Page 2 of Vicious and Volatile (Vengeance and Venom #2)

P rison bars. A dark basement. Terrified people. Dusty floors. Industrial buildings. Hidden corporations.

My mind won’t stop flipping through it all. Dreams twist the visions into nightmares that don’t make any sense, but are as equally horrendous as reality.

My breathing rips in and out of my chest. Faster, faster, faster. I can hear my heartbeat hammering in my ears. A cold sweat breaks out on my palms.

And suddenly, my eyes rip open.

I scuffle back, across a bed, when the scenery is changed. My heart rate skyrockets, and panic tilts my vision.

No longer am I in that red room, my prison cell. The room I find myself in is just that: a room. A high-end one at that, if I’m honest. It’s a bedroom with dark green walls and polished walnut paneling. An expensive-looking chandelier hangs from the ceiling. The bed I’m lying on is queen-sized and surprisingly comfortable.

But it isn’t the decorations I’m searching the space for .

I would be relieved that I’m alone, but my fight or flight is in overdrive right now.

Desperate and maybe a little reckless, I spring from the bed. I head to the first of two doors that lead from the room. Behind the first, I find a bathroom, a beautiful, elegant one, with a big shower and a separate toilet room, all with ornate tile work.

The next door opens up into a whole apartment.

It’s not huge. But there is a kitchen. And a dining table. There is a living room with a generously sized television. There’s a whole wall of bookshelves, and all of them are filled with books of every variety.

It takes a few seconds of terrified observation to realize there isn’t a single window in the place, though.

When I spot a door across the living room from me, I find it, unsurprisingly, locked.

I smack my hands against the door, just once. Part of me wants to panic. To start screaming in hopes someone might hear me and come investigate. I want to cry and sink to the floor in sobs. I don’t know where I am. I was just sold by an evil man. I don’t know anything about Lawrence Crawford, the man who has bought me.

If there were a time to break down, now would be it.

But as I stare at the surface of the steel door, I force myself to take a breath in and slowly, very, very slowly, let it out between my lips.

Panic won’t help you, Lana, I think to myself. And you need to be ready if he comes down here.

I close my eyes for a moment, forcing calm and clarity into my thoughts. I swallow once, and the motion reminds me of what I need to take care of, right now .

I turn away from the door and step toward the kitchen.

I turn the faucet on at the sink and drink from it, taking deep, huge gulps. My parched throat feels raw, my tongue like sandpaper. Water has never, ever tasted so good.

But I know what can happen if you’re this dehydrated and you drink too fast. As much as I don’t want to, as much as I want to keep drinking, I turn the tap off and wipe at my mouth.

I pull the fridge open, and I nearly whimper in relief when I find it fully stocked. I grab an apple and bite into it, even as I pull out some eggs, cheese, and sliced meat. There’s even spinach and butter.

Scrounging around in the cupboards, I find everything I need. I pull out a frying pan. I grab a spatula. Then, I throw all my ingredients into the pan, cooking up an omelet.

My stomach growls loudly as the smell permeates the air. I wonder how long it’s been now since I last ate. I struggle to even remember the last time I put food in my stomach.

I dump the food onto a plate, snatch up a fork, and sink onto a chair at the table. I burn my mouth as I eagerly take the first bite. But it’s worth it. My eyes slide closed, and a groan escapes my lips as finally, finally, I eat.

But when my eyes slide back open, they immediately lock on something small, round, and black on the wall mounted above the sink.

A camera.

I lower my fork and scan the rest of this open living space.

I find another camera above the TV. There is another in the ceiling fan. And yet another next to the picture right behind me.

They aren’t hidden .

Whoever put them there didn’t give a damn if I saw them.

I take another bite of food and pad back into the bedroom. There, above the bed, I find another camera. Disgust rolls my stomach at first. But as I look at it, I realize the angle wouldn’t show anything more than the foot of the bed, as well as the door exiting the bedroom. I don’t find any cameras in the bathroom, but I’m not going to trust there isn’t a hidden one until I tear this place apart.

Later.

First, I need to get my strength back.

I walk back into the kitchen, this time grabbing a cup and filling it with water. Returning to the table, I drink half the glass, and stuff more of the omelet into my mouth.

This is bad. I’m obviously a prisoner; the locked door proves it, the lack of windows a farther attestation. I feel like I have somewhat of an idea of what is to come.

