Page 3 of Never Lost (The Unchained #3)

HIM

I almost choked, or maybe it was the road dust. “You mean, the one your father?—”

Langer nodded.

I had thought—even at the time—that it was one of the few things Max had said during his impromptu visit that couldn’t easily be dismissed as utter bullshit. And that’s why it had stuck. “But you said?—”

“When I told you I didn’t know about her,” Langer clarified, “I meant I didn’t know she was my sister. I did know her . But I thought she was just another slave girl, the daughter of one of our housemaids. I had no clue we were half-siblings, and neither did she. Not until years later.”

As the mountains drew closer, my pulse sped up.

Even more so when Langer skidded the Porsche into the driveway of a house—a sprawling, ultramodern specimen of desert architecture, one so well-suited to the land that I hadn’t even noticed it was there until just before we pulled into the drive.

And when I slid out of the car and reluctantly followed Langer up to the door, I saw why—mirrors, set into the roof so as to reflect the nearby mountains.

Actually, they were more than nearby . After a month in the desert, I’d finally made it close enough to actually touch them.

“Where are we?” I asked warily, trying not to look too awestruck as I craned my head around at the landscape.

“My house ,” Langer said witheringly. “Where the fuck else would we be?”

“But—oh.” Of course he owned two homes. It would be weirder if he didn’t .

“You should see the one in Sedona. The ex-wife got that, though. Anyway, don’t get comfortable. We’re going on a little walk.”

I stood rooted to the spot, just looking at him.

“And don’t worry. If I were planning to murder you, do you think I’d do it in my own goddamn backyard, of all places?”

“I guess not.” With no choice, I followed Langer as he started down a well-worn path winding through the extensive landscaping—complete with javelina fence—and up a well-groomed, stone-lined path into the mountains, one lined with mesquite, barrel cactus, and ocotillo.

“Anyway, starting when I was ten and she was maybe eight, we got close. Not in that way,” he clarified as we went, noticing the look that must have been on my face.

“I told you the kind of shit I had to take from my father growing up. But what I didn’t mention is that he gave it to her ten times worse.

And so we bonded over that, but as soon as he realized we’d gotten close, the bastard started using that against us.

He started making me watch, and vice versa.

And he let his friends—and some of the other slaves—give her some shit he didn’t give me.

And he made me watch that, too. He was the most possessive man I’ve ever known.

He couldn’t stand that anyone, in any way—even his own legitimate son—would dare to get between him and his property.

And he was trying to tear us apart. But ironically, the more he hurt us, the more we needed each other. ”

“And did he—with her?” I asked, my voice faint.

“If he did, I didn’t see it. And she would never tell me.”

I left that alone. Look, it wasn’t as if I hadn’t heard of—and seen—some of the most depraved and horrifying shit imaginable, from a very young age. As a slave, you did. And you took it for granted. But.

“Anyway, what happened must be an old story to you. In our spare time, I taught her everything I learned in school, starting with the ABCs. In a matter of months, that evolved into reading entire novels, then algebra, then chemistry, then calculus. Fuck, I had to stop her from trying to do my homework for me on top of her other chores. That was one thing she inherited from my father, who could have done so much fucking good in the world had he not chosen the opposite. Most of all, just knowing I’d see her smile made coming home almost bearable.

And it didn’t take long before I was promising her that I’d have my own money someday.

If I didn’t get any of my dad’s, I’d make my own.

And I’d get her out of there and away from him .

But my mother didn’t feel the same about her as I did, for obvious reasons, and I was young enough that when my mother left, I had no choice but to go.

We found ways to keep in touch, but every time we spoke, I saw how all of her messages grew more and more bitter, more spiteful, more twisted, as my father continued to hurt her.

And I got angry because I was worse than useless.

And as soon as I could, I came back, and you know the story after that, but it couldn’t make up for what she went through.

Nothing could. And I blamed myself, of course. ”

Sounded familiar. “And you’ve been trying to atone for it ever since.”

Langer nodded, clearly glad I had said it instead of him.

All the while, the elevation was rising as we climbed.

The path wasn’t particularly steep, and the sun was already low in the sky, so it wasn’t as taxing a walk as I had been expecting, especially because my physical condition was still far from ideal, even with the hourly ibuprofen I’d been popping.

