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Isadora
I open my eyes to the dimly lit room, staring up at the ceiling where a bright ornate painting of Greek gods in battle casts a glow overhead. Lifting my head from the pillow, I frown at the unfamiliar surroundings, and scan the room until I find a shadowy figure sitting off in the corner, staring at me. Double-blinking, I struggle to focus through the fog of exhaustion clouding my head.
“Where am I?”
“My bedroom.” The unmistakable sound of Lucian’s voice hits like a tuning fork, and the relief I feel brings tears to my eyes. “Dr. Powell removed the bullet from your ankle. He gave you something for the pain. You’ve been out for a whole day.”
Resistance keeps my arms from moving when I try to sit up, and I crane my neck to find black leather cuffs attached to my wrists.
A gasp of panic escapes me, and I wriggle against them.
“You kept trying to pull out your I.V. My bed was the only one equipped with restraints.”
I don’t know why the thought of that pisses me off, but I sneer at him. “For your slaves?”
“For you. I had them installed for you, that weekend I asked you to stay.”
“To keep me imprisoned?”
“The thought crossed my mind.” There isn’t a trace of humor in his voice when he answers. He sits forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Aside from your ankle, how are you feeling?”
The question makes me snort a laugh. How am I feeling? To know my father is a murdering bastard who killed my mother? One who probably had every intention of killing me, as well. “It’s a lot to process.”
“It is. You could’ve died. One stray bullet. That’s all it’d have taken.”
My thoughts quickly sober with the serious tone of his voice, and the gravity of the situation presses down on me again. “How did you find me?”
“The bracelet. I gave it to the investigator.”
“I should’ve never taken it off.” A dull ache throbs in both my ankle and my head, and I turn to the side, where a glass of water sits on the nightstand. “Is that for me?”
“Yes. There’s a pill there, if you need it. It’ll knock you out, though.”
“Any chance you can un-cuff me? My fingers are starting to tingle.”
He stares back at me, as if hesitating, and his comments from before, of keeping me imprisoned, slink back into my thoughts. After idling a minute more, he pushes up from the chair and crosses the room, coming to a stop beside the bed, and traces his finger down my temple. “I thought I was going to lose you. That’s a level of insanity I don’t ever want to experience again.”
Another moment of staring, and he unbuckles the restraints at my wrists.
I rub my irritated skin for a moment, ru
“No. I insisted that he remain alive. But I promise he won’t hurt you again.”
Two weeks ago, I would’ve insisted on knowing why. How. I would’ve inquired about the group that pays to torture others. But having been at the mercy of a psychopath, I’ve come to the understanding that there are some questions that don’t need answers.
“I was so scared.” Setting the glass in my lap, I take notice of the bandage at my forearm where the IV must’ve been placed. “The moment he pulled up beside me in his car, I knew something was wrong.”
“Of course you did.”
“What?”
“Most predators harbor natural instincts like that. It’s how we survive.”
“We? What are you talking about?”
“Tell me something, Isa …” Lucian stalks around the perimeter of the bed, dragging his finger across the blanket, and comes to a stop opposite me. Perhaps it’s the light of the moon that makes his eyes flicker like a burning flame, as he stares back at me, fingers curled around the footboard. “The night those boys attacked you at the party. What happened next?”
A tickle at the back of my neck is a warning, though of what, I’m not sure. “Why are you asking me about this?”
“Because I want to hear it from your lips.”
I told him what happened weeks ago. Surely, he hasn’t forgotten already. “I … I gathered up my friend and drove her back to her house.”
“And then?”
“We called the police.”
His frown breaks to a partial smile that’s plagued by disbelief. One that tells me he knows more than what I told him. “You skipped too far ahead. Go back a little. What happened immediately after you drove Kelsey back to her house?”
Panic blossoms inside my chest as I stare back at him, the memories of that night crawling out of their airtight boxes, the tiny compartments I’ve constructed inside my head. “Why?”
“Tell me.”
“I … don’t …” Remember. But I do. In the long pause that follows, the images in my head seem to project on the wall behind him, playing like a movie reel. “I went back to the party. Alone. And I found Aedon, Brady, and all their friends back out in the pool house. Drinking and smoking. I nearly choked on the cloud of marijuana clinging to the air.”
“Why did you go back?” His voice is distant, reminding me of days spent sitting in the therapist’s chair while he probed my thoughts for answers. Reasons that would compel me to do what I did.
“I was angry. I wanted to confront them.”
“Wrong. What did you do when you found them in the pool house?”
What did you do?
What did you do?
The words of Aunt Midge echo inside my head.
“I told Brady that … that I wanted him. Only him. So he sent the others out.”
“And?”
An urgency in my head begs me not to answer his question, but I do, anyway, my mouth commanded by an unseen force. “I took my shirt off, to show him I was serious. And he removed his pants.”
Lucian tips his head and strokes his jaw. “Did you want to fuck him?”
“No.” My thoughts are still tied in the dream--or nightmare, rather--spi
“So, what happened?”
“I knelt down in front of him, like I was going to put my mouth on him. He closed his eyes. And I pulled the knife from my back pocket. I stabbed him. Over and over, I stabbed his groin.” I screw my eyes shut to block out the memory, but it’s all there inside my head. The screams. The fury. “All I saw was blood.”
“It wasn’t Kelsey that Brady tried to rape that night. It was you.”
Eyes still clamped, I shake my head, but the truth in his words are too strong for the months of denial that has served as a shield. Because if--if--I’d so much as dipped a toe into those dangerous waters, there’s no telling what damage I would’ve done to myself in the aftermath. I wanted Brady more than anything my senior year, and when he finally showed interest, all my good sense went out the fucking window. I became a statistic. Another after-school special, warning girls of the dangers of drinking alcohol at a party. Only, instead of Brady looking like the villain, my retaliation made him the saint in all of this, and I became the psycho.
“It was Kelsey’s testimony that kept you from being locked up, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” I finally open my eyes, exhaling a shaky breath. “She witnessed everything, except the stabbing.”
“Tell me about Uncle George. Do you remember how his throat ended up sliced open?”
Lowering my gaze, I shake my head. “I blacked out.”