Chapter 18

EIGHTEEN

The light of the meter flashes, filling my periphery with shades of crimson and purple. The speaker says something sarcastic, congratulating us for playing along–as if we had any other fucking choice–but it’s just a backdrop to the scene unfolding before me, which has my attention in a chokehold. Keeping his icy masked stare on me, Colson leans over, yanking the two axes that pin the sleeves of my robe down.

I lower my hands to my side, suddenly hyper aware of my every movement as an unexpected awkwardness filters between us. His stare is so intense it consumes me, holding me captive, forced to maintain eye contact with him. It’s as if we’re in a match of visual tug of war, but with both of us being stubborn, neither looks away.

Denying my lids the opportunity to even blink, I maintain my gaze, meeting his heated look as I skate my hand to the saturated fabric of my lace panties. A rush of heat floods my skin, painting my face with a shade of red to match my flustered state. I gather the bunched lace resting on the crevice of my inner thigh, about to pull it over my pussy, but Colson swats my hand away. Pinning it back so I don’t fight, he lowers to his knees again. Still peering up at me, his stubbled chin scratches at my inner thigh, sending a current of electrical fire to my spine. His mouth is so close to my pussy–again–that the temptation to bring my freed hands to the crown of his head and yank on his hair while he laps at the mess all over me is mounting, but his parted lips tear me from the fantasy.

“Hold still,” he instructs in a murmur, directing his attention to the axe that I completely forgot was lowered between my legs. There’s an unexpected kindness in his command that throws me off guard. He yanks the axe and tosses it to the ground, all while kneeling in front of me.

I shift my stance, about to push off from the scratchy wood, but he pushes me back with both palms.

“Wait a second,” he breathes, running a hand at the displaced material of my panties. Looking down at him, I never realized how kissable his lips are. I mean I always knew they were face-riding-worthy, but now they look so soft and inviting. I don’t know if it’s the high I’m coming down from after him making me come, but I kind of want to kiss him. Or at bare minimum return the favor. I glance past his arm, which is partly blocking the view I have of his cock. Ah, even losing its erection, it’s so big and pretty-looking. The piercings that line and cross it, even the curved barbell at the center of his sack, are just a bonus.

“There you go,” he singsongs, drawing my eyes from the dick that’s making my mouth water for him. Jesus Christ Raiden, you hoe. That the wet lace is back, resting above my still aching pussy.

“Thank you” I murmur, not sure if the surprise in my voice is disguised or not. It’s such a simple gesture, but I wasn’t expecting it at all. No one I’ve ever fucked or fooled around with has ever even gone as far to say a ‘thank you’ afterwards. It’s always a quick exchange and off we go type thing.

He stands near me, a devious chuckle sounding from him. “Not used to having someone take care of you after you come, huh?” The smugness of his question is all it takes for me to go from thankful to irritated, which isn’t saying much because it usually takes very little for my mood to go from zero to one hundred. I hate that I’m like that, but it’s just another way that I can navigate through life without letting my true feelings get in the way.

I meet his arrogant grin with one of my own, pushing off the wall with my bent leg. My chest grazes his as I bring my hand to that strong, stubbled jaw line. “Calm down, Romeo. Adjusting my panties isn’t aftercare.” I seal my words with a double pat on his cheek.

“Then what do you call it?” he retorts, sounding genuine in his question.

“The bare fucking minimum,” I scoff, letting the disgust reign supreme in my tone, though it’s not so much directed towards him. It’s for me, to signal that I need to get back in that mindset even though he made me squirt all over the goddamn place. It doesn’t matter how hot he is, or how badly I’m physically yearning for more of him, or that he has one the biggest, prettiest cocks I’ve ever seen—which is saying something because I’ve seen a lot. But this isn’t the time to lower my guard. I need to focus, because we are very much still in a nightmare.

Free from the axe wall, I step aside. Colson’s steps trail mine as he closes the already limited space between us, reaching for my arm.

“Miss me already?” I pout, fully aware of how harsh I sound, but I can’t help myself. It’s like the more I feel for him, the more I bottle it inside and the meaner it makes me act towards him. Whether I intend to or not.

He shakes his head, probably exasperated by my antics. “No,” his jaw tenses. He’s lying. Just like me Holy fuck, we really are a match made in hell. Our own worst enemies.

