant grin on his face. “Nope,” he says. “But you’ve got to admit, it’s pretty

fucking funny.”

I glance at Violetta, who’s getting into it now. The Prospect is trying to feign indifference, which

looks pretty hard when he’s getting blown.

“He’ll come eventually,” I argue. “And I’m not eating your fucking breakfast.”
He laughs, obviously loving this. “Oh, baby girl. If he comes, I’ll just make her blow me. Then

I’ll make her eat your pussy,” he laughs, “and if you’re still not doing what you’re told, I’ll go and

gather up all of the men in this house, and make you watch while they take turns raping her.”

If I thought my mouth was agape before, now it’s practically sitting on the carpet. I glance at the

girl, who is doing her best to get the guy off given the circumstances. Fuck.

Dornan can see the indecision on my face. “I think there are seven men in the house,” he says.

“Maybe eight. Ever been fucked by eight men before, Violetta?”

She stops what she’s doing and looks at Dornan fearfully. “No, sir.”
“Did I say you could stop?” Dornan asks sharply, making her jump. She turns back to the job at

hand.

I stare at Dornan, rage in my veins. He stares right back, and we both know he’s won. Of course

I’m not going to let the girl get gang-raped. And that’s the whole point, isn’t it? He threatened that
specifically because he knows it will cut me the deepest to even consider.

I turn on my heel, storming into the bathroom. I drop the towel and snatch up the stupid dress,

shoving it over my head and pulling it down so that it covers me. Stalking through the bedroom and
over to the spilled mess of scrambled eggs and bacon, I scoop up the majority of the food and toss it
onto the unbroken plate.

I drop into the second chair, balancing the plate on my knees, and shove a piece of bacon in my

mouth. I chew it quickly, swallowing it, before picking up some of the scrambled egg mess.

“She can stop now,” I say to him with a mouthful of egg. “I’m eating. I’m wearing the goddamn

dress.”

Dornan chuckles, unzipping his pants as The Prospect makes a strangled grunt and the girl makes

a gagging noise.

“Violetta here can’t stop until you’ve finished all your breakfast,” Dornan says, snapping his

fingers at the girl. I shove as much food as I can in my mouth, Dornan chuckles as he watches me.

The Prospect tucks his softening dick back into his pants, a sheepish look on his face. Dornan

thrusts his chin at him. “Don’t say we don’t treat you well here.”

“Yes, sir,” the guy says, completely straight-faced.
I look at the girl, and see her eyeing off Dornan’s lap uncomfortably.
“Dornan,” I say in between chewing and swallowing. “Come on!”
He grins at me, gesturing for the girl to come over. She doesn’t even bother getting to her feet,

instead opting to crawl the short distance between dicks. Bloody hell.

Dornan doesn’t take his eyes from mine as he reaches into his pants and tugs out his stiff cock.

The girl is smart - she doesn’t hesitate this time. Dornan relaxes back into the chair, the only sounds
in the room her mouth slurping around his dick and me chewing as fast as I can. Utterly ludicrous.

I finish the food on my plate in record time, glaring at Dornan as he grabs the back of the girl’s

head and forces her to take him deeper. She gags violently, wrenching her head away and coughing
loudly, still on her hands and knees.

“You need to learn how to suck dick,” Dornan says, folding his erection back into his pants.

“Both of you get the fuck out.”

The girl stops coughing, wipes at her mouth and stands quickly, practically running for the door.

The Prospect opens it on cue, and the girl scurries out, followed by him.

The door shuts, and we’re alone once more.
Dornan stands and adjusts his pants, laughing when he sees the horrified expression on my face.

“What?” he asks. “Too weird for the black widow? I thought you of all people would appreciate

that.”

I roll my eyes.
“Though,” he says, raking his eyes down my thin frame, “You’re looking more like a praying

fuckin’ mantis these days.”

“That’s generally what happens when you starve someone for three months,” I retort, feeling my

face go red. He pushes all of my buttons. He makes me so fucking angry.

He’s the only person in the world who can change anything for me, and all he’s going to do is

make things worse.

Not for the first time, suicide crosses my mind. I didn’t have any way to do it before, when I was

tied up in the dungeon, and I wonder briefly if he’ll keep me tied up in here as well.

“What are you planning to do with me?” I ask quietly.
He kneels in front of me, a strange gesture of submission for the man who dominates my every

waking moment, but the look on his face says otherwise.

He smiles, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. “I’m going to destroy you,” he says softly, that

deep voice making me shake, and I don’t doubt him for a second.

He pushes off his feet, standing above me.
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he says.
My heart plummets into my stomach.
He disappears, slamming the door behind him, and I eye the door nervously. Did he lock it? I

didn’t hear a key turn.

I rush to my feet, the empty breakfast plate sliding from my lap and onto the carpet with a dull

thud. I reach the door just as it opens again, and I have to step back to stop it smacking me in the face.

“Miss me already?” Dornan asks, looking amused. “Sit. Down.” He points to the chair and I

reluctantly make my way back to the chair, sitting my skinny ass down. I watch as he approaches,
wondering what sick surprise he’s got in store for me. “Look at that,” he says, reaching down and
nudging my slightly rounded stomach. “You’re showing.”

I stare up at him morosely. “I just ate breakfast,” I say dully. “I don’t believe you. I’m not

pregnant. You’re just trying to fuck with my head.”

“Shut up and get on the fucking bed,” he says shortly. “Now.”
I’ve been trying to convince myself all along that he’s just fucking with me. That it’s not real. It

can’t be. But when he produces one of those hand-held Doppler machines and holds it to my bare skin
a few minutes later, I can practically feel my world end.

First, he squeezes cold, sticky goop on my stomach and rubs it all around. Then, he presses the

tip of this plastic microphone thing to my skin and moves it around until it starts going crazy.

It sounds like horses galloping. He turns it up so loud that the noise fills the room, and I feel my

own heartbeat quicken.

