6. Frey

SIX

FREY

It's strange watching Silas' cocky demeanor wear away as the hours tick by without Daze's arrival. It happens in stages, first with increasing agitation. Eventually, a fidgety, restlessness has him pacing my narrow cell as I watch. As night fades into dawn, rage consumes him.

All without so much as a knock on the door from a certain blond outlaw.

"I guess your hero decided you weren't worth it at all," Silas snaps to me as he finally heads for the door.

I can't deny that the insinuation stings, though for very different reasons than I think he suspects. I'm so damn worried about him and Sammy. What if this was all a sick display for my benefit, and they're both dead, rotting in my father's basement. That's the real reason he's kept me here all night.

To torture them.

To torture me.

Even before the thought fully finishes forming, I bat it aside. If my father had Daze in his grasp, he'd want me to hear—or better yet, witness—him being tormented and punished.

That prospect gives me a small, twisted bit of comfort. At least I have hope that he's okay.

Though that says little for me. As Silas storms to the room, he turns to face me one last time. "Remember what I've told you, sweetheart," he snarls. "Remember the kind of monster that you've chosen to let into your bed. Sooner or later, Daze will get bored of you. Though hell, it looks like he already has. Just in the nick of time, too. From what I hear, you're going to be a busy girl for the next few days."

I shiver at the malice in his tone. "What do you mean?"

"I'll let you stew on it." He laughs, his eyes glittering. "Bye, bye for now, sweetheart."

When the door slams in his wake, I sink to the floor, exhausted. I never realized how much strength it takes to remain strong and unaffected by an enemy in your midst. As much as I hate to admit it, I can't get his words out of my head.

Renna, his sister, was with Daze, and she died of an overdose that Silas seems to think was intentional. The similarities to Hale's death are too close for comfort. Almost as if the killer were mocking him with the method.

But why?

The mystery swirls in my mind, and I'm distracted by my surroundings. I hope Daze followed up with the reporter. Maybe he's found an answer to the many loose ends and missing threads that Hale left behind. I feel like I'm drowning in all the deception and lies, unable to find a sturdy lifeline to pull myself out of the mire.

In the end, I wind up replaying my last few moments with Daze over and over in my mind. I miss him in a way I don't expect. It's a physical ache that goes deeper than any pain I've ever felt, stealing my breath away whenever I try to decipher it. I miss his voice and the warmth of his arms around me. I crave the safety of lying beside him, feeling his heartbeat thump beneath his skin.

I miss being someone other than good, innocent, weak Frey. With Daze, I felt…powerful. A force to be reckoned with, unwilling to take shit from anyone. Deep down, I still am that woman.

Then and there, crouched on the floor, I come up with a plan that feels so reckless my heart skips a beat at the thought of carrying it out. Good girls don't contemplate the very, very bad things I am considering.

Maybe that's a good thing.

Being an angel is overrated. Maybe I always was a devil at heart.

It feels like another hour passes before a familiar guard appears at my door to escort me to the bathroom. I tidy up and wash my hair several times in the sink with just water and hand soap, eager to erase Silas' musk from my skin. On the way back to my cell, my eyes are drawn to a set of glass doors near the entrance that let in a stream of pale light.

"Is my father coming today?" I ask the guard. "Or Colton?"

In response, he grunts a noncommittal sound and curtly ushers me back inside my cell. My question is answered soon after anyway by twin footsteps marching in my direction. One set is familiar, carrying the smug air of Colton. The other, I recognize as well, and my stomach churns in grim acknowledgment. My father.

Both take their time approaching my door and then wait as a few excruciating seconds pass before the door opens.

"Frances," my father says. "I hope you've had time to think about your actions."

I audibly gasp as I take him in. His blue eyes stand out even more starkly in contrast to his black suit and navy tie. To maintain his obsession with neatness, his hair is slicked back, exposing the hollow panes of his face. It's the same impeccable image he's always projected—minus one little flaw. It's so obscure that I don't think anyone else would even notice, but I've learned to recognize my father's various moods over the years.

Especially when he's furious.

As old childish fear flutters through my chest, I can't resist taking a step back. His worst moments come when he is like this—both cruel and suave, coaxing his victim into submission. It's strange how I never classified it as what it was before. I would attribute his mood swings to stress or pressure. The truth is, at his core, he has always been the same person.

An angry, violent man who has little self-control.

"I was fine," I say. "In fact, I rather enjoyed having someone keep me company."

He raises an eyebrow, but Colton speaks first.

"Company? Who do you mean?"

"The man from the gang," I say, being deliberately vague. "He stayed with me all night, waiting just outside my door. How kind of you to ask him to look over me."

