Torture (Siren Book 2) (2 page)

Fine. He wants a breakdown, I can give him a breakdown. “I don't want to
think
about it, Calder.” A lie. I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. “What do you want me to say? That the smoked meat in the sandwiches makes me wish I could be a goddamn vegetarian now? That I'm afraid to be on the ground? That I don't want to get out of this room just as much as you do, on the off-chance that it's even a foot closer to fresh goddamn air and my own bed, because we might see something like that
again
?”

It's a relief to let out something so honest, even if it's a twisted sort of honesty, with my omissions. My hands tremble from the effort, and it's a battle keeping my voice down. At least the emotion in it is raw, and plainly what he wants to see.

Calder's fingers tighten in mine, and his other hand guides my head to his shoulder. I know what he expects. Tears well in my eyes, heavy, thick sobs that I can only unleash on command. I haven't cried in years, except when it was needed to prove a point to someone.

Cradled against his chest, my head tucked against his neck, every last bit of unrest leaks into my sobs. I need to make the outburst convincing, make it count. And so long as he thinks he's 'handling the problem', he stays where I need him. But even more than that, he's warm, and sturdy. Immovable. When I’m enveloped so completely, I might as well be a child, long before I saw what people are capable of.

The tears are about him, not me. At least, that's what I tell myself as he sketches patterns on my shoulders, and rocks me until the sobs stop. It's soothing, and only draws my mind back to processing everything. It's somehow natural being in his arms, and I have to remind myself that it's only because I've been there before; he may not remember what happened before I captured him, but
I
do. My body still does, from the subtle electricity in his touch.

But I can't focus on that. I can't remember his confidence, his willingness to play rough, except as a tool to bring my anger to the surface. My ankles and wrists restrained, his naked body between my thighs, all of that
only
happened to remind me who I was dealing with. And to give me something
else
to punish him for. If he ever remembers it, maybe even something to hurt him with.

It's addicting—the power, the pain, the sheer visceral
thrill
of
experiencing
my handiwork being carried out, not just seeing it, but smelling it, tasting it. The draw scares me a little; I never thought myself a monster, just an agent of change where no one else would act. Even lashing out at Calder as though my life depended on it, it wasn't bloodlust, just a desire to interact with a violent world as an equal. But the smell of Alex burning, the desire to step on him, too, press him deeper into the glowing iron to hear him sizzle... If I
like
it, if I
like
taking someone's life, not just knowing the world is better off without them... It's not a side of myself I want to face.

So... what did I honestly think? When I was in that ventilation duct, waiting for them to find their way up to me, what made my blood hum?

I thought it was karma. That each bit of pain was purging something in them, something that had led them to pursue selfish gain to the harm of others. And in that context, I
could
glory in the smell of burning flesh, of hot metal. I
could
revel in their yells, in the changes in intonation and tone as they fought or accepted the likelihood of death. The way Denise's body trembled as she knelt with me, away from the flames, but not the suffocating smoke. The noise when Alex tried to get up after falling on that red-hot grate, and left half-charred flesh seared to the floor, before falling for the last time.

Calder's lips find my cheek, soft and comforting. He still smells smoky, an acrid edge that blends with his natural musk. The combination makes me wince. But the awareness of the aversion warms me.

I'm not a monster. I don't glorify violence, for violence's sake. Not like Calder.

His hand slides away from mine, gathering me closer. I'm all but in his lap, my fragmented thoughts constellations among clouds. If he had half as much aggression in person as he does toward those he doesn't know, he'd snap my neck right here. But he won't. That's not his manner of harm. So all that's left is... I don't know. It's not horniness—I've
seen
him horny. This isn't that.

It's not simply keeping the peace. Somehow, his
own
ego and sense of equilibrium is tied up in me.

With that revelation comes a new sense of power, one that makes the sobs come harder. As confusing and difficult as his touch is, amplifying the mire in my head, I can cope with the flood, so long as it keeps him
exactly
where I want him, feeling only what I want him to feel.

Only then does it occur to me the other reason that he might feel that way:
does he remember me
?
Does he remember the second time he had me, skin to skin, no restraints?

His eyes catch mine, icy blue orbs holding my tear-swollen blue-green ones with barely a thought, freezing me in my tracks. A flush rises in my cheeks as I inspect him for any signs that he's remembering what I look like naked. But there's none of that. No flirtation, or lust.

I don't know what the hell's there anymore. Maybe a little bit of his old, cocky self coming through. Not what I expected to see. Maybe I'm reading him wrong. Maybe he's manipulating me.