I narrow my eyes. “It’s my heartbeat,” I say dismissively. “Nice try, asshole.”
He smirks, grabbing my fingers and jamming them against my neck, against the spot where my

own pulse flutters rapidly. But the sound being transmitted from the small machine, the sound that
bounces off the walls and strangles me with its absolute certainty is completely different in pace and
speed to my own fragile heart.

Fuck.
I gasp. Tears fill my eyes. He smiles triumphantly, pressing the little plastic receiver harder into

my stomach, and the sound gets even clearer.

He’s not making this up. This is really happening.
Again.
How could I have been so stupid to let this happen after everything I went through the first time

six years ago?

The room starts to spin, and I can’t breathe. The galloping sound, the heartbeat of a baby, is so

loud it’s overwhelming. I sit up and swipe at the machine, getting it away from me, kicking and
screaming as Dornan pins me easily with his brute strength.

“Stop,” he says, that glint in his eye telling me he’s getting off on this.
I don’t stop. I keep kicking and screaming until I feel a sharp prick in my arm, and warmth floods

my body. My body stills, and I feel so fucking relieved.

Dornan leans over, tracing my lips with his fingertip, making me shiver despite the warm

sunshine in my veins.

“Hooked already,” he chuckles. “Just like your momma.”

***

A while later—how long, I have no idea—I hear someone shift beside me, and push myself up

into a sitting position, rubbing my eyes.

Dornan is sitting beside the bed, having pulled up one of the white wicker chairs, and when he

sees me he grins, reaching for a glass of water.

“Here.” He hands me the glass of water and I take it, thirsty complicit little slave I’ve become.

I’m too drug-fucked to even care he’s gained total control over me in such a short time. I’m just
empty. Done. A broken shell carrying a product borne of vengeance and hate.

Oh, Jesus. The sound of the fetal monitor dances in my head again and I take a deep gulp of

water.

“Take these,” Dornan says, holding out two brown pills that look like they’re made for a

goddamn horse.

“What are they?” I ask, taking them slowly.
“Vitamins, baby girl. It’s a little late, but we want our boy to be strong, don’t we?”
I scowl at him as I take the tablets one at a time. Fucking asshole. If I had anything left inside me

to throw up, I would, but breakfast must have been a while ago, because my stomach is growling
again.

I’m still reeling from the apparent confirmation of our little bundle of horror so much, I barely

even notice when The Prospect walks in, rapping twice on the open door as he enters hurriedly.

“What?” Dornan barks.
“Boss, we got an issue.” He looks worried.
“Well spit it out, ése. I’m busy with my baby mama.” He laughs, glancing at me. I keep my face

impassive as I stare at the floor.

I see The Prospect glance at me in my peripheral vision before he turns his attention back to

Dornan. “It’s the nurse lady, boss. Violetta found her this morning. She’s dead.”

It takes me a moment to understand he’s talking about my mother.
Dornan chuckles. “Well, what’d you do? Feed her to the pigs?”
The prospect shifts uneasily on his feet. “Jason took her to the funeral home, sir,” he replies.

“The one you usually use in Tijuana.”

Dornan swats at the air dismissively, and The Prospect leaves quickly, closing the door behind

him.

Dornan looks at me with a satisfied smirk. “Aww, did you hear that? Your stupid mother finally

took too much. I’m amazed she lasted this long, the old dog.” He chuckles. “Sad, baby girl?”

I laugh. “Hardly.”
I see surprise flicker across his face before he returns to his customary smirk. “Well, if I didn’t

know better, and if you didn’t look so much like your fucking father, I’d say you were my daughter.”

I can’t stop the disgusted look on my face at the thought that Dornan could ever be related to me,

and I thank my lucky stars for inheriting John Portland’s features amid my mother’s eyes and hair.

Dornan shrugs. “It’s all semantics, anyway. I’ve owned you the moment the nurse handed you to

me after your stupid mother had you.”

I glare at him, furious at the thought that even that moment of my life was overshadowed by

Dornan fucking Ross.

“You know, I’m confused,” I say, my brain slightly clearer now that the heroin high has tapered a

little. “You say I’m pregnant, but what kind of father shoots his baby up with enough drugs to kill it?
You know, it’s going to be born an addict, if it even survives everything you’ve done to me.”

Dornan scowls, but I can tell my argument hits him somewhere. “Well, you were born an addict,

and look how you turned out?”

“Bullshit.” He’s lying.
“Mmm-Hmm. Your stupid cunt of a mother couldn’t stay off the juice for a day, let alone nine

months. You were in the hospital for weeks! Crying and fucking performing. You weren’t even signed
out to her when you finally left.” He grins as he delivers his final blow. “You were signed out to me.
I brought you home. Celia fucking took care of you until you detoxed, while your mother didn’t even
miss a beat. Went back to the club the very next day.”

My cheeks burn. I’m angry because I know he’s probably telling the truth.
“My father would never let that happen.”
“Your father was in prison,” Dornan says. “Six months in Sing Sing. And your mother came back

to me, just like always.” He smiles, as if the memory is a fond one, and brushes his knuckle against
my cheek. I shrink back from his touch, and he laughs again.

“Oh, baby girl,” he says. “In years to come, you’ll be begging me to touch you. Because this is it

for you. Me and you and this room. I hope you enjoyed the last twenty-one years. Because until you
take your last breath, the only person you’ll ever see again is me.”

He leaves the room then, slamming the door for effect behind him. As soon as I hear his footsteps

retreat down the hallway, I scramble off the bed, tiptoeing toward the French doors that lead to the
balcony. Everything appears to have been repaired since one of the bombs I planted exploded right
below this room, as it tore a gaping big hole on the side of the mansion. I peer out of the glass,
glimpsing several armed guards at various points around the property, and in the distance, the smoggy
lights that mark the border separating the US from Mexico.