Langer took an abrupt turn down a side path.

I squinted ahead, and a huge sandstone butte loomed in the distance, jutting from the otherwise flat landscape.

As we cautiously emerged from the shadows of the mesquite trees, I noticed an intricate mosaic of windows and a wide doorway, intricately carved into the rock face.

“In the old days, they used to call this a folly,” he explained.

“What do you call it?”

“The place I built to hide from my wife.”

Langer opened the door. Through the doors to the wraparound balcony, I could see the sand stretching for miles and the horizon already pink from the sun.

Inside, there was a surprising amount of living space—and a full bar, which was of course where Langer went first, opening a massive, state-of-the-art wine refrigerator.

“I don’t have anything from Luxembourg this time. How about Germany?”

He got out glasses and a bottle of dry Riesling and poured two glasses, prompting more than a little déjà vu of our impromptu meeting weeks ago.

“Prost,” he said and led me out to the verandah, decorated with massive potted cactuses and rustic terracotta furniture, faced due west, and already enveloped in the longest, most crimson sunset I had ever seen.

Was every night like this out here?

We both leaned on the stone railing.

“Long story short, I made up for lost time. I put her through school and got her her first job. I did everything I could to give her everything she deserved. But despite what you think, I was never under any illusions about her. I’ve known for a long time that she’s…

off. Sexually, sometimes it seems like she doesn’t have any boundaries.

Like something’s broken in her. And I understand why, obviously.

But keeping her out of trouble has been… a challenge over the years.”

He took a thoughtful sip of wine, staring at the deep-red sky. “My wife left me over it. Well, officially, it was Resi’s fault. But unofficially, it was because I was an arrogant, selfish, workaholic rat-bastard of a husband.”

“Really? You?” I remarked, swirling my wine, prompting a chuckle from Langer. “I know about the bailout in Belgium,” I added.

“Yeah, well, the media over here doesn’t, but you don’t even want to know what I had to do—how many corrupt bureaucratic pockets I had to line—to get her out of there and keep it quiet. And that was far from the only incident. And I suspect that’s where she met your sister, too. Right?”

“Met?” I laughed derisively, staring into the wine. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“Your sister never said she was kidnapped, did she?”

“Well, no,” I said slowly. “But she didn’t go willingly.”

Langer looked at me critically. “Are you sure?”

I froze. Fuck. We’d never talked about that, and if Maeve for any reason had gone willingly, she had probably been too ashamed to say it.

“She said she was scared,” I said stubbornly.

“I didn't mean for that to happen. There was obviously a breakdown. Resi's foreign language skills are shit, and she didn't interpret things well enough for her. But it’s also my fault for not insisting she try.”

“Maeve stayed because she had nowhere else to go,” I said. “And the police wouldn’t help. They’d just auction them all off and be done with it.”

“I know. We know.” Langer’s voice was steady. “Let me try to explain something. Resi’s like me,” he said carefully. “And like you. She starts feeling restless and bored if she doesn’t have anything to occupy her mind. And then she starts getting in trouble.”

“Sounds about right.”

“So I gave her something to occupy her mind. Something we’d talked about doing since we were kids.”

“White Cedar.”

He nodded. “And I know—I’m convinced—that after we do this, after I give her the chance to do this, she’ll settle down.

Be the person I know she is and would have been before life fucked her a thousand times over.

The person I’ve seen in her, with my own eyes, and I know is still in there.

So I can see that smile again. The one I came home to every day. The one that made life worth living.”

“But what if she… isn’t being honest about what she’s doing?” I asked diplomatically. “I mean, she’s obviously feeling the pressure to deliver. Anyone would. And how long have you been working on this?” A while, from what I’d overheard.

“It’s science. You know it takes time,” he said quickly. “Anyway, like I said, I’m under no illusions about her. I know she’s capable of dishonesty. You’ve seen that. But not about this.”

To my shock, there was actual, genuine determination on his face. Determination for atonement and for winning back some of what they’d lost before slavery fucked them over as it fucked over absolutely everyone and everything associated with it.

And that was a powerful thing. Powerful enough to be worth deluding yourself for, certainly.