Twisted Together (Monsters in the Dark) (2 page)

“I’m sorry!”

My heart-filled apology only made her snarl. “No, you’re not. You’re one of them. You’re lying to yourself, to him, to me. You loved killing the other blonde so much, you thirst to murder. You’re a monster. A fucking demon spawn.”

My lungs suffocated with her hatred, drowning in sorrow. The crowbar swung above my head, controlled by the puppeteer of this horrible dream.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Do it. What’s another life? You obeyed so brilliantly before. Every night you fucking murder. Every night you come back to us.”

The man who’d owned me. Who’d drugged me, sold me, and ultimately broken me, appeared from dream-mist. White Man looked suave and immaculate in a white shiny suit. His feral touch landed on my chin, cupping my jaw, holding me prisoner. “You’ll never be free of us. We took your mind back in Brazil. Your bastard of an owner might’ve slaughtered my men and whisked you away to safety, but you know the truth.” His mouth descended on mine, his monstrous tongue diving past my lips, making me retch.

Breathing hard he pulled away. Manic anger glowed in his blue gaze. “Tell me the truth.”

The truth?

What truth? I didn’t know what to believe anymore. Was my mind so twisted the truth was only visible in my sleep? Was I deceitful every moment I was awake—pretending to deplore pain and horror when really I craved it? Craved to inflict it. Craved to kill.

Questions and uncertainty sprouted like vile weeds, growing thick and fast, suffocating all reason and clarity.

Am I truly what they say?
I’m no longer a protégé. I’m truly the devil
.

I squeezed my eyes, blocking the dream, grasping with panicked fingers to latch onto the weak tethering of awareness.

Wake up, Tess.

Please.

“Tell. Me.” White Man’s breath fanned my eyelashes, smelling of candy floss. Why did the demon of my nightmares smell of innocence and sugar?

Shaking my head, I whimpered, “There’s nothing to tell.” My arms stayed raised above my head, holding the crowbar in an unnatural pose. I had no control. None.

“Oh, but there is.” His white slacks whispered as he stepped to the side, dragging me forward.

Blonde Angel shook so much, my ears rang with the jangling of her bones. “Night after night you return to me. Night after night you kill for me. You’re not free, pretty girl. And that’s the fucking truth.”

Leather Jacket moved to my other side, grinning like a psychopath. “Truth’s a bitch and then she dies. You know how this ends,
puta
. Do it, then we’ll let you wake up.”

A gale whirled from nowhere, kicking up dust and mould from around the dungeon, howling in my ears: Do it. Do it. Do it.

“No! Not again. I can’t do it again.”

I’m crazy. I’ve lost it completely.

Blonde Angel stopped shaking and raised her head. Our eyes locked, understanding flowed. Mutual need to have this over with made her nod in heart-wrenching acceptance. In one fluid moment, she bowed forward. She didn’t say a word—she didn’t need to.

We could beg and cry and scream.

But ultimately, we had no power.

The truth burned my eyes, puncturing my heart.

I was a killer.

I
am
a killer.

I’m a monster.

The force holding my arms up suddenly released, and the weight of the bar came smashing down. Blonde Angel jerked and jolted. I blinked as the crunch of bone shattered beneath the weapon. Her arms splayed to the side as her body tipped over, succumbing to death.

I willed myself to wake up. Freedom normally came once I’d killed, but this black-laced dream was different.

Manic laughter filled the reeking dungeon. I dropped the crowbar and the clanging metal echoed in my ears. Something heavy morphed into my hands. Sinister and cold and deadly.

A gun.

The
gun. The gun I’d used to take a life—a
real
life. The gun I’d tried to find freedom with. We had history, that gun and I. An intimate past with a murderous object forever linking me to this—this…never ending cycle of dreams.

“You tried to kill yourself last time,
puta
. Care to try again?”

I refused to look at Leather Jacket. His voice scurried like a thousand spiders over my skin. I craved the bland cushioning of the drugs. I wanted oblivion. Peace.

