Page 12 of Fear No Hell

Sam

Dammit, I won’t ever make her feel unsafe or endangered, which means I need to get myself under fucking control.

I lost my lower right leg and failed her in the process of trying to get her away from him.

I’ve spent years trying to convince everyone that she was real.

People would either ignore me or flatly deny it, saying it was absurd that a prestigious author like Arthur Francis—a man well known for donating to causes supporting women and advocating ferociously for women authors—would ever do anything like that.

My mother, who could have easily checked the attic, left my father’s house after that day when I was nine and never once looked back.

Everyone chalked it up to post-traumatic stress: a nine-year-old kid abused by his father, traumatized by a body-altering surgery, was obviously going to come up with some wild stuff.

No one ever considered that I was telling the truth.

Eighteen years and two forced commitments for my “delusions” of the woman I saw my father raping in his attic later, and I had almost started believing people when they said she didn’t exist. That she was a delusion brought on by trauma at the hands of an emotionally unavailable—at best—and abusive—at worst—father.

That, despite completing medical school at the top of my class and getting the residency of my dreams, I might actually be psychotic.

But then I dreamt of her last night. Saw her beautiful face marred with tears, her perfect lips parting to say one word: “Sam.” And, despite my father’s restraining order against me—who knew breaking into his house to try and get to the woman I now know as Lila would spook the old man so much—I went to his retirement party, prepared to do everything legal and almost anything illegal to get her out of there.

When I got there, though, I didn’t find the broken woman I had seen in my dream and expected.

Instead, I found a blood-soaked goddess who had freed herself, murdered an entire party of people, and disabled my father.

In the short time I’ve known this woman as an adult, I’ve helped Lila commit arson, taken my father hostage, and hung him in my basement. All so that Lila can torture him. Whether that’s psychological or physical or both, I don’t know.

I should be scared shitless. I should care that I’ve willingly, happily, become an accomplice to a truly insane amount of felonies. But no. Instead, I’m half hard watching the ebony fall of her hair over her shoulder as she hisses at Arthur.

Think of something—anything—else. Calm the fuck down, man.

I don’t even know what she is. Despite the rational part of me that doesn’t believe in the supernatural, looking at her now forces me to reconsider the long-held stance.

She radiates otherness, something distinctly nonhuman.

When I consider the sharp black claws tipping her delicate fingers, her stunning features that look exactly the same as they did when I first saw her all those years ago, and the sheen of scarlet glazing her eyes off and on throughout the night, it all adds up: Lila is not human.

And I don’t care in the least.

She’s speaking now, berating Arthur. Her face is lit with rage as she lays into him, her hands balled into fists by her hips.

I frown in confusion. I can’t understand what she’s saying.

What the hell? Am I having a stroke? I shuffle through the sounds coming out of her mouth, puzzling over each individual one in the hopes I’m having some form of auditory processing delay.

When I still can’t understand her, the only part of my brain not obsessing over how her hips are the perfect shape to grab onto is jarred into action.

Then I hear a word I recognize: cardia.

Heart.

Is she speaking Greek?

“Lila?” The sibilant melody coming out of her mouth comes to an immediate halt.

Her back tightens, and there’s a moment as she turns, almost snake-like in her fluid grace, when I think she’s going to attack me. The second her gaze meets mine, recognition flares over her face, and her shoulders loosen, all signs of aggression gone. “Sam.”

I could ask what she was saying. Why she can speak Greek with a natural fluency that tells me she learned it young. I stuff the impulse away and leave it be. She'll tell me her story in her own time and when she's ready. Instead, I focus on the bigger issue in front of us.

“What now?” I ask, gesturing at Arthur, whose mouth is gaping wide but silent, almost like he wants to scream but can’t force it out. An awkward laugh escapes me as I rub a hand over the back of my neck. “I’ve, uh, I’ve never tortured someone before, so I’m not really sure what to do here.”

Silence. Then Lila giggles, clapping a hand over her lips right after the effervescent sound bubbles out of her.

A few more seconds, and her amusement manages to escape through her fingertips again, and, suddenly, we’re both howling with laughter as the oddness of the evening catches up with both of us.

Arthur glares, which only makes us laugh harder. The man never had any real power; that’s strikingly clear with him strung from the ceiling. Honestly, the realization is bittersweet because it means I wasted most of my life scared of a monster who’s easily vanquishable.

My smile slides off my face at the same time Lila’s does.

“Can we go upstairs to talk?”

I nod and gesture for her to go up the stairs.

Mostly because I want her to feel safe, which means having her walk up first. Unfortunately, there’s also a not insignificant part of me that wants to watch her perfect curves shifting inches away from my face, fantasizing about what might have been if… my father weren’t a piece of shit.

My lips curl unconsciously into a grimace, that thought such anathema to me that it tames my lust even though my body doesn’t get the memo.

Before I step onto the first floor, I adjust my dick surreptitiously, so I’m not tenting my pants in front of Lila.

The last thing I want is for her to feel uncomfortable because I can’t control my physical reaction to her.

