The Villain’s Captive by Bella J.
9
The ice clinkedas I swirled the glass of whiskey. The half-empty bottle stood on the side table, close by for when I needed a top-up. Time pissed by as I stared at the flames flickering in the fireplace. One would think I lit it to ward off the early-autumn chill, but part of me wondered if it might be my subconscious trying to prepare me for an eternity in hell that awaited me.
What did it feel like to burn alive? To have flames engulf you, suffocate you while your skin melted off your bones? I could only imagine how terrifying it had to be to smell the stench of burning flesh, knowing it was yours—that soon you’d be nothing but ash.
Many religions taught us about hell. Hades. The underworld. That burning alive over and over again for eternity was what awaited you once you’d descended into the devil’s realm. More than likely it was where I’d be heading to once my time comes. There was no redemption for a man who lived a life like I did…or for a child who did something so fucking unforgivable.
I swallowed the last mouthful of whiskey, relishing the sting as it went down and settled in my stomach.
I’d see her again in hell, the mother I thought I was rid of forever. But like every other fucking nightmare, she would come back someday, eventually. She was probably down there right now, tied up and getting fucked in the ass by the devil, thinking of the day I’d walk through those flaming gates and loving the thought. There was no escaping her. Even stuck in her grave, she haunted me, refusing to pull her toxic claws from my goddamn soul.
The entire house smelled like cigarettes, piss, and the rotting meatloaf from last week. Occasionally, my mom would attempt to take on this daunting task called motherhood. But it wouldn’t even last a night before she’d fall back into old habits.
Alcohol.
Drugs.
Sex.
Ignoring us. Ellie and me.
Ellie, my little sister, would sneak into my room at night, get under my blanket, and snuggle up behind my back. It was the only comfort she had ever known, the comfort of sleeping next to her older brother. Mom never showed us any affection, cared for us when we were sick. Half the time she wouldn’t even feed us, and we’d go to bed with nothing more than a slice of stale bread and half a glass of rancid milk. Eventually, we figured out dipping the bread in sugar water made it taste better and easier to swallow. Most nights, I’d end up sharing my piece with Ellie since her tummy would still be rumbling after she finished her slice. I was a bony little shit.
Some days, I’d wash the neighbors’ cars, sweep their driveways—anything for a dollar or two. But I’d make sure my mom was passed out first so she couldn’t see. If she knew I was hiding money to buy food for me and Ellie, she’d find it, steal it, use it.
Get high.
I had made peace with the fact that our mom would always be a drunk. An addict. I had been disappointed one too many times with her promises of sobering up. Ellie, on the other hand, she would fall for it every time, smiling and laughing the entire day after mom announced that changes would be made. That same night Ellie wouldn’t sneak into my room to snuggle. She would go to Mom, snuggle with her, and fall asleep, only to be woken up by noises coming from downstairs.
I had made the mistake of going downstairs once to see what was going on. Never again. Walking in on your own mother bent over the kitchen table, panties around her ankles with some strange man leaning over her from behind, clutching her hair in his fist, was a sight no ten-year-old boy should see.
The strange men would leave, and I’d find Mom not long after that, naked on the kitchen floor, the needle still dangling from her arm.
It hurt every time. Seeing my mom so helpless, pathetic, and lost. It was like this ever since Dad died. Car crash. Ellie had just turned three, and I remembered how Mom wouldn’t leave her room, forcing me to take care of my little sister. For weeks, Ellie had to eat cereal every day, twice a day, because I didn’t know how to make anything else.
And then one day there was a knock on the door, both Ellie and I surprised and excited to see Mom coming down the stairs. Finally, she had come out of her room, tying her bathrobe around her waist.
But it was since she opened that door that our lives had changed. Inside that brown bag the man handed her was the thing that took her from us. Things were never the same after that day.
The men. The drugs. Our house was like a snake pit.
For too long, Ellie and I had to watch while Mom slipped down the path of destruction, putting everything else above her own children. The hatred soon smothered the love of a son for his mother. Soon she became nothing more than this toxic waste of space, and I hated every breath she took because she used air she didn’t deserve. Ellie was the only reason I didn’t leave. She never gave up on the hope that one day our mom would wake up and be the mom we deserved.
But that day never came, and escaping the hell our mother created was the only way for us to be free.
Unfortunately…Ellie never got the chance.
I refilledmy empty glass and sipped more whiskey. The more I thought of the vile bitch, the more I needed something strong enough to numb the rage, the hatred. But by now I knew the only way to escape the demonic memory of her was with the thrill of taking another’s life. To hear their screams, imagining that they felt the same kind of pain I did.
The same kind of pain Ellie did.
I glanced at the music box on the side table. The delicate floral design set in the burr walnut and palisander lid had faded over its lifetime, the wooden frame carrying its fair share of scrapes and scratches. Memories stirred as I picked it up, turning the windup key before easing it open, revealing the tiny ballerina in her torn tutu twirling to the tune of Edelweiss. I closed my eyes, allowing myself to go back there just for a moment, back to the house where all my demons died. The room where the few good memories I had were born. Memories with her. Ellie. The little sister I couldn’t protect.
I slammed the music box shut and took a breath, steeling myself against the regret. But the voices were still there. It was always there. Apart from seeing blood run dry, there was one other thing that somehow silenced the voices.
The cellist.
But the reprieve I found from her music wouldn’t be at my disposal for much longer.