They both trade looks—obviously, Silas' stunt wasn't planned. Knowing that doesn't comfort me any, quite the opposite. He's becoming reckless, emboldened enough to eschew my father's rules and boundaries. Why?

"Uncultured swine," Colton snarls under his breath. "I hope you didn't show him the same hospitality you show to other men of his ilk."

I smile as though his disdain were a badge of honor. "I guess you'll have to ask him. Though I wouldn't mind if he returned when you leave. He told me some rather interesting stories."

My father's eyes narrow. I'm treading on dangerous ground. Goading him into a rage now would provide a petty bit of satisfaction, but it's far better to wait and see how Silas' obvious defiance lands on its own.

So, I bite my tongue.

Colton looks back warily at his elder. As he returns his gaze to me, I notice a change in him that I didn't see yesterday. He'd been angry then but restrained, as if biding his time. In the present... His energy is boundless and unsteady. He reminds me of a kid with a secret, bursting at the seams with excitement. Apprehension tightens my throat. Whatever could make him so antsy doesn't bode well for me.

Not in the slightest.

"I thought it would be prudent to inform you myself," my father says. "So that you can prepare yourself mentally."

Trying to keep my voice steady, I take a deep breath. "Prepare myself for what?"

"For your marriage," Father replies. "I've decided that you will marry Colton tonight."

A crushing disappointment washes over me, and it's all I can do to remain standing. I knew this was coming, and I knew that I would have to face this challenge alone.

That doesn't make it any easier to keep my head held high, knowing what they have in store for me. They want to see me cower and plead. I refuse to give them the satisfaction.

"Where?" I ask dryly. "I would think you would want it to be here in the church."

His smile widens, and I feel a genuine stab of fear and panic. My father may have intimidated me my entire life, but I've never felt this darkness in him before. Not even when he whipped me. His ultimate aim is far more sinister than trying to control me.

What is it? I have no idea.

"It will be in a house of God," he says cryptically. "Which is far more than you deserve."

A house of God. I ruminate over those words, seeking out the obvious clue hidden within them. His cold gaze suggests he doesn't expect this to be the grand social event he had envisioned just a few weeks ago.

It's more like an execution, if not of my life, then my very freedom.

"Where," I repeat.

His head inclined toward Colton, he ignores me. "Leave us."

"But sir, I?—"

"Now."

Colton retreats down the hall with one last frustrated glance at me while Father remains at the doorway. For a long few seconds, he just stares at me as if he's trying to reconcile the figure he sees with the little girl who used to follow in his wake, hanging on his every word.

The memories hurt to relive. We were so happy together, the three of us. I hadn't even picked up any change in him when he married Catherine. While running the church and his political campaigns, I wrote up his increasing sternness as misplaced stress. Now, however, it's easier to pinpoint the various moments where his true colors began to emerge, long before these last few years. Among all the signs, the clearest stands out like a neon sign.

The day of my mother's funeral.

"It hurts me to see you like this, Frances," he says, scanning my rumpled clothing and disheveled hair. In his eyes, I see emptiness, not pain. He lingers on my bruised, swollen face, and I swear the corner of his upper lip twitches into the shadow of a grin. "So lost amid your own sinful ways," he continues. "Unable to see the righteous path shining before you. A lesser father would have already turned his back on you, but I refuse to do so."

"A lesser father," I repeat hoarsely. "A good person would have never resorted to kidnapping and threatening a little boy just to get his way. He wouldn't have killed his own son, and he certainly wouldn't have murdered his first wife."

I don't know how I expect those jabs to land, but I figure that nothing I'd imagine could ever come close to the reality. In the face of the truth, he never recoils. He doesn't even glower in anger. His only response is to stare, as if he has become so numb to violence that he isn't even aware of its horror.

It's a detached apathy I never even saw in Daze—as if he has lost all humanity.

"You are so misguided, my dear child," I hear him say as he strokes my hair without warning. His fingers tug and snag on loose stands, pulling at my scalp. Suddenly, he captures my chin in a rigid grip and angles my face so that our gazes meet. A cold stare greets me in return. "So long in the darkness that you can't find your way back with prayer alone. No more will I ignore your plight. Just as I intend to save this entire city, I will make it my mission to save you as well."

His tone makes me shiver. He seems to be referring to a lot more than just marriage. Something more twisted than that, but I can't even open my mouth to ask what it is. I'm paralyzed.

"After tonight, you will fulfill your final duty to me. Then, I will fulfill my obligation to you. I see the truth now. What you really need."