“Right,” I drag, trying to pull from his grip. He loosens it slightly, so it doesn’t hurt me, but not enough that I’m able to be free from his touch. “Well, your alpha grip on my arm kind of says otherwise, so…what is it?”

Flustered, his jaw tightens further. The words that want to come out of his mouth must feel trapped with the tight hold he’s keeping them in with.

“Nothing it’s just– ”

A loud bang sounds, shutting him right up as it steals both of our attention, but he doesn’t let go. He sinks his grip on me tighter, and I don’t mind because the two masked people that are now with us, each holding chains and spiked bats, look the opposite of friendly. Both are wearing all-black fitted outfits including the balaclavas that conceal their faces, so it’s impossible to see who they are. One of the two is considerably taller, well over six feet, while the other is more petite, with curves that are accentuated by the tight black fabric.

“It’s just what, Mr. Cromwell?” the speaker taunts. “I hope my associates didn’t crush your moment. What were you going to tell Ms. Ramos? How much you love how her cunt tastes on your tongue? Or was it how pussy-whipped you are that you’ll forgive her endless lies?”

Colson doesn’t respond as I mutter to myself before breaking his grip on me, using my regained freedom to charge one of the two masked figures.

I opt to go to the larger of the two and jab my pointed index finger at his stone-like chest. “Go ahead buddy, if you got it, flaunt it,” I tease, eyeing the bat in his hand. He remains still, like a statue. “Ha, that’s what I thought,” I spit at him, noticing how the other one with the enviable curves looks like she’s warring within herself, debating whether or not to swing her adorned bat at me. I turn my head, shooting her a smile, but I choose not to mess with her unless she starts with me.

The masked woman flinches, and I can feel her desire to hit me, but she holds back.

“Good girl,” the voice praises.

I turn to the camera, pouting my lip and placing my hands on my chest. “Ah, thank you,” I say sarcastically.

“Not you,” the voice spits back, “my girl.” The anonymous speaker says something in a language I don’t recognize, and both the man and woman stalk towards me with a sadistic, unified march.

Colson practically runs, tripping over his own feet to adhere himself to my side as the two of them close the space and surround us, one on each side.

“Don’t worry, they won’t hurt you unless I tell them to,” the cryptic voice announces through the speaker.

“Why is that? You too chickenshit to get us yourself?”

I can feel Colson’s judgment burning through my skin, but he says nothing. No one says a thing, and my question echoes around us before silence fills the air in response. The eerie calm lasts for a few seconds until it’s replaced by a scratching sound at the speaker, filling the room with irritating static until a voice—my voice—leaks through the speakers. Muffled music–Puddle of Mudd’s “Control,” to be exact--sounds, just loud enough to hear the lyrics.

“Bring back any memories?” the voice asks.

“You sick fuck!” I shout as the tall, masked man taps my shoulder with a picture in his grip. One taken from my bedroom window, my legs spread wide, fucking myself with a dildo. I crumple the picture in my hand, tossing it to the floor. “So, you’re a kidnapper and a voyeur too, huh? Cool, I like it kinky, so why don’t you fucking come out here and show yourself. We can have a fun time together instead of all these exhausting games.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. We…Well, I have been watching you for quite a long time. The both of you, actually. It’s so cute how the two of you have an affliction for moaning each other’s names when you fuck yourselves, dreaming of the other. But when you’re together, you’re like water and oil. You two want to coexist, but you simply can’t.” The second the voice finishes its lame taunt, Colson leans into my ear.

“Am I going to hear it?” he asks cryptically.

I turn to him, not in the mood for another set of drawn-out verbal games. “Hear what?” I scoff.

“My name, if that audio keeps playing? Do you really moan my name when you touch yourself?” he asks, unable to contain his boyish glee.

I swear to god, it’s obvious that whoever brought us here isn’t lying. They’ve been watching us. Which means that aside from the fact that Colson and I are masochists for one another even in the privacy of our own bedrooms, they probably have a lot more they can use against us.

“Can you focus, Colson? That’s not important right now.” I can see how deflated he is by the harsh reality of my words. I roll my eyes, almost feeling bad. “Listen, if we get out of here,” I pause to direct my attention towards the camera in the corner by the large speaker. I brush my tongue piercing at my lips before sticking two middle fingers up in the air. “Which, we will get out of here,” I lower my hands and my voice, directing my attention back to him, “then I’ll let you take the place of the dildo, okay?” I wink. The red of the mask that half conceals his face does little to disguise the flush riddling his cheeks.