As the panic and confusion courses through me, I fight to keep it hidden. And maybe it even works—I can't really be sure. Because whatever I might try to glean from any changes in his expression, it's lost  when his lips find mine. My mind goes blank, a cassette tape eating itself.

The shakes worsen. The last time he kissed me, I let him, because it got him close enough to incapacitate him. What purpose does this serve, letting him do it here? But if I shove him away, will that lead to questions? Is it better to just let the flow carry me, and trust that it'll yield something I can use later?

His lips are warm on mine, and gentle, so gentle. Not the consuming, ravenous kiss he offered last time. Frankly, the ravenous would be easier to take. If it was simply that he was trying to stake me out as 'his', start a pissing contest with Allen, or ditch his excess hormones, it would be easier to play along.

No. He kisses me like he wants my happiness. It makes a hysterical laugh build in my throat—my happiness will only come when I've torn
him open, and his body's gone cold. When I've forgotten his cock inside me and his skin against mine.

He pulls back, concerned by the inarticulate hitch my laugh emerged as, and I look away, quickly. It's feeling more and more like I'm losing control. But the combination of sensations, of his soft touches and full lips... it pulls me back into myself, away from some of my hard-won distance. The deathly smell hits me more strongly, almost enough to burn my nostrils, and I can feel the heat on my face again.

“You're blushing,” he says, his thumb sliding along my cheekbone to wipe a tear away. He absentmindedly brushes my tears off his own face, but refuses to loosen his arm around me.

I can't think of a damn thing to say, a damn thing to respond. What the fuck are you
supposed
to say after someone kisses you like that, anyways?

I deflect with the first thing that comes to mind. “Allen's looking at us.”

His arm flexes around me; he's noticed it, too. “Yeah. He's been watching you more lately. It makes me nervous.”

Friction. I can use that. “Why? You don't like him?”

“I like him just fine, but the other three, they
knew
each other. And Alex didn't want them to admit it. That—it implies order and cohesion. That there's something connecting the rest of us I just can't see yet. And until I know the nature of those invisible ties, I can't trust his intentions.”

I should react to that. After all, these people are my
world
, people I depend on to keep myself safe...
hah
. I accelerate my breathing, accepting the lightheadedness as a necessary consequence. Unless he picks the next minute to attack me, I'll have plenty of time to recover, if needed.

“Easy,
easy
,” he says, not for the first time, and it makes me wonder if he's spent more time handling horses than people.

I shoot Allen a frightened look. He's now carefully
not
looking at us.

“Milla, it's
fine
. I've got your back.” Calder smiles at me conspiratorially, but there's no way I can echo it.

And it's funny... those connections he wants to see, and he's missing the
obvious
ones. They all are. I suppose survival takes precedence over solving mysteries, but it's still infuriating. Even knowing they view us as an invisible underclass hadn't prepared me to be faced with the
proof
of it.

I'd rather be disposing of the burned husk, and building sandwiches for them like I was their mommy than be here, watching them blithely going on,
again
ignoring the obvious.

No doubt intending to be comforting, he angles my chin upward until our lips are almost touching. “It's
okay
, Milla. Breathe with me. One... two... three...”

I follow his directions, letting him take lead. My breathing evens out, our faces warmed with the heat in each other's breaths. The stubble shading his chin tickles me, a touch as soft as his own. His whispered counts peter off, and all that's left is his mouth against mine, small motions barely discernible. I shut my eyes, and maintain his rhythm, waiting for one of us to pull away.

My blood roars through me, and the verdict's out on whether it's the fight part of fight-or-flight, or just a reaction to the physical contact. Somehow, because I let him touch me once, my body's decided that he's more than welcome to do it
whenever
the damn hell he wants. I haven't really been looking for romance, even romance of the fuck-buddy kind, in
years
, and apparently I've forgotten what physical intimacy actually
feels
like, void of dry negotiations about who likes what, and what's too personal to share. My instincts shouldn't be
that
easy for him to fool.

He's the
last
person I want to share it with. Just the thought of him witnessing that kind of vulnerability... it turns the excitement to anger. I tense and pull back, my breaths coming faster again.

“Milla?” The suddenness of my movements startles him out of his reverie, and his eyes snap to me. We hold each other's gaze, and I don't bother hiding
any
of my conflict. He takes in every bit of it, confusion turning to irritation before my eyes.

Something gets lost in translation, though. He softens, squeezing my shaking hands in his strong ones, and tugs me right back. “It's okay, Mil—you don't have to feel guilty for being alive. There's nothing wrong with us being alive.”

I can't tell which of us he's trying to convince.

Then, he gives up trying to use words, and uses his mouth.