An icy, creeping sensation washes over me, starting at my head and crawling downward. With it comes a wave of nausea and a sick sense of foreboding that urges me to run. Now. If I don't, I may never get the chance to do so again.

Instead, I hold his gaze and croak, "What is that?"

"Salvation," he says. "After some reflection, I realized that there was only one clear path. You think I failed your mother, but that is where you are wrong. She failed you. It was my duty to make you see that, and I failed. It's only logical that you would follow in her path, devoid of proper guidance. I should have seen then what I do now. There is only one way to break the cycle and salvage this family line. One way to save your soul, and I refuse to lose you to the devil."

"Like you lost Hale?" I ask.

"Hale? He was a test of my faith, much like the one God himself presented to Abraham, but you… You are a mission. One I have gravely neglected. The path to hell began with a mere apple from a poisoned tree. To prevent such an insidious force from taking over his garden, it wasn't enough for Adam to merely prevent Eve from eating the forbidden fruit. By then, it was already too late. He needed to chop down the tree at its root and stop Eve's corruption before it was too late. For you, it is not too late, Frances."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm willing to do for you what I couldn't do for your brother, or even your mother. I'm going to save your soul."

The unsettling feeling in my stomach grows stronger as he pulls back. His words conceal a hidden threat, but I can't discern what it is. The word "salvation" means something very different to him today than it does in the Bible.

Don't get distracted, Frey, a part of me warns. You're here for a reason. Take advantage of this moment.

"I know about the construction company," I say, desperate to regain some semblance of even footing. "The one Colton's family owns. I know that you need it to help carry out whatever nefarious plans you have in mind for Salvation. Is that why you want me to marry him so badly that you'll do it in the dead of night like some kind of human trafficker?"

His eyes narrow, and a flush creeps over his cheeks. Without really even trying to get under his skin, I've done that and more. Somewhere within that rant was a barb that hit the sweet spot.

"I knew it was a mistake to let your brother remain in our lives after he chose to corrupt his body with poison," Father says. His voice rises in pitch, rippling with barely-concealed anger. "I spared you the reality of that, and let you turn your helpless anger to me. A good father knows when to yield to the needs of his flock. I gave you that small bit of grace." He reaches out, brushing the tip of a long finger against my cheek. "But no more."

I don't even see the slap coming. Just the stars that spot my vision next. The world bucks beneath me, and the next thing I know, I'm crouched on the floor, cradling my throbbing cheek against my palm. Tears spring from my eyes, but I grit my teeth rather than let them fall. I can't allow the display of violence to deter me. If Daze were here, I know what he'd say— You're on track. You've got him cornered.

"Hale was never the sick one, was he?" I croak. My mouth fills with a bitter taste, and I shudder once I realize what it is—blood. I have to choke down a swallow just to keep talking. At the same time, I lurch to my feet, forced to sway unsteadily. "He wasn't the one who betrayed our family in the blind pursuit of greed, was he? It was always you, willing to harm anyone who got in your way. Hale wasn't the only one, either. I'm sure my mother saw through you on day?—"

Another blow strikes the unguarded side of my face, and I hit the floor on my hands and knees. My eyes are streaming, my jaw on fire. I suck in air through my nose as more blood dribbles down my chin. Breathe, Frey. Focus!

"Your mother was my very first mistake," Father says, his voice sounding disjointed as if coming from several directions at once. "My first bite of the poisoned apple. I thought I could change her heathen ways and mold her into the woman she was destined to be. I see now that I was wrong. She was already beyond saving?—"

Wham! A sharp pressure rams into my side, knocking the air from my lungs. Gasping, I wheeze, curled in a ball as my father's booted foot comes to rest inches from my head.

"As dark as your path may seem, there is still hope for you, Frances. I know that. I can feel it, and I refuse to fail you again."

"If murder is your idea of saving, then I think I'll be better off in hell," I spit.

He steps closer, and my body instinctively tenses up for another blow, but one doesn't come. Instead, he tilts his head to observe me as if for the first time. I don't like the look in his eye. It's too sharp, lingering over my trembling legs in a way that raises goosebumps all over my skin. It's the same way Silas looked at me, but different. Darker. Twisted.

"You think your mother was some paragon of virtue?" he hisses. "The bitch who schemed and lied to put you in her rightful place? Oh, I'm sure she never told you that, did she."

"What are you talking about?"

"I didn't find out until she was already long gone, the sick little game she played. Changing her will at the last damn minute. Only one obstacle remains in my way now… Innocent Frances, whom her very spirit has corrupted to follow in her footsteps. My daughter is gone, isn't she? It's you in her place, isn't it, laughing at me from beyond the grave." He seizes a fistful of my hair and wrenches me to my feet.