“Promise?” he asks, looking a little too eager.

I roll my eyes. “If it gets you to focus, then yes.”

He smirks. “Fuck yes.”

And for some reason that simple and genuine excitement gives me butterflies.

The recording stops as the voice replies to me. “So glad I can play matchmaker, but the reason I played that audio and let you see that I always have eyes on those I need to have eyes on, is so you realize that for you both this is a game, but for me…esto es venganza.”

Colson taps at my arm. “What does that mean?” he asks, worry ripe within his voice.

“It means this is revenge, Mr. Cromwell. Cold, hard, unrelenting revenge,” the speaker declares.

“Why?” Colson asks, as the worried tone of his voice shifts to molten anger.

A grating cackle leaks through the speaker before they answer. “If I told you, then where’s the fun in that? As you can tell, I know much more than you think I do. And Ms. Ramos, if you want your cousin to live, you will do exactly as I say.”

“I don’t believe you. How do I know you’re not lying?”

“Very well,” the voice sighs, exasperated.

The Jigsaw-wannabe says something again in that unrecognizable language, signaling both the masked man and woman to the side of the room they entered. The woman raises her hand to a hidden panel, opening the small compartment and pressing a code, revealing a sliding door. The two of them slink out of the room just as a burst of white fur emerges from the doorway running toward me.

“Nada?” I ask out loud, staring at my cousin Carmine’s all white Pitbull. I kneel, calling for Nada to come to me. I scratch behind his ears, inspecting him, only to find him to be his usual happy self. That doesn’t do anything to put my worries at ease, though. Carmine loves Nada, and even when he’s working at his bar in the city, he has the dog with him at all times.

“It’s funny how attached animals get to their owners. Yet he came with me no problem after Carmine was, let’s say, unavailable.” The voice is taunting me.

Colson looks at me, unsure if he should console me or if he should take the lead. I want neither. Tears threaten my eyes, but I swallow thickly, fighting the urge to cry. They’re messing with me. I need to ignore it, since this is all a game to them.

A whistle sounds as the sliding door opens once more and Nada jumps from my lap. I rise, joining Colson, both of us staring after Nada trotting happily down the revealed path.

“Raiden, do you smell that?” he asks, his nostrils flaring.

Of course, I do. But I don’t tell him that. That smell…that fucking stench. That’s the unmistakable aroma of death. Abundant, iron-soaked death. Fear like I’ve never experienced before grips me, taking my throat hostage, making swallowing impossible. It feels like knives are stabbing into me. I want to speak but I can’t. Fuck. All I can think is that Carmine would be so disappointed in me. This is the opposite of how he trained me to be. But the reality that he may not be alive and that we are only pawns in this sick game feels overwhelming.

My mouth falls open, but no words come out. Instead, the smooth baritone of Colson’s surprisingly steady voice teases my ears. I look at his icy stare only for a moment, because my attention is stolen by his outstretched palm.

Suddenly the bitterness I’ve had this whole time…with him…with the game…all of it dwindles.

“Hate me all you want, but we’re getting out of this the way we came in.” He reaches for my hand, locking it in his grip. “Together, Raiden, that’s how we’re getting out of here,” he says as if he’s reading my mind.

Colson squeezes my hand and immediately I lean into how good it feels. I don’t know why I do this. I always fight the things that feel nice, the things that make me feel a momentary blip of joy. It’s like my cynical nature is so used to helping keep me safe—and in most cases, alive—it doesn’t allow me even a fucking second to experience what it’s like to not have to carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. Right then, I make the decision to stop fighting it. I let him curl his calloused palm over my hand and squeeze it tight as we step closer to the open door. The metallic scent of death plagues our every sense, and I realize he’s probably just as afraid as I am. And just like me, he’s too stubborn to show it.

He leads the way into whatever is on the other side, the speaker going on about how we should be proud of ourselves for making it this far and that Round Three, the truth round, is the most difficult of them all. I hear it, but I choose to instead focus on the comforting effect that holding Colson’s large palm has on me.

“Together, Raiden, that’s how we’re getting out of here.” His words linger in my mind. I fucking hope he’s right. Worst case scenario, we’ll leave together with a one-way ticket to hell.