Hunting Her Box Set

Anissa

I slowly peel Cole’s jacket from my body as if it’s a layer of skin. Every muscle aches, each movement making me want to whimper in protest.

The vulnerability accompanying my nudity doesn’t help either.

The reminder of being stripped bare to stand before an audience of rapists makes my limbs break out in a toxic shiver. Then there’s the evidence of the trauma staring back at me from the mirror, proving how defenseless I’d been.

Reds, purples, and pinks line my neck. My shoulder is puffy and swollen. I’m pale, my cheek bruised, my eyes lifeless.

I’d given Cole the impression I hadn’t wanted him to hurt Amar, but that’s only because the truth had scared me.

I’d wanted that man punished.

Tortured.

Killed.

I’d craved the sight of his blood. The sound of his screams. The taste of his panic. I didn’t experience an ounce of reluctance due to morality.

My pleas were due to fear. Anger etched itself through every one of my nerves, the compulsion for revenge potent enough to frighten the hell out of me.

I still fear it now.

I’m scared of becoming Cole. Of succumbing to this need for revenge that feels more natural than a set of handcuffs, a lengthy court process, and wasted time behind bars.

I’d wanted Amar’s humiliation.

My scream for him to swim only came out because I couldn’t let the darkness win.

I would’ve watched his execution without an ounce of disgust, and I would’ve lost my soul in the process. Instead, I got a taste of what I wanted and disguised it as a reprieve.

Cole still thinks I’m this perfectly intact agent, when death without conviction is all I want for any bastard who makes women feel the way I do—hopeless, helpless, and entirely at the mercy of mad men.

I step into the open shower, turn on the water, and wait for ribbons of steam to inch their delicate fingers toward me.

I breathe in the warmth, dragging the moisture deep into my lungs. The heat needs to fill the hollow space carved into my soul. It has to make me whole again. But it doesn’t.

After long minutes I’m still empty. Still broken.

I step under the spray and hope the peppering water will wash away the dirt and grime. Only there’s so much filth left behind.

I’m not sure I’ll ever be clean.

All the toxins are still there. Coating me. Smothering the light to fill me with darkness.

I can’t imagine losing this sickening demand for retaliation. It’s as if my body thinks the damage will be healed if I return the evil gift I was given.

I want justice, and for once, I understand that will never come from somewhere that provides shelter, amenities, and three solid meals a day. My perpetrators can’t be sentenced and have an end date to their suffering when I don’t know if mine will ever stop.

“Oh, God.” I close my eyes and raise my face to the heavens.

I’m not this person. I don’t want to succumb to the poison.

I can’t.

I slump against the tiled wall and slide to the floor, every muscle aching in protest.

Water dances over my feet as I bend my knees, hugging my legs to my chest, and bow my head. The falling shower rains over my hair, creating a curtain to shield my face from the world—a world where I turned my back on my own father.

If I’d been the virtuous woman I claimed to be, I would’ve fought harder to seek the truth about him. I wouldn’t have stopped when humiliation seemed like the only option waiting for me on the other side of my investigation.

I should’ve fought.

I should’ve clawed.

I should’ve screamed in the face of all those who took me in with judgmental eyes because they thought the blood flowing through my veins was tainted with criminal genes.

It was the system who failed me. Not the man I should’ve believed in.

The Bureau betrayed me. Not my father.

My stomach churns, the guilt having a building effect. Heat licks at my eyes, the sting of building tears increasing my anger.

This isn’t me either. I’m not a crier.

I’m not weak.

To prove it to myself, I let the onslaught of childhood memories I’d previously disowned come rushing back. I relive the precious moments, allowing the grief to burn inside me.

I remember all those birthdays when he was the first person waiting for me when I left my bedroom. I hear him singing as he cooked di

I can imagine my father paying Luther respect for his loss despite them being on opposite sides of the law. He always had a heavy sense of integrity. He wanted to help, not hurt.

He was a good man.

I guess he still is.

I’m the one who’s defecting. Failing. And sweating like a pig with all this hot water.

I sit up, the skin on my toes now wrinkled after I disappeared into a black hole of thoughts for too damn long.

Stark eyes meet mine from across the bathroom. My avenging angel sits perched on the elegant white tub, his shoulders drooped in defeat, his lips set in a thin line.

He fills me with conflict. He always has. But I can’t deny the co

I’m drawn to him. It’s like the cliched moth to a flame. It’s so much more than that, too.

He suffuses me with strengthening breaths. With new curious life.

He also punishes and destroys.

He makes me feel whole and empty. Right and wrong. Invigorated and eviscerated all at the same time, with every varying sensation in between.

He showed me the sliding scale of gray when I’d been used to seeing black and white for so long. He’s encouraged me to think outside the constraints of what I’ve been taught. To question everything. To challenge anything.

Now the Anissa I once was is becoming a stranger.

“Do you feel any better?” His eyes turn sympathetic, his comfort attempting to fill the hollow ache inside.

I nod, unwilling to speak and expose any more weakness.

“Good. Are you hungry?”

There’s something different about him. Something wary.

His knuckles are white as he clutches the tub on either side of his thighs. His defeat is etched into the very fiber of his being.

“What’s wrong?” My voice croaks. “Has something happened?”

“There’s been a change of plan. We’re not going to leave just yet.”

Adrenaline injects itself back among my mix of melancholy and self-loathing. I brace myself to stand, only to have him halt me with the raise of his hands.

“Sit. There’s nothing to worry about. Everything is fine. There’s been a holdup with the jet. Keira called it back to Portland, but it’s returning now.”

My breathing increases, the tendrils of steam filling my lungs to the point of suffocation.

“It’s okay.” He pushes to his feet, discards his suit jacket, and toes off his shoes and socks to walk into the shower. “You’re safe.” His frame towers above me as water soaks the cuffs of his pants. “It’s a slight delay; that’s all. We’ll leave in the morning.”

“Can’t we take another jet? Or fly commercial? We can’t stay here.”

“We’ll be fine.” He gives a sad smile. A placating, condescending curve of lips. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“That’s not the impression you gave on the boat. You wanted us out of here as soon as possible.”

“Then things changed.”

He continues to appease me with a calm facade. I don’t buy it. I know our safety is at risk if we remain in Greece.