“Pull the trigger. Go on. You know you want to be free. This is your only way,” Leather Jacket said, prowling around me.

My malnourished, bleeding hands shook as I looked at the dead woman with her vacant eyes. Her skull looked odd—cracked and concaved from the killing blow.

I did that.

Me.

God, what has become of me?

 Q sacrificed so much to bring me back—it was sacrilege not to keep fighting—to be worthy of his gift. But I had no reserves—no more strength to live these nightmares and stop them from trickling into reality. My nerves were raw. My mind broken. My spirit ruined.

No more
.

One bullet, lightning pain, then it could be all over.

Leather Jacket yelled, spitting in my face. “Do it. You belong to us. You do what we command!”

I didn’t have the strength to fight back. I no longer wanted to exist in this world. Raising the gun, I opened my lips and guided the metallic chamber into my mouth. It tasted just like I remembered. The taste of finality. Closure. Squeezing my eyes, I tensed.

“That’s a good girl. Send yourself to hell. We’re waiting for you there.”

I pulled the trigger.

The sulphur of gunpowder itched my nose.

The loud detonation of a bullet rang in my ears.

Disbelieving tears streaked from my eyes.

Desperation and utter grief crushed my heart.

The dream howled and gusted and I split into identical images of myself.

One Tess jerked in death-throws as the back of her head exploded in a horrible mess of tissue and red rain. Another Tess, an omniscient dreamer, silently screamed—unable to do anything but watch.

“No!” This couldn’t be possible. I just killed myself.

I ended my own life.

I’m weak.

I’m a coward.

I’m worthless.

I screamed.

“Tess! Fuck, it’s okay.” Q caught me, just like he always did, as I shot upright and clung to his hard shoulders. I couldn’t suck in a breath; I scrambled nearer, trying to get closer, trying to morph into him to steal his endless reservoir of strength.
Give it to me. Give me your sanity and warmth.
I couldn’t let him see how rattled and ruined I’d become.

Q scooped me close, resting his chin on my head. “Goddammit,
esclave.
You’re ice cold.”

I shivered in his arms like a rapidly decaying leaf. “Sorry. Sorry—I’m—”

His muscles bunched beneath smooth, naked skin as his arms wrapped tighter, giving me safe harbour. “
Arrête. Tout va bien
.” Stop it. You’re okay. His voice was level and full of unmistakable authority, but he couldn’t hide his own trembling. His hard body quaked with silent flurries of tension. But Q didn’t tremble from horror. Oh, no. My
maître
shook with undiluted rage. He bristled with ferocity. He smouldered with temper. His anger wasn’t directed at me but at the ghosts haunting my mind.

“You have to stop fucking letting them in. You’re safe. How many times do I need to tell you that?” His anger heated the ice in my blood, reminding me I was still alive and survived. If I could survive being forced to kill, having my finger snapped with pliers, drug overdoses, and rank living conditions, I could survive the residual memories. I
had
to survive. I owed Q my life. I wouldn’t fail him—not after what he did to bring me back.

Maybe I need help.

The thought of talking to a therapist filled me with horror. I wouldn’t be able to stomach their carefully blank faces as I confessed to killing a woman. I wouldn’t be strong enough to look into their eyes while I spoke of being high on a cocktail of toxins all formulated to cripple my mind and make me their little toy to be sold and used.

And antidepressants? I would go completely mad if I ever took another mind-altering drug again.

You owe it to Q to put the past where it belongs. He believes you’re healing
. I hated lying. I hated that I
sucked
at lying because Q saw everything I tried to hide. Getting professional help might be the only thing left for me.

I looked up, sucking in a breath as I made eye contact with the most amazing, kind, fearful,
stunning
male in my life. His hair was slightly longer but still showed his regal widow’s peak and perfect bone structure. His lips were twisted in anger, sending wings of gratitude and weakness through me.

After everything, he still cared for me. Still fought for me.

Q stared back, his pale jade gaze ripping me apart, seeing so far inside I had nowhere to hide. And that was what made it so damn hard to pretend.