"It's you," he breathes out, his wide eyes on my face. His jaw is slack, his skin pale. It's like he's seeing a ghost in my place. "It was always you, possessing her. Turning her away from me just as you did my only son. Hale was your first victim, wasn't he? It was you that corrupted his mind, goading him to stick his nose where it didn't belong. You think you can win, demon? I won't let your evil taint the world any longer."

"Who?" I rasp. "Who do you think I am? Look at me!"

It's like he doesn't even hear me, but when a single name leaves his lips, I have my answer. "Abagail," he says hoarsely. "It's you, isn't it? Laughing from your damned grave. I won't let you have her. I'll drive you out myself if I have to. I already defeated you once—I'll do it again."

My mind is left reeling. Abagail? Has he finally lost his hold on reality?

His hands go for my neck, grasping, squeezing. I can't resist my instinct to fight back, kicking, scraping at his fingers, clawing at his forearms. It's no use, and a cold sense of finality washes over me as, bit by bit, the strength starts to leave my limbs. This is how I die.

At the hands of my own father…

"Sir?" The other voice comes from down the hall, drawing my father's attention. Suddenly, he releases me, and I gulp for breath.

"What is it?" Father demands, turning to the figure approaching him.

"We should leave now. If you want to make it in time, sir."

Make it? To where?

"Yes, of course." Clearing his throat, my father adjusts his askew collar, his composed self once more. Whatever this is about must be important. Important enough for him to casually swipe my blood off his knuckles and turn to leave.

"Tonight, Abagail," he calls back to me. "Once your plans are circumvented, I'll send you back to hell."

As he leaves, my mind reels. It's the second time he's called me by my mother's name, a coincidence I'd be a fool to overlook. There's something important in that slipup, and I doubt that Colton's wedding plans are at the forefront of my father's mind. He's planning something else, and I need to warn Daze. But how?

"It hurts me to see you like this, do you realize that?" The voice is Colton's. I didn't even see him come in, but he's kneeling beside me, dabbing at my face with a handkerchief.

I cringe out of his reach, biting back the pain. "Don't touch me."

He sighs. "Frances. I will admit that I find your newfound rebellious streak enticing, but remember that I will have years to break you after our wedding. From the moment I first saw you, I knew you were destined to be mine. From the start. I've bided my tongue and been patient, but now…" He sneers, and for a split second, I don't even recognize him. "Now I see that the only way to make you mine, is by demanding it. No matter what you or your father or anyone else thinks!"

"Will you?" I counter. Somehow, I manage to keep my voice flat and neutral. Inside, I'm shaking. This man before me is a stranger, capable of anything. Even so, provoking him is my best shot at gaining the upper hand. "My father didn't seem to think so," I add to twist the knife.

Predictably, Colton's eyes narrow, and he draws back, wringing the bloodied kerchief between his fingers. "You were always a righteous little bitch," he snarls. "But you were never one for riddles. What exactly are you implying?"

"Nothing," I say, thinking quickly. "I just wonder if you realize who is really in control. It isn't you."

He scoffs. "Frances, petty, childish, mind games are beneath you. Besides, should your father want to ‘be in control,' as you put it, he would still need me." He smirks, his eyes gleaming with a smugness that makes my skin crawl.

"How so?"

He looks me up and down, deliberately pausing over my breasts. When I cross my arms over my chest, he finally meets my gaze. "Because the only way to fulfill the terms of your inheritance requires that you either reach the age of twenty-five, or are legally married first. In case of the second scenario, you'd only get fifty percent, unless, of course…" He leans in to mockingly whisper, "You have a child soon after. Your father needs your husband if he wants to fulfill the terms of the contract."

"What contract? What the hell are you talking about?" I demand.

"Your mother's will," he says. "Hale would have been eligible for his share, but your father took care of that, didn't he? With the eldest of her two children dead, the full bulk of her inheritance goes to you. I'm sure you realized that. It's why you've been poking your nose where it doesn't belong, pretending that you were doing it out of righteous love. I'm sure the truth is that you just wanted to make sure that his death wouldn't affect your half of the fortune."

"What fortune?"

He raises an eyebrow. "I've found the feisty version of you tiresome, but I will admit that I prefer it to the innocent little Frances who always looks at the world with that wide-eyed naivety. You know damn well what I'm talking about."

I can sense his irritation. If I want him to keep talking, I need to tread carefully. So, I face him and let myself visibly wince.

"I'm sorry. You're right. I do know, but my question is, how do you plan to circumvent that. Once I'm married, there is no use for you anymore, is there?"