Once I’m situated, I follow her into my living room where she’s pacing the floor again, tracking the same path from before.

“I want to make him pay,” she snarls on a long stride towards the front windows. “I want to make him feel the same helplessness and pain he made me feel.” She reaches the window and turns, following her trail back towards me.

“Okay.” I’m not going to argue with her. She needs this, so I’ll make it happen for her. Simple as that. “What do you need me to do? How can I help?”

Her angry steps come to an abrupt halt at my words. “Just like that? You’re not going to ask me not to do it or make a case on his behalf or… anything?”

I can’t control my snort of derision. “God, no. He deserves whatever you’re going to do to him and, honestly, probably quite a bit more.

So you tell me what you need from me, and I’ll make it happen.

If it’s just a place to string him up to do…

whatever it is you’re planning to do to him while you crash somewhere else, I can do that.

If you want or need a safe place to call home, you can stay here and take my room.

It’s on the first floor and has French doors out onto the back porch, so there’s no way you can ever be trapped in there.

Whatever you want, Lila.” I pause, not intending to say anything else.

My traitorous mouth has other plans. “But I hope you’ll stay. ”

Those almond-shaped eyes widen. “You’re not going to make me stay?”

“Never.” I practically spit the word out, barely able to hide my anger at Arthur for making that a question she has to ask. “You stay or go as you want. This isn’t your prison. It’s a home for you if you want it.”

Silence fills the room, broken only by Arthur’s renewed screams for help.

We’re going to have to remember to gag him or I’ll have to soundproof the basement, so he doesn’t bring hell—and the police—down on us.

Both is probably better. My fingers strike against my thigh as I organize my thoughts and plan the best way to seal the partially underground room.

First step: search how to DIY it since we definitely can’t bring in a professional while Arthur is down there.

The trust fund my mom set up for me vested when I turned 21, but it’s comfortable money, not grotesque enough wealth to have a construction worker ignore kidnapping, torture, and murder.

I’ve figured out item number three—rekey the locks, so my mom can’t walk in whenever she wants to visit—when Lila startles me back to reality.

“I want to stay.” She sounds confident as she says it. It’s her fingers, tangled so tightly around each other that her knuckles have gone white, that give her away. She’s terrified.

I can’t react the way I want—which would be to jump around maniacally and cheer that she’s staying—because it would definitely scare the shit out of her.

Instead, I jerk my head up and down in something I hope resembles agreement.

“That’s—” My voice is hoarse from choking down my excitement, so I clear my throat before trying again.

It kind of works. I only sound a little bit like a dying bullfrog this time.

“That’s great. I’m—I’m so happy you’re staying.

I’ll show you your room if you want, grab some clothes, and be out of your hair. ”

“Okay… ”

“My schedule’s on the fridge. I shouldn’t be in your way too much since I tend to get the shit shifts.

Y’know, only resident without a family problems.” I walk her into the master suite, taking care not to touch her.

I tell myself it’s because I don’t want her to feel crowded, which has the added benefit of being completely true.

It’s also true that I’m a horny idiot who may come from a single brush of my body against hers.

As I collect everything necessary to last me for the next few days, I talk her through the basics.

“I’m working tomorrow, so I’ll be out pretty much all day.

I went grocery shopping a few days ago, so help yourself to anything that looks good.

I’ll leave my cell here for you in case you need to call me.

” A bundle of clothes draped over one arm, I pull my phone from my back pocket with my free hand and pass the device to her.

“The PIN is 7916. If you need me, all you have to do is call Chicago All Saints—” After entering my PIN, I navigate through the contact list to show her the correct number. “And ask for Dr. Eaton.”

“Not Dr. Francis?” Lila turns the phone in her hand, running her fingers down the edges and swiping her thumb across the screen.

It briefly occurs to me that she might never have interacted with a modern cell phone before, which makes me want to punch something.

Preferably the man strung up downstairs.

“I took my mom’s last name after she left Arthur.

” It takes everything in me not to step closer to her, not to offer her the reassurance I know she needs.

“After tonight, I’ve never been more glad I cut all ties with the fucker.

He’s finally getting what he deserves. So you do whatever you need to with Arthur, and I’ll be here to clean up behind you. ”

Lila blinks at me.

“Since you’re sort of low on clothes without, y'know, bloodstains, feel free to wear any of mine until we can get some new stuff for you.” The caveman in my brain flails wildly at the idea of Lila in my fucking clothes.

Jesus Christ, Eaton. “T-shirts are in the drawer. My sweats will probably be massive on you, but they’re yours if you want them. ”

I try to ignore my midbrain’s possessive screaming that we’re never going to buy her clothes that aren’t ours.

“If you need anything else, I’ll be upstairs.

” With an awkward half wave—why the fuck am I waving, this is my damn house—I back out of the room.

I'm only a few steps down the hall when Lila comes barreling through the door and flings her arms around me.

She’s taller than the average woman, so her head nestles perfectly in the space between my neck and shoulder. Too quickly, she steps away, her golden cheeks flushed bright red as she puts space between us. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being nothing like him.”