I don’t know how I’d even get past the guards. How I’d get down to the ground floor from the

second floor balcony. How I’d not freeze in this stupid little dress that’s totally unsuitable for winter.

But I’ve got to do something.
I put my hand on the curved brass door handle, which is cold and heavy. My breath catches when

I push it down…and it gives. No resistance. Excitedly, I push the doors open, but the sight that greets
me isn’t the one I expected.

I squeal, stepping back just in time to avoid falling through the non-existent balcony to the hard

tiles that adorn the ground-floor verandah.

My heart racing, I step back into the safety of the room, realizing that the repairs aren’t, in fact,

complete. There’s a huge fucking piece of the balcony missing that almost swallowed me up whole
and left me smashed on the ground in a tangle of broken limbs and blood.

The wind from outside rushes in, cold and sweet after three months of stale air. I feel my loose

hair fly wildly around my face as the door behind me crashes open and Dornan rushes over to me,
hands fisting in my hair as he tugs me back violently.

“Oww!” I cry, as he uses the momentum of tugging my hair to throw me past him and back onto

the bed. I land face down, but before I can crawl away he is on me.

“Shut up!” he roars, digging his fingers painfully into my arm as he flips me onto my back. Before

I can get away, he’s looped something around my wrists, and secured them to the bedhead.

I struggle briefly before going limp. We’ve done this dance before and the guy knows how to tie

his knots. I’m stuck.

I glare at him derisively. “You gonna make me come before you stab me this time?” I ask

sarcastically, remembering the night he made my entire body shudder to life before he sank his knife
into my thigh.

He smirks. “Only good girls get to come. You’re not a good girl, are you, baby?”
He takes something from the drawer beside the bed and I crane my neck to see what it is. An

iPod with headphones already plugged into it.

Strange.
The smirk doesn’t leave his face as he shoves the ear buds into my ears. “I’ll be back in a few

days,” he says, winking at me. “But don’t worry. I made sure this is on repeat.”

He presses something on the iPod and tosses it onto my chest, just as someone that sounds like

Sepultura starts screaming in my ears about hate and blood. Really fucking loud.

I glare at Dornan as he blows me a kiss and slams the door shut behind him, while a dude

screams into my eardrums.

It’s so fucking loud, I feel like my ears are going to start bleeding. I wiggle my head forcefully,

but those headphones are shoved deep into my ears, and it doesn’t look like I’ll be getting them out
without the use of my hands.

And it doesn’t stop. For fucking hours. I listen to the entire, ear-shattering, vomit-inducing

album, which might be fine at a regular volume—if you love death metal, which I do not—but at full
volume it makes me wish I were already dead.

There’s nothing I can do to escape the noise, until eventually it feels like the screaming and the

notes become a part of me, trapped like waspish, screaming, vengeful ghosts in the darkest recesses
of my mind.

Finally, after what seems like days but what is probably just a few hours, I feel warm fingers at

my ears. My eyes fly open and I see The Prospect standing above me, holding one of the ear buds up
to his ear to see what I’ve been listening to.

“Damn,” he says, shaking his head. “That shit is terrible.”
Tears of relief burn my eyes and I blink them away impatiently, hardly able to hear him through

the music which still seems to be bouncing around in my head. I feel like it’ll be there forever, and the
thought makes my stomach turn.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, and he smiles in response.
“I told you I was a nice guy,” he whispers. “You want something to eat?”
I nod enthusiastically, starving and on a wicked comedown from that last dose of heroin, and

wait as patiently as I can while he undoes the scarf around my wrists. He helps me to sit up and I
massage my numb wrists as he does.

He places a paper bag in front of me. McDonalds. My eyes light up as I imagine the fat and

grease that might be in the bag. I look at him for approval and he gestures, smiling.

“Gee,” he says, as I snatch up a cardboard box of fries and start stuffing them into my mouth.

“I’ve never seen a girl get so turned on by fast food.”

I ignore him until I’m done, first the fries, then a cheeseburger that practically melts in my mouth.

In less than five minutes, there’s not a crumb left. As soon as I’ve finished the food he hands me a
Coke—cold and icy—and I sip on the sugary drink like it’s liquid gold.

When I’m finished, I wipe my mouth with a napkin and crunch the rubbish into a ball. “Thank

you,” I say, and I really am so fucking thankful it hurts.

The events that happened last time I saw him slam into me, and I frown, remembering poor

Violetta on her knees.

“You made that poor girl suck your dick,” I say to him.
He frowns. “Dornan made that poor girl suck my dick.” He corrects me. “It wasn’t exactly a turn-

on, or didn’t you notice?”

I nod reluctantly. “Dornan makes people do a lot of things they don’t want to do.”
He lets me use the bathroom and drink some water before he leaves. He looks at the bed

uneasily, but I’m lying on my back before he can even ask, my arms stretched above me.

Obedient little slave I am. I disgust myself.

He looks relieved at my cooperation as he re-knots the silk scarf around my wrists, tugging it to

make sure it’s tight. I’m fine, until he places the iPod back on my chest and moves the ear buds
toward my ears.

He must see the look of horror on my face because he pauses, patting my shoulder awkwardly.
“I have to put it back on,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”
I nod bravely, but I start crying. A concerned expression flickers across his face.
“Hang in there. I’ll turn it down a little,” he whispers in my ear, so faintly I can barely hear it.

“It’ll all be over soon.”

He leans back and I stare at him, hardly daring to believe what he’s saying.
“What?” I mouth, barely above a whisper. He shakes his head, pointing to his ear and then to the

door. I know exactly what he’s getting at. It’s exactly the same thing Jase tried to tell me when he was
in here. Someone is outside the room, and they’re listening . They both seemed comfortable to
gesture though, which tells me there are no cameras in the room.

The Prospect pats my shoulder again affectionately, and the small gesture makes me burst into

tears. Looking like he’s handing me a death sentence, he gently nestles the ear buds back into my ears
and presses play.