When I imagined what it would be like to be a vampire’s prisoner, one who gets fed from, I imagined a dark, empty room. I imagined chains. I imagined a bucket for a bathroom and ratty blankets for warmth. Instead, I have an apartment that’s bigger than eighty percent of what you’d find in Manhattan, and it’s actually very nice.

What kind of mind game is this, I have to wonder?

Whatever it is, I eat my food, getting my strength back, and start plotting how the hell I’m getting out of here.

What’s the point of buying a human if you’re not going to feed off her?

I watch the clock on the wall. It was 8:02 when I woke up. AM or PM, I have no way of telling. But I watch the hands on the clock go all the way around past eight again, and the door never opens. No one speaks through the cameras. I feed myself, fueling my body so I’m ready for whatever comes. As the hour hands go past twelve, my eyelids grow heavy.

I walk into the bedroom and lock the door, not that it will really do me any good if that vampire really wants to enter. But it makes me feel a fraction better. I curl up in the bed. Again, my brain wants to spiral. I want to freak the hell out. I think of Ares and how furious and terrified he must be right now.

But I can’t. Imagining Ares won’t do me a bit of good right now.

So, I close my eyes. I take slow breaths in and out. I force my mind to relax.

And finally, I drift off to sleep.

The sleep isn’t good. Again, it’s filled with stress-fueled nightmares. My brain can’t fully relax, even if my body is.

When I wake, I feel nearly as tired as when I laid down.

It’s only been six hours when I wander back out into the living room. I cross to the fridge, and I freeze when I open it.

The things I ate yesterday have been replenished, plus a few new items.

Someone was in here while I slept.

My skin feels cold. Goosebumps prickle along my arms and up the back of my neck. I look behind me, to the rest of the room, searching for other evidence that someone has been in here while I slept. But I find none.

A curse slips past my lips, and a twinge of fear climbs up my scalp.

Still, I refuse to lose it.

So, I pull out some chicken. I season it. I cut it up. I cook it. And then I eat it. I’m a truly terrible cook, but it’s something to put in my stomach.

When I’m finished, I turn on the TV. For some stupid reason, I’m hoping for some kind of spread showing me dozens of security cameras. Of course, there is nothing like that, though. I find every streaming service I can think of, plus about five-hundred channels to browse.

Lawrence might not have any qualms about buying humans and locking them up, but he didn’t want me getting bored. Because there’s also about three hundred books on those shelves.

I pace the room, actually starting to feel angry that he hasn’t come in here yet. I need to do something, at the very least, scream at him for doing something as shitty as buying a person. But the bastard remains absent.

So, I head into the bathroom. I don’t know how long it’s been since I showered, and my workout clothes I was supposed to go to work in are starting to feel gross. I comb through every square inch of the bathroom, searching for cameras. I find none and hope Lawrence isn’t a pervert as well as a vampire missing his moral compass. I peel my dirty clothes off, noting that the closet is stocked with basics. Nothing fancy, but enough, I won’t be running around naked. I turn the water in the shower on, and within five seconds, it’s hot.

So, Lawrence Crawford is at least somewhat wealthy. I consider all the angles as I shower, washing my hair and my body. This place is nice. The finishes aren’t cheap. It feels like I’m in a basement, and considering the size of just my apartment, I am positive we’re not in New York City anymore.

Without any way to tell how long I was unconscious between when Augustus drugged me again and when I woke up here, who the hell knows where I am now. I might not even be in the same country anymore.

That thought makes my heart drop. Ares is capable. He is connected. He has resources. Plus, grit like I’ve rarely seen.

But if he has no idea where to look, how is he ever supposed to rescue me?

You might have to save yourself, Lana, I think as I rinse the conditioner out of my hair. Just like the rest of your life before Ares.

I twist the engagement ring on my finger, my stomach quivering.

When my shower is over, I shut off the water and pull on some comfortable black pants and a plain white t-shirt. And Lawrence, or someone who works for him, really thought of everything. I find all the basics I need. Deodorant, a toothbrush and toothpaste. A hairbrush, a blow dryer, hair ties. There’s plenty of socks and underwear. And fuck, I kind of hate it. Because I have everything I need to last a long, long time in this beautiful prison.

Just as I step back out into the living area, that door opens.

My stomach drops as Lawrence Crawford steps inside. He closes the door behind him. The click I hear echo in the space tells me it re-locks.