My phone vibrated, and I swiped across the screen, checking all four payment confirmations into the selected accounts I had sent to Julio Bernardi. Fucker. Part of me hoped he’d slip up with the payment. It would have given me a reason to stop the entire goddamn operation. Call everything off and let Charlotte go. Question was, if the contract had to end today and there was no reason to keep her captive any longer, would I have let her go? Or would the sick fucker in me keep her, hoping she’d play that cello for me every goddamn day so I could lose myself in her and her music?
Blurred lines.
I stood and took the bottle of whiskey, strolling down the hall. There was too much adrenaline coursing through my system, too many racing thoughts for me even to attempt getting some sleep.
When I walked past the locked door that kept the cellist in, the key in my pocket suddenly felt heavier. I plucked it out and stared at it in my palm, easing my thumb along the curved ridges before I convinced myself it would be considered polite to check on my guest—make sure she was all settled in.
Of course, I didn’t knock before I unlocked the door and stepped into the bedroom. This was my fucking apartment.
The dimmed lights were still on, and the blinds still open. But Charlotte had curled up on the bed, clutching a pillow, and seemingly fast asleep.
Purposely, I stepped lightly as I crossed the wooden floors toward the side of the bed. I took a large gulp of whiskey from the bottle, cringing as the alcohol burned down my throat.
How many nights had I watched her like this? Vulnerable, innocent, peaceful. How many times had I watched her cry herself to sleep? Alone. Heartbroken. Scared. One could say I had seen all the different sides to this woman. How her eyes changed color to a deeper, more vibrant shade of blue whenever she was happy. And how she would chew the inside of her mouth when she tried her hardest to hold back tears.
No matter how many times she had smiled, she couldn’t hide her loneliness from me. She carried it on her shoulders since the day she said goodbye to her mother for the last time.
I shot back another mouthful of whiskey when Charlotte stirred. “Pretending to be asleep with a stalker lurking in the room is really fucking hard.”
I grinned. “Observer.”
She sat up and leaned back against the headboard while holding the pillow in front of her chest. “Did you really think I’d be able to sleep?”
“Eventually, the adrenaline will wear off and your whole system will crash into exhaustion.” From the corner of my eyes, I spotted the unopened pizza box. “You didn’t eat.”
“I’m not hungry, Elijah. I just want to go home.”
“Home?” I lifted a brow. “You call that shithole apartment home?”
She toyed with the seam of the pillow. “That shithole is the closest thing I have to a home. Besides, right now I’d rather be anywhere else than here with you.”
I swirled the amber liquid around in the bottle as I regarded her, her skin glowing under the pale light, her lips an enticing blush pink. The way her blouse fell along her chest exposed the swell of her breast, teasing the fuck out of me and my now hard cock. “Earlier, you said you were scared of me. Right now, you don’t seem scared at all.”
She glanced my way. “It’s because I realized that being afraid of you won’t stop you from doing whatever it is you plan on doing to me. Psychopaths like you feed on fear. I’d be stupid to cower.”
“Or smart.”
“Maybe. But if you kill me, I think I’d prefer to die knowing I fought.”
“Remember that when you’re staring down the barrel of a gun, or feel the cold steel of a knife against your throat. Strength isn’t defined by how you fight. Strength is being able to do what needs to be done in order to survive.”
Those pretty doe eyes of hers looked up at me. “And what, exactly, do I need to do to survive you?”
And there it was again, the buzz of desire that vibrated through every bone in my fucking body, urging me to touch. Taste. Devour. The longer I stood there looking down at her, the more I imagined tearing through that silk blouse so I could wrap my lips around one of her pebbled nipples and suck it raw.
I reached out, brushing the back of my hand down the side of her face—her skin warm and smooth under my touch. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t shudder. She didn’t even fucking move, and I weaved my fingers through her hair. A soft, tangled disarray of curls. “Fear, my sweet cellist, is the mind’s best motivator when it comes to surviving.”
I tightened my fist abruptly, gripping her hair tight and pulling her head back, exposing the beautiful, delicate arch of her throat, bobbing as she swallowed. My gaze held her captive, her pretty pink lips parted as I brought mine closer, hovering a mere inch away.
“It is our fear that fuels us,” I eased my fingers along her jaw, “our fear of failure, of pain,” I gripped her chin between my thumb and forefinger, “death. Those are the things that make it so fucking important for us to survive. Even if it means exploiting the fear of others by making their worst nightmares come true.” I bit my bottom lip as I studied her, those blue orbs of crystal staring back at me with a burning determination to not. Show. Fear. And by God, I loved it.
“So, let me tell you what not to do in order to survive me.” I tugged her hair in my fist, and she moaned, the sound burning its way to the tip of my cock. “Do not fight me if you want to survive me. All it does is make my dick hard and my control non-existent, and I doubt you’re strong enough to handle that.”
I let go of her hair, and I was sure she’d scramble to the other side of the bed like a scared little kitten with her tail between her legs. But instead, she sat up, not taking her eyes off mine for a second, her cheeks flushed, and upper lip curled with a snarl. Her face was the perfect picture of resistance and contempt. “You don’t know what I can or cannot handle, Elijah. Just because you stood in the darkness and preyed on my life does not mean you fucking know me.”
I wiped at my chin with the back of my hand, unable to stop myself from being amused by her. It was in her bones, in her blood—that primal need to fight.
“You know,” I grabbed the bottle of whiskey, “you remind me of someone.”
“Yeah, who?”
I smirked. “You’ll find out soon, little cellist. Soon.”