This time, the music takes me on a journey. First, I cry. Get rid of every tear that’s still inside of

me. Then, I seethe; my anger only helped along by the lyrics in the death metal songs that blast at my
eardrums. More than once, I imagine my eardrums have burst and splattered blood everywhere. But
it’s just my imagination playing tricks on me.

After what I estimate to be a few hours, I come to a point of acceptance. Staring at the pressed

ceiling above me, I can finally separate myself from the thrashing music, can finally decipher my own
thoughts. The heroin has worn off too, and no doubt the sugary cola has given my brain a bit of a
boost.

And the thoughts that occupy my mind are intriguing indeed.
My thoughts wander towards the night I was here last. The last time Dornan fucked me as Sammi.

Afterward, I’d been bleeding. At the time, I’d assumed it was his rough treatment of me, but it soon
became apparent that my period had started. I’d spent the first few days at Jase’s apartment with the
most wicked cramps.

And then, the week after, we had made love.
Unprotected.
At least twice.
And I’d stopped taking my contraceptive pills the day I blasted those bombs and blew the front of

this fucking room to smithereens.

And after that? I’d been down here at least a month before Dornan raped me.
Yet I started throwing up before he raped me.
My mind struggles to do the math, to believe that this might actually be real, that I’m not just

making shit up in a state of delusion, but as I analyze everything, the dates and the circumstances and
everything and I come to one shocking, stunning conclusion that could change everything.

This baby inside me isn’t Dornan’s.
It’s Jase’s.

My mind still reeling from the realization that I’m probably carrying Jase’s baby, I barely even

hear the pops of gunfire that start in the background of my death metal marathon. In fact, I don’t notice
them at all until the glass in one of the French doors splinters, a neat hole in it thanks to the stray
bullet that’s just lodged itself in the wall above me.

I gasp as bits of plaster from the wall rain down on my face and chest like snow. Someone is

shooting at the house.

My concern turns to excitement as I repeat that thought inside my head.
Someone is shooting at the house.
The prospect’s final words come back to me, then. It’ll all be over soon. Is this what he meant? I

struggle against my restraints, but all I succeed in doing is making them tighter. By some small mercy,
though, one of the ear buds dislodges from my ear.

Awesome. I can hear gunshots in one ear and the unintelligible screaming of death metal in the

other. I’m not sure which one is worse.

The Prospect flings the door open and marches in, avoiding eye contact as he undoes my hands. I

squeeze my hands to get the blood flowing as he hauls me to my feet. “What’s happening?” I ask
sharply, eyeing the bullet hole in the window with alarm. Another bullet whizzes past my head and
hits the wall just as he pulls me toward the door, and I shriek. That one was way too close for
comfort.

“We’re being shot at. Until it’s safe, you have to go back downstairs.”
He pulls me into the hallway and wrenches the door shut behind us, glancing furtively up and

down the long corridor.

“Come on.”
I plant my feet, unwilling to move until he tells me what’s going on. “Who’s shooting?” I demand.

“And where are you taking me? If you think I’m going back to that fucking room—”

“That’s exactly where you’re going,” a voice says behind me. I jolt, turning around to see my

lover standing there, but he’s not that man at the moment. He’s somebody else right now.

“Jase?” I say breathlessly.
He looks like the grim reaper, dressed entirely in black and holding an assault rifle in his hand,

his expression tight and focused.

At this point, I don’t know if he’s here to save my life, or take my life.
“Walk,” he says, pushing me with the tip of his rifle.
“You won’t shoot me,” I say, instantly regretting my choice of words.
“I will if he doesn’t,” The Prospect says, leveling his own handgun at me. “Boss says we gotta

keep you safe. So hurry the fuck up and move!”

Fuck. I start walking, my own heartbeat thumping wildly in my ears. I want to turn and scream at

Jase—I’m so fucking confused—but the gunfire all around us is only getting louder and more frequent,
and I seem to have lost the ability to think for myself. The startling realization I had while bound and
stuck listening to the death metal comes back to kick me in the guts, literally. I gasp as I feel
something push against my thin skin from the inside.

Holy shit. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that was the baby kicking. Isn’t it too soon for that?
A few minutes later, we’re back in that dank little dungeon. I stop in the doorway, staring

painfully at the bare bed where Dornan tied me down and raped me. Where he excised my flesh.
Where he marked me and shot me full of drugs and tried to destroy me.

I think of the poor baby who was in my womb that entire time, and I wonder how anything could

possibly survive such a prolonged onslaught.

Still. I’m here. I’m not dead yet.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask the guys as I’m pushed into the room. They ignore me, The

Prospect nodding at Jase before leaving the room.

“Where is he going?” I ask Jase worriedly. “Jason, what the hell is happening?”
He strides over to me, his cheeks flushed, his presence overpowering. “Listen to me,” he says

desperately. “If anyone comes in here, you’re scared of me. Terrified. Do you understand?”

I nod. It’s true. I am scared of him.
Jase looks around the room, as if only now realizing where he is. “Jesus,” he chokes. “This is

where you’ve been this entire time?”

I can’t help myself. I’m a bitch and I shouldn’t say it, but I do.
“Why didn’t you come and save me?” I ask brokenly.
Jase grabs my arms and shakes me. “You ran away!” he says, his eyes wild and glassy. “I didn’t

even know he had you. And then Elliot called me—”

“Elliot called you?” I interrupt. “Elliot’s here?” Oh Jesus, this is getting worse by the second.

“Jason, what the hell is going on?”

Jase motions for me to stay put, stepping out into the hallway and glancing around before coming

back to join me, where I stay rooted to the spot. I’m so confused right now, and if Jase isn’t here to
help me, he’d better just shoot me in the face right here and now.

“Listen to me,” Jase says quietly, looking at the doorway over his shoulder. “Three years, I was

in here. In this goddamn room. After I watched your father die…after he died in my arms…they
brought me down here. Shut the door. And left me. I tried to wipe away his blood, but it dried on my
skin. Seeped into my pores, until finally, it was like it became a part of me. He became a part of me.”