I hesitate, frozen in place for a moment as my brain trips out. Mentally, I go through everything in this apartment, anything sharp, pointy. There were four knives in the kitchen. That will have to do. The only question is, can I get to them without him realizing? Can I move fast enough?

“I hope you’ve been comfortable,” Lawrence says. I nearly flinch when he speaks. And I think I’ve been down here a while, because talking sounds so damn loud. “I tried to make sure you had everything you needed.”

“How do you do it?” I can’t help but ask, the words coming out as a sneer. “Pay money for people, lock them away. Keep them warm and comfortable until you’re ready to drink their blood. How does your conscious let you do it?”

Lawrence holds my eyes, taking a moment to think before he answers. And slowly, he crosses the room to the couch. There’s a tense set to his shoulders that makes me think he’s… nervous? Anxious, maybe. I don’t know. It’s hard to read this controlled man.

He sinks onto the couch and crosses his legs in a way that, for some reason, screams money, as well as everything else around him.

I stay standing just outside the door to the bedroom, watching his every movement.

“There is nothing I can say to make you understand the reality of my life, Lana,” he says, his tone measured and even. Those dark brown eyes of his stay fixed on me, but they’re surprisingly non-predatory at the moment. “What has happened to you is unforgivable. It’s a worst-case situation. So, I can’t make justifications for the situation to you. There aren’t any that will make sense in your mind. Just know, it’s a necessity for me.”

“That’s fucked up,” I say, my words cold.

Lawrence simply nods in agreement. “Al warned me that you’d be… uncooperative. I appreciate you not trying to take a knife to my chest.”

“Yet,” I promise him.

“He also said that you’re a capable woman, Lana,” Lawrence says as he extends an arm over the back of the couch. “Despite him being willing to sell you, you obviously left an impression on the man. But I just want to warn you. I don’t want you getting hurt. Or feeling defeated. But there is no circumstance where you could move fast enough, use enough force, get the upper hand on me. You will not kill me, Lana.”

It’s disturbing how he’s predicted my thoughts so well. And it makes me want to try all the harder to kill him.

“His real name is Augustus Lonan,” I say, because it’s something that I do have control over right now. The least I can do is try to ruin him, even if it’s a very long shot. “He’s a real estate mogul in Manhattan. Selling humans is his nasty little side gig.”

I imagine Augustus tries to keep his real name out of these transactions. But I’d love nothing more than to see him burn for his trafficking crimes.

Let the whole fucking world know his real name.

Lawrence gives a small smile, though there’s no trace of humor in it. It’s one that tells me it doesn’t matter what “Al’s” real name is. “You’re a strong woman. The last one I had in here cried. Frequently. I understood why. I even felt bad for her. I’m not a man who is afraid of the emotions of others. But I appreciate your bravery.”

“You mistake bravery for disdain,” I say darkly.

“Still,” he says, each of his words controlled, careful. “You were worth the extra price. And your scent…” he shakes his head, and I see something spark in his eyes. Red, glowing embers. “Augustus wasn’t exaggerating about that. It will be over soon. You’ll hardly even mind.”

Before I can logic out what his words mean, he disappears from the couch, and the next second, something sharp pricks my neck. For just a second, white, searing pain explodes behind my eyelids.

But just as quickly, every thought drains out of my body. Every bit of tension in my muscles relaxes. The world grows eerily still and even.

I feel firm hands grip my arms as my body sags. And sucking. I feel a pull. I feel my heart jump, realizing it needs to work harder. Air huffs out of nostrils, and a greedy moan leaves the lips attached to my neck.

But it’s okay. It’s not real.

Nothing is real.

Nothing really exists.

Not time.

Not physical space.

Not even me.

What seemed so terrible a few moments ago? Why was I so scared? There’s nothing to worry about here in the nothing.

It’s almost disappointing when I feel the unlatching. My body, my mind is slow, sluggish, like tar. There are strong arms under me, and somehow, my view changes. I’m staring at the chandelier in the bedroom. I hear footsteps, and sometime later, a man with dark, curly hair floats along the edge of my vision.

“When you’re feeling up to it, you need to drink this and eat,” a muffled voice says. “Get some rest.”

“Thanks,” I stupidly say, the world still feeling fluffy and blurry. “I will.”

The footsteps retreat. I hear something click, feel the air pressure change for just a moment. And then there’s a click again.

It’s so quiet.

I let my eyelids slide closed.