Page 57 of Firethorne
“He won’t find her,” Trent assured me. “That safe house, the apartment, it’s perfect. And she’ll be gone in a few days. I have my contacts sorting out her new passport and papers. By this time next week, she’ll have a new life.”
“I hope you’re right, Trent. I really fucking hope you’re right.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Damien
Igave her twenty-four hours to cool down. I had cameras set up in every corner of the apartment, so I knew she was okay. I checked on her and watched her for most of the day as she paced the floor and scoured the apartment for a way out or for something she could use as a weapon. She wasn’t successful, but I got a sick fascination from watching her squirm. My little captive had more fight for survival than I thought she would when I first met her. I admired her spirit. It'd help her in the long run.
As I pushed the door open and entered the apartment, she shot up from the sofa, charging over to me.
“Let me out,” she snarled, like a rabid dog ready to rip me to shreds, and when the door closed and locked itself behind me, I grinned and said, “Oops,” she threw her whole body at me, nails ready to gouge like claws, arms to fight, legs to kick. But she was tiny, and I was six-foot-two. She didn’t stand a chance.
I caught her in my arms, twisted her and lifted her in the air, her back to my front, with her legs kicking as I whispered in her ear, “Calm down, little one. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Don’t fucking patronise me,” she growled, as she clawed and scratched at my arms, but I managed to put her back on the sofa, and as she huffed angrily and blew her hair from her face, I smiled.
“Sarcastic, yes... but patronising?” I shook my head. “Never.”
“Why are you here?” she asked, sitting forward, her eyes beads of fury as she glared up at me.
“To check you’re okay.”
“Don’t act like you care.”
“I don’t. Act, I mean. I leave that to Lysander.” I shrugged, knowing that would piss her off, but I couldn’t help it. I liked her feisty side.
“Fuck you,” she barked.
And I smirked. “You really need to work on your putdowns. There’s a whole lot of cuss words you could use instead of fuck. Mix it up a little. Call me a cunt, a bastard, a motherfucker, even.” I cocked my head. “You like that f-word, don’t you?” I laughed because I knew she was holding her tongue, trying not to tell me to go fuck myself.
“You told me you saved me,” she said. “If that’s the case, why are you keeping me here like a fucking prisoner? And why”—she gripped the edge of the sofa like she was holding herself back from launching at me again—“didn’t you warn me back at Firethorne that I was in danger? Because you did know that, right? You said so yourself, yesterday.” Then her eyes darkened as she lowered her gaze at me. “I’m guessing it was you that left the dead rat on my doorstep with the message, telling me, ‘They’re all liars here’. Did you really think that’d work? Did you think that was enough to drive me away? And the writing on my bathroom mirror...”
This wasn’t going the way I wanted it to.
“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” I snapped.
“You didn’t do enough though, did you?” she hissed through her teeth, and I took a breath, took a moment to calm the demons that were rising inside. Clawing their way out of the graves that I’d kept them buried in for a long time.
She shook her head as I stood there watching her, holding my tongue and waiting. “I can’t believe I ever had a moment of weakness with you. I can’t believe I let you touch me.”
“We all have moments of weakness,” I replied, smiling through the anger bubbling under the surface. “Don’t beat yourself up about it.”
“Oh, I don’t,” she replied. “I know you took advantage of me.”
It was my turn to let the rage reign, and I balled my fists, wishing I could punch a fucking wall.
“I don’t remember you using the word ‘no’, Maya. In fact, I seem to remember you telling me you wanted it, making all those little noises as you ground your soaking wet pussy on my hand.”
Her cheeks blushed at my words, but her face glared as her eyes burned at me. If she could strike me dead right now, she would.
“I know the truth,” she said. “My eyes are wide open to what you are.”
“Which is?” I couldn’t help but goad her.
“You’re your father’s little monster. His bastard.” She grinned wickedly as she added, “You’re right, it does feel good to use other words to describe you.”
I’d been called a bastard more than my own name for most of my life, so that insult rolled off me like water off a duck’s back. But when she said, “Lysander has done more to save me than you ever could,” I knew she was trying to poke the beast inside me.