“You’re not the only one who wanted revenge, sweet girl. I thirsted for it the way a dying man in

the desert thirsts for water. I wanted it so badly. I fought. I resisted. I fucking raged. But three years
may as well be three hundred. May as well be forever.”

I think of the three months I spent in this room, and how I might die here, tonight.
I don’t want to die.
I’ve never wanted to live more than I do right now.
“I don’t know how you survived,” I whisper, my heart breaking.
He smiles sadly. “I thought of you. And how much I loved you. And how, when I finally got out, I

was going to kill every last fucking Gypsy Brother for what they did to us.”

I inhale sharply. “So what happened?”
He shrugs. “I made them believe I was brainwashed. That I was one of them. I got the tattoos, I

rode the bike, I—” he hesitates painfully, “—killed enough people to prove myself worthy to them.”

I glance at the door worriedly as more gunshots ring out, closer this time.
“If you knew what I’d done—” he says brokenly.
“Stop,” I say. “I killed four of your brothers. I know what it means to have to kill somebody. But

I’m confused. You say you were out for three years, Jase. Why not kill them? Why take your place as
Dornan’s son?”

He grits his teeth. “I almost killed them all, once. But then I met a man who offered to help me

give them something worse than death.”

My eyebrows shoot up in anticipation and disbelief.
“Julz,” he says. “I’m working with the DEA. And can I just say; they’re pretty fucking pissed that

a girl came in and started killing off Gypsy Brothers and ruining their massive case.”

I swallow thickly. Of course. I knew there had to be a reason why he was so eager to stay with

the club after everything that happened. Relief spreads through my limbs, joining the panic and fear
that already resides there.

“Jason!” I hear a voice roar, far away that we might still have a few moments together.
“Jesus,” Jase says. “Julz, I promise, we’re getting out of here tonight. But first, I have to make

Dornan believe I’m on his side. I have to hurt you. Do you understand?”

I nod excitedly.
He draws his fist back and holds it there. “Fuck,” he mutters, letting his hand drop. “I can’t hurt

you!” His eyes dip to my mouth, and before I know it, his lips are on mine, a fleeting, fiery kiss that
sets my heart alight.

He pulls away reluctantly as Dornan’s voice booms at the other end of the hallway.
“He’s coming,” I whisper desperately. “He’ll kill us both if you don’t punch me.” I grit my teeth.

“Do it.” He hesitates. “If you love me, fucking do it!” I hiss, slapping him across the face. That’s
enough encouragement for him.

Hope and fear spike in my chest as his fist connects with my face and I feel blood gush from my

nose.

I hit the wall behind me and slide down to the floor, lying on my side. There’s blood in my mouth

and nose, sweet and cloying. I roll onto my back, choking as blood slides down the back of my throat.

“Jase?” I whisper, feeling wet blood on my lips.
He turns back to me heartbreak and rage written on his face. He raises his eyebrows in question.
I’m selfish, I know. So fucking selfish as I tell him the news that will probably distract him

enough to get him killed. But if we do die, I want him to at least know what was what. That I was his.
That he was loved.

I cough on more of my blood as I try to speak. “The baby,” I choke, through the haze of blood and

gunshots and utter fucking despair. “It’s yours.”

His eyes widen and he freezes for a second. I think I see his eyes turn watery, when suddenly

there are footsteps behind him. He swipes at his red eyes, storming back into the room. He drags me
up by my throat, and my cry is more of a pained gurgle.

Dornan stands in the doorway, his eyes alight with worry and anger. “Jason!” he yells.
Jase’s eyes are so sad, I think my heart is going to break into two pieces right here and now. It

hurts so much.

“Let go!” I beg, struggling against his death grip on my neck. He fumbles with something in his

pocket, producing a knotted-up rag in one hand. The look on his face is absolutely fucking terrifying.

I think that maybe I’ve been wrong about him, now, as he stuffs the rag in my mouth.
“Shut up, bitch!” he yells, delivering one final hit to the side of my head. My head rings as I

slump to the ground and he laughs.

“Sweet dreams, you fucking whore,” he spits, nudging me with his boot.
The door slams, the gunshots become slightly muted thanks to the thick door, and I hear Dornan

and Jase’s footsteps retreat down the hallway as I try to stop my sobs. I feign unconsciousness, lying
there awkwardly until my bones scream and my muscles begin to quiver in pain. When I finally think
there’s nobody close by, I sit up slowly. I’m bruised and sore, but thankfully nothing seems broken.

I dry retch as the piece of rag stuffed into my mouth brushes against the back of my throat. I pull

the rag out of my mouth, coughing in the process, and it’s then that I feel something small and hard
amongst the cloth.

I squeeze my fingers around the hand spot, my heart hardly believing that this is what I suspect it

is. I stare at the door, listening again for any noise, as I tear at the rag, trying to locate what’s amongst
it. Finally, I unearth a small piece of metal, but it’s so much more than that.

I burst into tears. It’s a key.
It’s my salvation.
A few seconds later, I’m inching my way down the dimly lit hallway as gunfire continues

upstairs. I get all the way to the end of the hallway before I realize I have no idea where I’m going. I
know the way back upstairs, but that’s precisely where the shooting is happening, so I want to avoid
the main part of the house. Instead of going up the stairs, I continue along the hallway until I reach the
end. There’s a doorway, faint sunlight streaming through and hitting the hallway floor, and I figure if
nothing else, it’s a step closer to being outside. I can hide once I’m out there and wait for a ceasefire -
or until everyone’s killed each other.

God, I hope Jase is all right.
I peer around the corner, seeing nothing untoward in what looks to be a dry food store, and I

creep in, making my way around sacks of rice and canned fruit stacked halfway to the ceiling. I look
up, seeing that the light was coming from a window set high in the wall, and I groan inwardly. It’s
fucking high, and probably locked. I keep it in mind as an alternative while I forge forward, leaving
the food store and turning another corner into what appears to be a large wine cellar.