Now
this
, I can handle a little more easily. It's still not productive, but at least I have more of a reason to disengage. If I can
just
make myself, if I can let go of his breath mingling with mine, and his tongue in my mouth. His sensuous assault distracts me with every point of contact: his body against mine, his soft lips, his smooth cheeks, his teasing tongue... The man
does
know how to kiss.

I pry myself awau, and scoot a little further from him, to make my intent plain.

“Sorry—I, I thought you wanted—”

I stare away from him, keeping my face hidden, and shake my head, shortly.

“Point taken, then,” he says, and sighs, heavily. “Is it—I should have asked. You have a family, outside here? I guess I just assumed—”

“No.” Maybe he only asked whether someone took me away from a spouse, a partner, but my answer fits honestly on every level.

His lips press together, not quite a smile, but
definitely
a reaction. I don't want his mind to push that way any further; I've gotta change the subject. Onward to more productive things. “So where did you grow up anyways? Your family moved here, right?”

Maybe if he relives the early days, he'll figure out what I need him to. Atonement is atonement, willing or not, but I'll feel I've done my job so much
better
if he actually has the balls to figure it out for himself.

Chapter Three

Calder Roane

Something about the conversation doesn't sit well with me. Maybe it's guilt at Milla's reaction; I'd only meant to comfort her, but it seems to have had the opposite effect, making her avoid me and sit closer to Denise. It's just as well, though. Milla knows my thoughts, that there's something here we're missing. The others do to, just to a lesser degree. And I have to try again.

“So—why didn't Alex want me to know you guys all knew each other?”

Where subtlety failed, may as well try directness.

Allen's brows fall into a single line so quickly, it's almost audible. I focus on Denise, though. Either she hates confrontation, or she feels some sort of obligation toward me over carrying her when she hurt her foot. The reasoning is beside the point, though. The point is that she gives in. “
Know
is a bit strong. We worked in neighboring organizations and sometimes ran into each other.”

“Where?”

“I'm a claims adjuster...” She plainly doesn't want to speak for the others, and doesn't appreciate being turned like a faucet.

Allen shrugs. “What does it matter? Not that many people around here anyways; everyone knows
everyone
.”

“Milla? You ever run into any of them?”

She freezes, tanned skin paling. “Can you leave me out of this? I'm
terrible
with faces, and I doubt I'd remember even if I
had
.”

Maybe it's Allen's stare. I hadn't meant to freak her out confirming her anxiety about him watching her. I hadn't meant to put her on the spot, but I also hadn't figured she'd take it as uncomfortably as she
has
. She seems to
really
want to blend into the background, for
all
of us to miss her.

“Please? It's important?”

She shakes her head, mutely. “I don't
see
people at work. It's one foot in front of the other.”

That makes sense—and ever since she confessed to working for me, I've been trying to remember where I saw her. A few memories have popped up, her carrying materials across a gangway, eyes locked down to make sure she didn't miss a step. She's not lying—it's damn obvious she's not the social type. I really only noticed her because there tended to be fewer women on the work crews, so there was always a little mental “hunh” when one of them popped up.

“Allen?”

“Why the fuck are you grilling us about the past, when
we're gonna die here
? Shouldn't we be talking about how we get the fuck out?”

“It makes sense—” Milla starts, coming to my defense, but he rolls his eyes and cuts her off.

“Doesn't do a
damn
lick of good chasing ghosts when we're
trapped
by some
psycho
who wants us to die.”

“It's a starting point,” Denise agrees after a pause.

Allen snorts, belligerently. “Fine, then. While you
ladies
are having your sewing circle, I'm gonna try the doors again. Try to be
useful
.”

He stomps away, and for a moment, neither woman will meet my eyes. Milla's shaking again, and Denise's slumped against the wall, cradling her burned ankle in her lap. “Okay, so—anything you can tell us for him, since he's not being cooperative?”

Milla resettles her legs, rolling her own feet in a circle to ease some strain. When she rolls her head around, too, it's difficult to focus on anything past her long neck, vein throbbing with her delicate pulse.

Denise sighs. “He's Labor and Industries, I think. We've really only seen each other at a handful of conferences...”

“And Alex?” His name is still raw in my throat.

“Lobbyist.”

And that just makes
no
damn sense. There's
nothing
that connects all of us. Or even one or two, beyond Milla working in the shipyards. Unless...

“Milla—you ever filed an insurance claim?”

She snorts. “Once. Someone dropped a 2x4, and I nearly lost the vision in my right eye.” So
that
explains the scar. “It was routine, though—they didn't even attempt to deny it, nor did RI hold up the claim.”

