Page 97 of Imprisoned

Her eyes never leave mine as I maintain my hold on her throat. There’s something profound in this moment—her willingness to place herself completely in my control, knowing what I am, what I’ve done. It’s a surrender more complete than any I’ve experienced.

I ease my grip slightly, allowing her to gasp for air. The sound is beautiful—desperate and needy.

“Mine,” I state, my fingers reclaiming that delicate column of flesh with calculated pressure. “Acknowledge it.”

“Yours,” she confesses, the admission escaping like a prayer between constricted breaths. Her hands, now free, don’t fight for liberation. Instead, her nails carve crescents into my shoulder blades, urging me closer and pulling me deeper into our shared darkness.

This intensity between us transcends anything I’ve known before. In prison, I was controlled through fear and violence. With Willow, it’s different. She submits willingly, finding freedom in her surrender.

I release her throat momentarily, watching color flood back into her face. Her chest heaves as she gulps air, eyes never leaving mine. Before she can recover fully, my hand returns to her neck, reclaiming my territory.

“No one else gets to see you like this,” I tell her, my voice low and dangerous. “No one else gets to own you this way.”

The moon catches the tear sliding down her cheek—not from pain or fear, but from the overwhelming intensity between us.

42

AXEL

Istep onto the veranda, coffee in hand, and watch the sunset over the ocean. The sound of waves crashing against our private beach has become as familiar as the voices that once consumed my mind. Those voices have grown quieter here, sometimes disappearing completely for days.

Six months in paradise, and I still check the perimeter every morning. Old habits.

“Security system’s all clear,” Tommy calls from his workstation in the guest house. He’s grown up since we got here—filled out, gotten some color. The local girl he’s shacked up with, Lucia, brings him out of his shell. They’re good together.

“Thanks.”

Tommy nods, returning to his laptop. His security business is thriving—rich expats are paranoid about their digital footprints.

I sip my coffee, watching a fishing boat on the horizon. Our beachfront property sits isolated at the end of a private road, surrounded by dense vegetation on three sides and the ocean as our front yard. It’s the perfect fortress—beautiful but defensible.

Willow arranged flawless documents—birth certificates, medical licenses, and even childhood vaccination records for our new identities.

Elise and James Carter are American expats with enough wealth to avoid uncomfortable questions. The local officials accepted our residency applications without a second glance after the “administrative fees” we paid—double the standard amount, delivered in cash. Money and distance buy remarkable amounts of forgiveness for paperwork irregularities.

Inside, I hear Willow moving around in the kitchen. Six months of freedom, and I still can’t believe she’s mine. Her practice is growing steadily—word has spread among the American and European transplants about the blonde therapist who speaks perfect English and doesn’t ask too many questions about their pasts.

Ironic that she’s helping people work through their trauma when she’s living with a monster like me. Maybe that’s why she’s good at it. She understands me better than most.

I’ve found a way to keep the beast fed without drowning in blood. It’s a delicate balance.

The first time trouble came knocking was a group of local thieves casing our property. I watched them from the shadows for three nights before making my move. There is no need to spill blood when fear works better.

“You know what I am,” I told their leader after dragging him from his bed in the middle of the night. I showed him the newspaper clippings I’d kept—my crimes, my reputation. “This territory is protected. Spread the word.”

Willow has changed something in me—not cured, never cured—but given me a focus.

Now I have a system. I don’t hunt anymore, but I protect what’s mine. The local criminal elements give our home a wide berth. Some have even become useful allies. Ricardo, who runssecurity for several properties along the coast, and I have an understanding. His men avoid our stretch of beach; I provide intelligence on potential threats moving into the area.

“You’re different here,” Willow said last night, tracing the tattoo on my shoulder as we lay in bed. “Still dangerous, but controlled.”

She’s right. I’ve learned to redirect the violence, to calculate and plan rather than simply react. The voices that once demanded blood are satisfied with strategic intimidation. When a drug runner tried moving product through our cove last month, I didn’t kill him—I ensured he’d never try again by demonstrating exactly what would happen if he returned.

My reputation travels ahead of me now. “El Americano con ojos del diablo,” they call me—the American with devil’s eyes.

Tommy jokes that I’ve become the neighborhood watch from hell, but it works. We’re safe. Willow’s safe. And the monster inside me is fed just enough to stay quiet for days.

I watch Willow and her mother walking along the shoreline, heads bent together in conversation, laughter carried back to me on the breeze. Three days turned to three weeks, and now it’s been six months since Anna Matthews decided to stay.

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