I hear the click before I even see him. I jump slightly as cold metal presses against the back of my

neck.

“How the fuck’d you get out here?” Dornan asks gruffly, as he grabs me in a chokehold, pulling

me close to him so my back is pressed firm against his chest.

“Picked the fucking lock,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Well,” he says, dragging me to the side. “Aren’t you industrious?”
I dig my fingernails into his thick arm, but he doesn’t even flinch. Shit fuck! Freedom is so close,

I can taste it on my tongue, and now he’s got a goddamn gun to my head.

I’m so fucking dumb. I should have gone upstairs.
He continues dragging me, and I gasp as a crapload of guns are leveled at both of us. It’s

unnerving having so much gunfire aimed at me, even if some of them are trying to get through me to
shoot Dornan.

My eyes widen as I look at the players in this Mexican standoff. There’s Emilio, with a gun in

each hand, both pointed at Elliot. The Prospect has one gun leveled at Elliot, the other at me. Elliot’s
locked onto Dornan’s head, the red laser target from his impressive-looking gun right between
Dornan’s eyes. And Jase is aimed at Elliot, though he looks pretty fucking calm.

Until he sees me.

His face falls as he sees Dornan using my body as a shield.
Dornan chuckles at the assortment of men with their weapons aimed, nobody daring to make the

first move and set off a round of deadly dominoes. Shoot and be shot. And nobody’s in the position to
shoot enough bullets to wipe everyone out before they turn on him.

Fascinating. Terrifying.
“Let her go,” Elliot says, his gun trained on Dornan. Dornan laughs. “I’ll shoot her before you

can pull your trigger, boy,” he responds gruffly, keeping himself shielded with my body. Elliot’s
struggling to keep aim on him; I can tell by the way they are both shifting continuously. I’m still trying
not to throw up at the reality of so many guns in one room, especially the one digging into my temple.

In front of me, before I can even comprehend what’s going on, The Prospect shoots Emilio dead

between the eyes. What the fuck? The noise is as deafening as it is unexpected - as in, very. I gasp as
blood and bits of Emilio’s brain explode out the back of his head, hitting the wall behind him with a
meaty splat as he topples to the ground, lifeless.

Dornan tenses behind me, choking me harder so that I can hardly breathe. “You little fuckin’

traitor,” he says through clenched teeth. “Jase, shoot him for me.”

Jase points his gun at The Prospect, who’s got his gun pointed at Dornan’s head. I’m struggling to

catch up, struggling to breathe, and struggling to understand who the fuck is on whose team. Jase
continues to aim at The Prospect as he backs over to where we stand, taking up position next to his
father.

I’m so fucking confused right now.
It gets cleared up real quick with what happens next, though.
In the blink of an eye, Jase turns sharply to face his father, his gun now pressed firmly against

Dornan’s head. “Let her go,” Jase says to his father, and I feel Dornan tighten his grip on me.

“Get your fuckin’ gun away from my head,” Dornan spits.
Jase doesn’t budge, but he doesn’t have the power position for long.
“Little brother.” A voice sounds from behind Jase. Who the fuck else is in here? I hear another

gun being cocked and suddenly, Jase isn’t looking so smug. From where I’m standing—or rather,
being held at gunpoint—I can’t see who’s behind Jase, only that there’s a snub-nosed revolver
pointed at the back of his head. I can’t keep track of the players in this massive Mexican stand-off. It
would almost be laughable, if we weren’t all one move away from being shot ourselves.

“Mickey,” Jase says reluctantly. “You shoulda stayed out of this, man.”
“Protecting the bitch who killed our brothers? What the fuck does that make you?” the voice

behind Jase asks. Mickey, who, like Donny, refused to die in the blast that ripped through their
motorcycles. I still don’t understand how they survived the explosion that should have wiped them all
out.

“It makes him a fuckin’ traitor,” Dornan says angrily. He digs his gun deeper into my temple,

almost enough to break the fragile skin there. Ow.

I glance at Elliot, who everyone seems to have forgotten, and notice he has a target on Dornan’s

head. He raises his eyebrows slightly at me then looks at the floor for a deliberate second.

I think he’s asking me to duck. But I don’t know when. I see him change his aim slightly, without

making it obvious, and as he winks at me, two things happen. Firstly, an explosion impossibly close
to my ear, as Elliot shoots the gun right out of Dornan’s hand . Dornan is flung back dramatically,

and before he can take me with him, I drop to my knees, crawling out of the way. In the perhaps two
seconds that have elapsed since Elliot shot Dornan in the hand, he’s shifted his aim to Mickey and
pulled his trigger a second time, sending the guy backward, spraying his blood all over Jase.
Dornan’s howling. His hand is useless and mangled, and his gun on the floor. He snatches it up before
Elliot can get off another clean round, aiming right back at him.

I crawl toward Elliot, who’s closer than Jase and not blocked by Dornan. I try not to put my

hands in Emilio’s blood, but it’s almost impossible to avoid ; the stuff is spreading over the floor so
quickly. Gross.

“Pop,” Jase says, his gun still leveled at his father. “Drop the gun. It’s over.”
Dornan addresses his youngest son with barely controlled rage. “I don’t think so,” Dornan says.

“I’ll shoot this fucker before you can get a round off, I guarantee you.”

“Don’t shoot him!” I cry at Dornan, referring to Elliot. Dornan shifts his aim to me in the blink of

an eye, and suddenly I’m on my knees, my hands covered in Emilio’s sticky blood, with a gun trained
on me. Great. And here I was, thinking I was almost free.

“You won’t shoot me,” I say, glaring at Dornan. “I’ve got something you want.”
He cocks his head to the side. “You just try and fuckin’ run, and see how fast I blow your brains

out, baby girl.”