He frowns. "Don't play coy, or did you not hear the second part of the stipulation? Your father already gets half of the money once you say, ‘I do.' Unless he plans to keep you around for another two years, then you need an heir sooner rather than later if you're to receive the full inheritance. Nine months may seem like a long time, but I'm sure seven or eight will do. Then, if anything happens to either of you, the money goes to your husband. Your father has no ties in any case. Your mother made sure of that."

My mother, the woman I spent so much of my life believing had abandoned me. What if that, among almost everything else, had also been a lie? She hasn't been living out on her own all this time, and what if her addiction hadn't been her own choice? What if, just like Hale, her supposed downfall had been entirely manufactured for one purpose only?

I lick my lips, still tasting blood. My bottom one must be split, and it stings like hell. It's getting harder to keep my left eye open. The pain hasn't sunk in yet, but I'm well aware of the fact that time is running out. Somehow, I need to free myself and warn Daze. There isn't even time to agonize over a course of action. I just need to do something.

"You're right," I say thickly. "No matter what, he'll need you. But I don't think he's in his right mind anymore, Colton. Have you stopped to think about that?"

He laughs. "Do you really think I'm that much of a fool? That you can just bat your eyes at me, and I'll come running. You aren't that good of an actress, Frances. Besides, I saw the way you looked at him, that cretin."

My entire body reacts to the mere hint of Daze. I can't help it. I know the longing for him shows on my face, and I can't even begin to hide it. Instead, I meet Colton's gaze directly and try to hunt for some small shred of emotion I can use to my benefit. Beneath the hate and anger, I find a glimpse of something useful.

Lust.

"You don't want to hurt me," I tell him. "You don't."

"I would beg to differ, Frances." He reaches out to stroke my hair, only to grab a handful of strands and yank. "After the humiliation you've put me through, before your father. Before the entire congregation. Do you have any idea what you've done? My own father can barely look at me, and yet here I still am, sacrificing my integrity to save your honor. I think that's earned me a bit of a reward, wouldn't you say?"

He presses his mouth cruelly to mine in a painful, sloppy imitation of a kiss.

I can't silence a cry, but I don't pull away. Eyes streaming, I meet his gaze directly until he's the one forced to look away first. As he releases me, I bite on my swollen lip just to keep from whimpering. It hurts. Every part of me is on fire, and I know at the back of my mind that I won't be able to handle this kind of treatment for very long. Sooner or later, I'm going to break.

I hear a voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like Daze say, Do something about it. Fight. You don't want me to save you, princess? Then you better fucking get a move on saving yourself.

"You want me," I say, changing tact. "I know you do, and I still want you too. You can't blame me for trusting the first person to give me answers, can you? You know how worried I was about Hale. You know that all I wanted was to find out why."

"And have you?" He's smug again, his smile a sneer. "I don't think you have, Frances. Because there is one part of your role to play that I don't think even your father has told you yet."

"And what is that?"

He rises to his feet. "Play your cards right and be the obedient fiancée until tonight. Then, after our wedding, I'll enlighten you. Perhaps I might even take pity on you enough to help change your father's mind. But know this. When you are my wife, his rules will no longer apply to you. You will answer only to me, and I won't tolerate a deceitful woman in my home. You will learn to be subservient, even if I have to beat the goodness into you."

"Tonight, then," I say, watching him leave. The second he slams the door behind him, I don't waste any time. I slide his cell phone from its hiding place between my legs and fumble to get it open. It's locked, but I get it open on my first try—our supposed anniversary. The thought makes me sick as I open up a message and compile one on the fly. Then I send it to a number I've memorized by heart. My fingers tremble as I hit send at the same time I hear footsteps rushing toward the door. I delete the message and slide the phone away just in time to witness Colton fling it open, his cheeks pink, chest heaving.

"What's wrong?" I ask with faked innocence. Sweat is dripping down my neck, and I just hope he underestimates me enough to write off the reaction as fear.

As he surveys me, his eyes narrow before he turns his attention to the floor. As soon as he spots the phone near the doorway, he crouches to pick it up, holding it as warily as he would a live viper. I can't tell what he thinks as he tucks it in his pocket. Does he know I used it? Will he somehow be able to track the number down?

Hopefully, Daze won't try to call back.

Without a word, Colton turns on his heel and storms off, and I can finally breathe again. Then, I clear my mind of fear and focus on another plan for escape. One that utilizes the razor blade tucked into my hem.

Do I have what it takes to use it?

It only takes thinking about Daze in danger and his beautiful eyes swollen with pain for me to find the answer. Hell yes. I'll find my way back to him no matter what it takes.

Or who I have to kill in the process.