“Who handled your claim?”

She shrugs. “How the hell would I know? They don't tell us that stuff. I just wrote my declaration, filled out the paperwork, and focused on the doctor's visits until I was cleared for work.”

“Sorry—it was worth a try. You know anything about her case, Denise?”

Denise shakes her head. “I handle
hundreds
, in a
week
. Unless there was something extraordinary about it, it wouldn't even make it to me 'til a second appeal.”

“Anything else coming to mind for either of you?”

Milla rubs her temple as though it aches her, right over the scar. “And what about
you
? You've got
nothing
but questions for us, over and fucking
over again
—”

Denise looks away, probably assuming it's a lover's spat. After all, where else could the anger be coming from? But I know better; no matter
how
sore she is at me for kissing her, she's not going to snap like this. There's something else, there. I'm coming to know Milla well enough to know that she she's upset, she redirects. I might enjoy sparring with her under other circumstances, letting her work off the aggression. But this is too important.

As I replay our conversations, trying to figure out exactly what's making her tick right now, it hits me—I went over there to comfort her, but only ended up pushing her boundaries, kissing her and redirecting them into something sexual rather than emotional. The emotion is still there, still flowing full-force.

Always watch the quiet ones. You never know when they're gonna explode.

“Mil, I
know
you're still shaken. We all are. Death is—”

Her eyes narrow viciously.  “What the fuck do
you
know what death is?” She nearly spits the words at me.

“It was—something new... for all of us,” I talk slowly, calmly, begging her to see reason. There's something familiar to the way her eyes glint when she's angry, but I'll be damned if I know why. Trying to remember is a distraction, one I can't afford with her that ready to come to blows. Her hands clench and unclench, as though she's only half convinced she shouldn't hit me.

“For your information,
Calder
, there's a lot more death in the real world. I've seen
plenty
of death in my day. Don't pin your own sheltered baggage on
me
.”

Denise raises her eyebrows, and looks down.

“Well then c'mon.
Talk
to us.”

Milla bites her lip, and stays quiet, her glare fixed on me. Whatever happened, it's still too intimate to talk about. A miscarriage or a partner, maybe?

Denise seems to be relieved to be included, even if she doesn't actually want to brave Milla when she's like this. Still, better Milla than Allen, still fuming and cursing at the doors. I nod at her, and resume trying to placate Milla. “Sorry to presume. It's fresh, then? It is, here, too. My mom.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. She died at work, actually. I was out of town. Several weeks back.” It's hard thinking of what to say; the whole story was strange. She was... particular... about her privacy, and sometimes went out into the work area to use the crew bathrooms, rather than risk seeing those she had to work with. She had been bulimic for the better part of two decades, and was extremely sensitive to the judgments that came along with it. And she hated being watched, as she knew she was by those who were aware of her illness.

It was never something I knew how to confront her about, since it was manageable, and only once, after she miscarried what would have been my younger sister and relapsed
hard
, did she have to be hospitalized for it. By the time I could have said something, it was just part of the fabric of who she was, and so long as it wasn't hurting anything, how could I cut it away?

Still, one of the dock workers found her in the women's crew bathroom, mid-purge, her heart stopped. And I've never stopped kicking myself for not knowing how to talk to her sooner. Being out of town was just... insult to injury.

Milla bites her lip and averts her gaze. She's not calmer, but there's
something
here. Something closed off and fearful. And, as I relive the flurry of calls, flights, plans, and eulogies, it sinks in.

“That was you, wasn't it? Who found her?”

She raises her eyebrows, but doesn't deny it. Denise shivers, and decides that maybe it
is
better to make up with Allen. This isn't anything she wants to be involved in—it's too personal for that.

I take Milla's hands, trying to still their shaking. “It's okay. She had... problems... for a long time. Really, we all should have seen it coming.”

Something flits across her face, narrowing her eyes and parting her lips. I was
right
.

“Seriously, Milla.
Please
, don't let it bother you. She had a long, full life. A flawed one, but a full one.” A pang of anger tears through me at the hurt on her face. “I'm sorry she did that to you. You shouldn't have had to see her like that; wouldn't have had to, if the rest of us hadn't let her down.”

She's dumbfounded and stiff, not quite accepting my reassurances. I want to ask her to forgive me, to forgive my mother vicariously for traumatizing her like that. I want to share the stories, to give her a more full idea of the woman than simply whatever the hell her body looked like, dead and covered in her own vomit.

But she looks lost in herself, so I do the only thing I can. I hold her, and keep those thoughts to myself. The sooner she lets it go, the sooner she can open up, the sooner we can try to salvage our
own
lives.