I swallow thickly, believing him. It doesn’t matter that he thinks I’m having his baby. He’ll shoot

me point-blank without another thought.

Dornan shakes his head, as if something hilarious has just occurred to him. “You know,” he says

to Jase, “I’m surprised she took you back after you told her about how her daddy really bit the big
one.”

Jase shifts uncomfortably on his feet, his aim still locked on Dornan. “Shut up, old man, before I

end you.”

Something about the way Jase is reacting worries me. “What’s he talking about?” I ask Jase. He

glares at his father in response. “Nothing. He’s just fucking with your head.”

“Juliette,” Dornan asks in mock sympathy, “would you like to know who really killed your

daddy?”

My blood runs cold as I look from father to son, perplexed.
“I already know who killed him, you asshole. You shot him in the head, and then you made

everyone believe it was him who killed Mariana. I know it was you who killed both of them.”

Dornan laughs, his gun still pointed at my head. “It’s true, I killed that bitch, and she fuckin’

deserved it, too. I’ve never lied to you, Juliette. Believe me when I say, I didn’t kill your father.”

Jase’s eyes dart between his father and me, Elliot shifting minutely beside me.
“Tell her, son. Tell her what you did.”
Stunned, I stare at Jase, waiting for him to deny it.
But he doesn’t.
“Tell me he’s lying,” I say to Jase. “Tell me he’s lying and fucking shoot him.”
He doesn’t tell me anything. He just stares at his father, sweat and rage pouring from him.
“Say something!” I implore Jase. He looks at me with broken eyes, eyes that have seen the

darkest depths of hell and lived to recount the tale.

“It’s not what you think,” Jase finally manages. His attention diverted to me, Dornan chooses that

exact moment to let off a round toward Elliot. I scream, hitting the dirt as Jase tackles Dornan in a

flurry of punches and a struggle for Dornan’s gun. Two more shots ring out, and then someone is
lifting under my arms, dragging me away. I don’t struggle—I’d know Elliot’s embrace anywhere, and
I sag into him as we run for the door, making tracks as fast as we can. We get to a van a short way
down the driveway and he pushes me into the passenger seat, starting the engine and burning rubber
as he drives straight through the padlocked front gates, sending wrought iron and chains flying.

I’m covered in blood, but none of it seems to be mine. I focus on Elliot, and gasp when I see

blood pouring from his shoulder.

“Jesus, Elliot. You’re been shot.”
He gestures to a towel on the floor, and I grab it, applying pressure to his wound.
“It’s a flesh wound,” he says, shrugging his shoulders.
I stare out of the back window of the van as we pass trees and buildings in a rapid blur. He’s

definitely going above the limit.

“We just left them there,” I say, suddenly horrified.
Elliot gives me a tight glance before looking back at the road. “They’ll get out,” he says. “Or

they’ll get shot. You’re my problem. They’re not.”

My heart sinks as I imagine Jase and Dornan trapped in gun battle. I can imagine only one of them

will end up coming out of it alive.

Elliot’s cellphone rings, and he grabs it off the dash, hitting answer.
“Yeah?”
Unintelligible yelling comes through the other end, and Elliot ends the call just as quickly,

throwing the phone back on the dash.

“They got out,” he says blankly “Jason and Luis. Though, given that last piece of news, I’m not

sure that’s a good thing.”

Luis. That’s The Prospect’s name. Relieved and sickened, I continue applying pressure to

Elliot’s wound as I watch his blood seep right through the material and onto my palm.

“You saved me,” I say in wonderment, as I watch his red blood swiftly devour the white towel.
He flashes me a wicked smile, topped off with a wink. “Just call me Superman, sweetheart.”

Thirty minutes and an endless stream of backstreets later, we’re at the San Diego port. Why, I

have no idea.

Before I’ve even taken my seatbelt off, Elliot is out of the car and in the back of the van, a black

duffel bag in his hands.

He comes around to my side, helping me out, looking me over uneasily. I don’t react. I know I

look like shit. I’m still wearing the white dress Dornan gave me, now stained with Elliot and
Emilio’s blood. Elliot hasn’t even seen my stomach yet, the awful mess where Dornan cut away the
tattoo he inked.

“Come on,” Elliot says, tugging my hand. I’m confused, until my eyes fall upon the yacht parked

up next to the jetty. “We’re sailing?”

He nods. “Too risky flying. And we can’t exactly drive across the border when Emilio fucking

owns it.”

“Emilio’s dead,” I say blankly.
“Yeah, but Dornan’s not,” Elliot says, clearly peeved. “I fucking knew Jase had—”
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t talk about them, please, El.” He killed my father? It’s too much to

comprehend. I just wanted him to tell me it was a lie, or something. Anything! But he didn’t even try
to defend himself.

And Dornan’s not dead? FUCK! The sick motherfucker just won’t die! Not by a bomb, not by a

bullet. I’m equal parts disappointed and relieved that he isn’t dead, because when he does breathe his
final breath in this world, it should be while he’s forced to stare into my eyes as I watch him slip
away.

I notice Elliot’s shoulder is weeping fresh blood again, and I frown, concerned.
I wonder if he’s OK.
Elliot seems to read my mind. “It was a flesh wound,” he says to me. “I’ll be fine.”
“You suck at sailing,” I say, tilting my head as I study the yacht. “You crashed our houseboat in

the river.”

He snorts. “I hired a boat that came with a driver,” he says. “Five-star, baby.”
“Wait,” I say, squeezing his arm. “Where’s Kayla? Grandma?”
He glances at me before tossing his bag onto the boat. “I put them in a safe place around the same

time that Dornan blew up my tattoo shop.”

I gasp. “Your shop? Your tattoo parlor?”
“Is no more,” he answers. “May she rest in peace, that sexy bitch of a studio.”
Devastation plucks at my heart at the image in my mind of Elliot’s tattoo studio going up in

flames. Because of me. Yet, I can’t help but smile at the way he tells me. No wonder I fell in love
with him all those years ago. Elliot can make me smile even after he’s lost everything.

