Page 64 of Remi's War (Four Dark Horsemen 2)

I shake my head in denial, too afraid to accept my reality, for it would mean I haven’t just made a mistake tonight.

I brought myself to a murderer on a silver platter!

“Please, God help me,” I whisper, chanting the only prayer my mind remembers. Dad was never big on being religious, and right now, I really hate that.

An extra prayer might have helped me with this demon!

The man clacks his tongue, his other hand lacing in my hair and fisting it hard, the hurt radiating through my scalp. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that.” He pulls at my locks, earning himself a gasp, and tilts me backward. “After all, you just willingly came to my lair, chérie.” My hands fall on his chest, gripping his shirt hard even though everything in me screams to push him away. “Open. Your. Eyes.”

With dread filling every facet of my soul, I do as he says, studying the environment around me, and I try not to cry out in despair at the sight chilling my blood. It makes my heart race so hard inside me I’m afraid it will end up on the floor where the monster will stomp on it.

All while laughing at me.

The place reeks of hopelessness, doom, gore, and danger, but also pain and horror as various devices in it leave nothing to the imagination.

Every piece speaks of torture awaiting anyone being unlucky enough to cross paths with this man.

Remi.

I bite my lips, not letting a sound escape me to show any weakness, as monsters always use it to their advantage.

“Good girl,” he praises me and glides his fingers over my scalp, rubbing the abused flesh while the bile in my throat rises, and I snap my head to the side, avoiding his touch.

I don’t want him to ever touch me again with these hands!

“Don’t,” I grit out through my teeth, which once again earns me laughter, and another voice several feet away speaks up, deeper and more amused, making me instantly hate the person it belongs to.

“Ella es una luchadora. Me gusta.”

My father once sent me for a whole summer to Madrid, so I speak Spanish fluently. I bristle at him liking that I’m a fighter. What a dick. No wonder he forced his own wife into a marriage.

Santiago and the rest of the dark four occupy the couches right in the middle of this… dungeon, for lack of a better word, with a small table filled with half-empty bottles and a bowl of ice.

“Well, resistance is interesting to a point,” Florian speaks up, inhaling his cigarette and then exhaling the smoke in a ring. “Then it becomes boring as fuck.” He winks at me. “Hello, darling. We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting.”

“Don’t call me darling!” I hiss at him, anger temporary replacing the panic swirling inside me with paralyzing fear.

Madness, such madness all around me, and not even an ounce of remorse shows on their faces.

Florian just laughs at my outburst, blowing me a kiss, while Santiago lifts his glass in my direction before finishing his drink in one shot.

“Ah, she talks back too. That’s way more interesting than hysterics. No tears or pleadings does spice things up around here.” He pours himself one more shot from a bottle of tequila.

Everything in me screams to say something to them, or dart to the weapon table and pick up a gun, to threaten to shoot until they let me go.

The fog of terror almost consumes me, urging me into foolishness, not caring about the consequences.

My anger helps me clear the mist in my brain though, grounding me in the present and willing me to stand brave, to face these men with my dignity intact and not let my emotions rule.

Psychopaths and their friends aren't known for being kind or patient, so my words need to be chosen carefully in order to not dig myself a deeper hole. If my suspicions are true, then all of them support what Remi does to these poor people.

Monsters who wear beautiful masks to lure their victims, only to show their rotten natures in the dark, stripping innocent people from the gift God gave them.

Our psychology professor who was obsessed with serial killers once told us that we should never assign them any labels or expect a certain image associated with them.

For one of the cruelest facts of all is they are the people we would never think capable of such deeds.

However, he did point out that playing along with their games lets the victim stay alive longer, since they are then indulging them in their fantasies. People tend to slip up or make mistakes though, and when they do… they ruin the pleasure for the killer, which then destroys his control. And then he snaps, too lost in his head to stop himself.

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