Q had turned himself into a human punching bag for me to take out the seething anger inside. He let himself be the scapegoat of the bastards in Rio, so I had someone to direct my rage onto. He did so much.
Too
much. But it wasn’t enough.

Love suffocated my heart, stitching me up until I felt mummified with confusion. Bandages upon bandages held me hostage with no way out of the horrible prison I was in.

“How many times must I wake to you screaming and crying? How many fucking times must I slap you, try and save you from whatever horrors you’re reliving, only for it to do no good?” Q’s French accent thickened as he sat higher, pummelling a pillow into comfortable submission behind him. Leaning back, his thumb caressed my hot and no doubt red cheek from his attempt at breaking my nightmare. “Contrary to what you think of me, hitting the woman I’m about to marry while she’s unconscious is not one of my perversions.”

A soft laugh escaped me. “God, Q. You have the strangest sense of humour.”

The sickly tension existing in the room and the fearful anxiety still thrumming in my blood dissipated. He not only put up with my screams, but he knew just how to free me from the residue of such terror.

The stitching in my heart tore wide, spilling my chest with love so deep and eternal I knew I would do anything, absolutely
anything,
for this man. He was the reason I was alive. The only reason I wanted to
stay
alive.

His forehead furrowed. “What makes you think I’m joking?” His fingers dropped from my cheek as his eyes darkened with self-hatred. “I have many perversions,
esclave.
You think because I fell in love with you, they’re miraculously cured?” He leaned closer, his nose an inch from mine. “You think you know me…” His voice trailed off as thoughts swooped him away from my arms and into the dark I’d hoped he’d left behind.

After I’d hurt him—made him bleed and escorted him to death’s door with a whip in my hand—I feared I’d ruined him. He’d been shut off—remote. Not cold or cruel but protecting his inner thoughts. He’d always been private around me—guarding his inner secrets like a sentinel with a castle full of unspeakables—but it wasn’t until yesterday when Q proposed and branded me that the crack in his façade finally gave me hope.

The burning on my neck amplified, taking over my senses with a dull throb. The scorched skin hurt—even the numbing balm Q rubbed into it yesterday hadn’t halted the singeing, searing ache. But unlike all the other parts of me that’d been hurt over the past month, I welcomed it. It gave me something to focus on.

It gave me purpose.

It reminded me I was owned, and my sanity wasn’t just my responsibility but a necessity. I’d made an oath to Q. I’d signed a contract the moment the ‘Q’ sigil scorched my neck. I was his as he was mine. Therefore, I had to be whole—not just for me but for him.  

A chill scattered over my body. What was he thinking? What did he hide behind his tough outer-shell?

Wanting to dispel the darkness in his eyes, I murmured, “I know all I need to know. I know you’re kind and generous; the best lover, protector, and master I could ever want.”

Q clenched his teeth as a flash of ferocity etched his features. “Is that all I am?”

“You’re all that and more.”

“Are you forgetting the question I asked you yesterday? The one where you said yes?”

I smiled, ducking my eyes to trace the sweeping lines of his chest. “No, I haven’t forgotten.”

“I’ll no longer just be your lover,
esclave
.”

The swell of love hit me again like a squall of hot air. I couldn’t contain it. I didn’t
want
to contain it. “You’ll be an amazing husband, too.”

Q tensed. “So amazing you didn’t want to run away and get married yesterday. So amazing you said you were tired and wanted to stay here for a few more days.”

My shoulders hunched. I knew he didn’t take my reasoning well. When he’d gone to whisk me away only moments after proposing, I’d been hit by a brick wall of grief. Not just grief but guilt and sorrow and every complicated emotion left over from what happened. How could I explain I wanted to embrace our future and happiness with wide open arms—to throw myself into eternal bliss—but couldn’t. Not while my entire soul was weighed down with the crimes and sins I’d committed.
I can’t tell you my nightmares. I can’t share my guilt or trauma.
I didn’t want to burden him any more than I had.

Speak to Suzette
. Maybe she could help me. Then again, it wouldn’t be fair to talk about such darkness, not after everything she’d survived herself.