Elliot’s led me below deck so I can rest. He doesn’t understand when I tell him I’ve been resting

a lot lately. Instead, I perch myself on a couch in the small but comfortable cabin, grabbing a cushion
and hugging it to my stomach. He goes back to the top deck and as I wait for him to return I hear other
voices alongside his. My blood runs cold when I recognize them. Jase and Luis. I can’t face Jase any

time soon—I don’t even know if I can trust him. He killed my father?

Yet, I know we can’t just leave the pair here to die. And they did have a hand in my release. I

still love him. I still love Jase. I’m so fucking confused right now.

Elliot returns below deck to where I’m waiting, closing the hatch behind him with a resounding

thunk. As if to say, the others aren’t welcome down here. He’s protecting me yet again, and I’m so
relieved I could cry. Instead, I stare into space, thoughts buzzing in my head like angry wasps.

Soon enough, we’re sailing out of the port and into open ocean. It’s choppy today, rough but not

unbearable, or at least it wouldn’t be if I weren’t suffering from the most pathetic morning sickness
ever. One minute I’m fine, and the next, I feel positively green.

“Julz,” Elliot says after a while.
“Yeah?”
He stares at me for a long moment, chewing his lip as if he’s nervous.
“Your mom’s not dead.”
It’s like I’ve been punched square in the face again. “What? Yes she is. The Pros- Luis told

Dornan this morning in front of me….” I trail off as I remember whose side Luis has been on the
entire time.

“Where is she?”
Elliot begins to pace, and it’s really hard to follow him with the way the boat is rocking to and

fro.

“She’s safe,” he says. “They took her to a rehab center to try and get her off some of the drugs.”
That familiar feeling of nausea swells within me again, and I swallow thickly, trying to push it

down. It doesn’t work, though, and a moment later I’m rushing to the small bathroom, getting there just
in time to puke my guts up in the sink.

Several lurches later, I rinse everything away. I cup my hands under the running water and take a

long drink. Much better.

Elliot appears behind me, one hand lightly on my shoulder. I turn quickly, not used to a friendly

touch, and he takes his hand away like it’s been burnt. “Sorry,” I say, reaching out to take his hand in
mine.” I….” I don’t know what to say.

“It’s okay,” he says, his forehead pinched with stress. “What’s happening in here?
I panic. I can’t tell him. Sickness rushes up in my throat again and I turn, throwing up again in the

sink.

“I’m seasick,” I say, after I’ve finished.
He looks very, very troubled, glancing down at my rounded belly.
“You don’t get seasick,” he says quietly. “You’ve never been seasick.”
I think of the week we spent on the Mississippi river, catching fish and making love and sunning

ourselves on the deck of the houseboat he had hired. It was right before he left me.

He’s right. I never got seasick. Not even on the days when the water was so choppy, we were

forced to stay inside and ride out the tide.

He sees right through my lie even as he suspects the truth. It’s something I’ve always been able to

do - decipher Elliot’s expression quicker than he even realizes what he’s thinking.

It is absurd how closely we mirror the Elliot and Juliette of six years ago, me puking my heart out

and him beside me, his face resigned and stricken.

He makes a pained coughing noise as he realizes I have carried a piece of the devil out of the

compound inside me, a shard of glass embedded into my womb, the price I pay for trying to right his
sins.

I can’t believe how stupid I am, that after everything we went thought six years ago, I have let

this happen again.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, as I turn and vomit again.
After I’ve finished throwing up, I flush everything away and rinse my mouth under the tap again. I

turn to look at Elliot, standing in the doorway, but it’s not Elliot anymore.

It’s Jase.
My knees go weak as I take him in. He’s covered in blood and dirt. I feel my mouth fall open,

unable to form words, as my broken heart pounds painfully.

“Julz,” he says, his face worried, his eyes almost black. Just like Dornan’s.
Finally, I find my voice. “You’re just like him,” I say, shrinking back. “I loved you. I thought you

were different.”

“It’s not what you think,” he says, his voice cracking. He steps closer, trying to grab at me, trying

to embrace me.

“Don’t you fucking touch me,” I spit, grabbing the door and trying to push it closed. “Elliot!” I

don’t remember when I started crying, but there are tears on my cheeks, tears that burn my skin. “Get
out. Get out!”

Elliot appears next to Jase, who is still wedged between the door and the doorframe to stop me

from closing him out.

“Give her some space, man,” he says sharply. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough?”
I glance at him, thankful, letting the door slam shut as soon as Jase steps back. As I flick the lock,

I see a shadow at the base of the door, and it doesn’t move for a long time. I hold my breath and let it
go, again and again, an old habit I used to do when I was stressed out. Three held breaths and the
shadow is still there.

“I’m not talking to you,” I call, to the person behind the door. “Go away.”
But he doesn’t.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, “I’m never leaving you again.”
As I slide to the floor, sobbing, thinking of the horrid fucking mess that I’m in, the baby nudges

the inside of my belly, the boat lurches to the side, and I hang on to the floor for dear life.

As the boat rocks on the rough sea, my own words come back to haunt me.
Four sons dead before you even fucking noticed me.
Well, Dornan’s noticed me now. And he thinks I’m pregnant with his baby. He’s going to tear the

world down until he finds me and makes me pay.

the sixth book in the Gypsy Brothers series, will be released on

September 28th, 2014.

To be notified as soon as it’s available,

sign up here

.

Lili writes dark romance. Her debut serial novel, Seven Sons, was released in early 2014, with

the following books in the series coming out in quick succession. Lili quit corporate life to focus on
writing and is loving every minute of it.

Her other loves in life include her gorgeous husband, beautiful daughter, watching Tarantino

movies and drinking good wine. She loves to read almost as much as she loves to write.

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