Page 14 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 2

A twitch of his eye, and he continues up the stairs.

Another damn staircase.

I can’t help but feel that I’m following my executioner to the hanging post, so when we reach the thick wooden door that he opens slowly, I gasp at the sight of a wooden pillar placed at the corner foot of an ornate four-post bed inside, thickening the existing post. A hole at the top feeds a chain where cuffs hang at either side. Across from the bed is a large steel cross with metal latches where leather cuffs dangle from chains.

Oh my God.

He’s a sadist. Not that I’m surprised, considering I watched a prostitute brutalize his dick in front of me, but the reality beats through me the longer I stare at the horrors inside. This is no Red Room. It’s not a playroom. It’s where he’ll torture me for the next two months.

And what will be left of me after that? Broken? Hollow? Will he have brought me to the point where I beg for death as he promised?

I clamp my eyes shut, trying to summon the peaceful face of my dog when they euthanize her. End her life. I can’t let that happen—I refuse to let her life be decided by some asshole behind a desk. She’s not a monster, but a product of where she grew up. Just like me.

Stay strong.

Through the bedroom, I trail behind, visually swallowing the various props in the room, imagining myself hanging like some kind of burlesque ballerina from the cables that reach down from the ceiling.

My eyes fall on his form in front of me—his back, specifically, covered only by the black T-shirt he wears, and the tattoos that cover his arms. My stomach flutters with sickness that I will soon be the sole preoccupation of this killer. His focus.

I’ve lived worse. I’ve survived worse. I’ll survive him.

The bathroom is large and elaborate—perfect for a narcissistic bastard. Butted against the wall sits a glass box, the fanciest shower I’ve ever seen, with about ten different knobs and three separate heads at the top and the sides. The tub is nothing spectacular—a claw tub that looks like something my grandmother might’ve owned, but it’s wide and spacious enough, even for his body. The scent of smoky sandalwood overwhelms me when I step inside and, I’m ashamed to admit, it waters my mouth.

He turns to face me and gestures toward the sink. “There’s a new razor. I want you shaved bare. I don’t want any of that landing strip shit or fucking triangles. Your skin is to be smooth every day. You shower every day—no exceptions. If you need help, I’ll help you.”

“Why would I need help?”

He takes another step forward, shrinking me beneath his hulking form, and forcing me a step back. “Sweetheart, we’re about to learn an awful lot about each other in the next few days.”

He moves in closer still until his finger hooks beneath the hem of my T-shirt, and I grip his arm.

“I can do it myself.” I flinch at the promise I made not to argue or fight with the man, so I release his arm and lift mine into the air. “Sorry.”

His hand snakes beneath my shirt, palm skating across my stomach, up toward my breasts, where he stops just short, rubbing my rib cage instead. “I’m going to enjoy the next two months.”

That makes one of us.

He removes his hand from beneath my shirt. “Take your time showering. You wear nothing under the T-shirt. I catch you hiding a knife like the one I found on you the night you broke in, I’ll hold it to your throat while I fuck you. Are we clear?”

That’s where my knife went.

I give a reluctant nod. The rebellious girl inside of me wants to tell him that if he tries such a thing, I’ll cut his dick off while he sleeps. But that girl wouldn’t get the twenty grand slid across her palm by the end of two months.

“The knife. You gave it to me. The night at the factory. Said I might need it.”

His eyes narrow on me as he crosses his arms over his chest, bringing his bulging muscles to my attention. “I did, didn’t I? That’s one of those stupid moments in retrospect. But here’s the deal. Don’t fuck with me and you’ll have no reason to protect yourself. Truth is, Dylan, I’m not the kind of man to leave scars on your body, but don’t be foolish to think I won’t leave them inside your head.” He taps his temple and grins. “I’m damn good at fucking the mind.”

I believe him. That every muscle in my body remains on guard tells me I don’t trust him.

“I’ll get you something clean to wear,” he says and turns, exiting the bathroom.

I stare into the mirror, at the sallow tone of my cheeks and the muss of my hair that I’ve not brushed in days. Dark circles under my eyes make me look older, tired, like my mother when she’d be caught between the highs and the lows of her addiction. I look like a fucking heroin addict. As stupid as the question is, I have to wonder why the hell this guy would agree to do this. I’ve kept the hunger off my bones for the most part, and though my face is thinner, it hasn’t reached the point of looking gaunt. But the healthy glow has left my cheeks. That, or I’m just seeing for the first time what I’ve looked like all this time.

Sobriety’s a real slap in the face. I feel raw and jagged, like glass that’s been shattered into too many pieces to put back together. I swallow the urge to cry.

This will be one more piece of me, broken by the hands of a man who has no conscience, no empathy for my kind of pain. So there’s no point in crying about it.

Pausing to listen for footsteps, I tuck my fingers beneath the hem of my shirt and at the noiseless hush at the other side of the door, I lift it over my head and toss it to the floor. The movement shoots another wave of vertigo to my head, spinning the room off kilter, and I grip the sink to keep from tumbling back on my ass, until after a few seconds, it passes.