Page 10
Chapter 10
EZEKIEL
Three years earlier
G rief is like a constant, quiet ache that settles deep inside your chest, entwining with the core of your being. The essence of who you are before it finally takes hold of you completely and consumes you. And right now, grief is the only word I can find to describe what I am feeling as I stare at the naked woman bound to the king-sized bed before me. Only, it isn’t her that I grieve. Though, part of the reason I feel this way is because of what I’m about to do to her.
The person I’m grieving is myself.
The man I used to be.
The man that, up until last year, I was happy to be, all things considered. Because after tonight, there’s no going back to him. Any hope that I’d had of happiness is long gone. Everyone watching on the other side of the blinking red light on the video camera in the corner of this penthouse will see to that.
“Are you ready, Ren, baby?” Valerie asks as she traipses around the room for no other reason than to draw attention to herself. We have company, and God help their eyes be on anyone else in her presence.
“Of course, I’m ready, Valley Girl,” I reply, the words coming easier now that she and I have become more acquainted these past few months.
Though, I’m not so sure it sounds convincing. I remind myself that I’m not defined by the things I’m forced to do as a member of The Royal, like it's some sort of pathetic, daily affirmation I repeat as I suit up, ready to play the monster. I’m just humoring myself at this point because the longer I’m involved in this shit, this world, and this godforsaken society, playing their fucking games to prove my loyalty, is making it easier to forget that there was anything good about me in the first place. This Jane Doe is not the first woman I’ve had to sleep with to pledge my allegiance to them, and she certainly won’t be the last. But she is the first woman I’ve had to kill while I fucked.
An unsettling emptiness pulls me from my thoughts, and for once, I’d rather be lost in my head than stuck here in the present. I look toward the camera. The security guards who should be outside guarding the door are now standing with Valerie, Leo Riley, a renowned film producer and actor, and Stuart Bohman, the chief executive officer of St. Agatha’s Women's Hospital. They aren't here to help her. They're here because they paid to watch. A substantial amount, I might add. Well, Leo did. Stuart wrote Valerie an IOU, forfeiting his entire fucking family if he doesn't come up with the money by noon on Tuesday. It's a regular fucking Sunday to them. To me and to the woman chained to the headboard, it's Hell. I’m relieved they positioned the camera far enough away that they’d only hear me if I spoke loudly.
I could talk to her.
I shouldn't.
“Okay, Honey, you’re live,” Valerie calls out, but she knows I’m already aware we are. It’s just another way for her to tell me to hurry the fuck up and give the viewers what they paid for.
For a beat, I say nothing. I don’t even look at her. Nobody in this room is aware that, in this moment, all I want to do is fucking die. I want to turn the tables and switch places with this innocent woman. Let her give me the punishment that I have earned. The punishment that I deserve to receive. But I can’t. I have to convince The Royal that I’m committed to this. To them. No matter how much this breaks me.
I step closer to the bed, holding the woman’s gaze. She couldn’t be any older than twenty, twenty-one, maybe. She’s beautiful in a way that shows she’s far too perfect for this world and the life she’s most likely lived because of Charles Jensen. She knows what’s about to happen here but appears unbothered by it. Her power is on full display. Unbroken in the face of the death she’s about to endure. I don’t want to do this, and I think she sees it in my expression as I stare down at her. They’re all watching, but I can’t move. Not until I somehow subliminally convey… something .
An apology.
I silently tell her that I don’t have a fucking choice, just as much as she doesn’t. Her eyebrow raises slightly as if amused at my obvious inner turmoil. If I don’t do this, we’re both dead. If I do this, she’s dead. But the difference is, she’s not the one striving to take down The Royal and finally put an end to this shit once and for all. That fucking burden falls on me, I’m afraid, and it’s tearing me apart.
Slowly, I run my index finger along the soft, delicate skin of her leg, only stopping when I reach her upper thigh. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t give me anything. Nothing that will appease Valerie, at least. I’m proud of her for her strength, though I’m sure she’s probably crumbling on the inside. Life is always so much harder for a woman. It’s unforgiving, especially for the women trapped in this world, surrounded by these people. And while ever a man has a cock swinging between his legs, they cannot be trusted. Yet, they somehow hold all the power and call all the fucking shots where women are concerned. Deciding who is worth something and who isn’t. Like they are nothing more than prizes to be won or entertainment for them to enjoy.
There aren’t any emotions glistening in her wide, dark eyes as she watches me, seemingly bored to death, but still, she doesn’t look away as I make a point of not staring at her body. It won’t erase or dilute the darkness of the act I’m about to commit against her, but it’s the only mercy I have to give, even if it means nothing in the grand scheme of things.
Her stoicism only means that I have to force the reactions out of her, and anything else that happens beyond this point isn’t even close to making the list of things I want. I swallow hard, my throat dry and tight. My eyes glaze as the emotions I want so desperately for her to see press against the surface, but I push those parts of me down deeper into my core and try to fully detach myself from my body. It’s the only way. I grab the knife placed on the foot of the bed, wrapping my fingers around it tightly. My movements are slow and calculated, and I hope that they at least come across as eager when, really, I'm just stalling the inevitable.
“Get it over with,” the woman says, barely above a whisper. I narrow my eyes and climb on top of her, pressing the knife against her throat as she stares up at me emotionless.
“I don't want to do this,” I plead, my proverbial mask crumbling. My face is close enough to hers that the camera won’t be able to ascertain our features, allowing us some freedom, if you can even call it that.
“I know,” she whispers with a hint of an accent, and for the first time tonight, I detect a flicker of vulnerability in her flat, lifeless expression as tears fill the corners of her eyes.
“But I have to,” I tell her, my voice growing quieter with each word.
“I know,” she replies, as a lone tear breaks free, falling down her face.
As if on instinct, I move in closer and trace my lips along the dampness of her cheek before whispering, “I'll make it quick, I promise, but I’m gonna need you to give them a show,” I say, digging the knife in harder against her skin with my left hand and dragging my other up her body, cupping her breast.
“There isn't anything left for me to give. They've taken everything. What you're doing, ending my life, is a kindness.”
I lean down and kiss her, but she doesn't kiss me back. Good . They don't want her to want this. I don't want her to want this. Not because I enjoy her struggle or resistance, but because this is beyond fucked up, and nothing and no one deserves to be treated this way.
“Do you know where they're keeping them?” I ask foolishly. Laying everything out on the line is the worst possible thing for me to do right now, but I'm desperate. I just want this to all be over. I don't think I can take any more. And I’m not even the one on the receiving end. Not this time.
“The church,” she whispers.
What fucking church?
I remove my hand from her breast, sliding it down to cup her pussy, shaking my head slightly in disgust as I start to finger her.
“I'm so fucking sorry,” my whispered words crack, and she struggles beneath me. The knife, still pressed to her throat, slices her skin as she cries out in pain. She's doing this on purpose because her expression says something else entirely.
“My daughter, Mikaiah, she's only seven. They took her,” her soft voice cracks and trembles, and I can feel my blood pound in my ears in cold-blooded fury.
If her daughter is seven, then she must have had her when she was no older than fourteen. I look down at her, letting her read the silent message on my face, telling her what I'm about to do. She nods slightly. Then, a beat later, I drive my cock into her as she frantically kicks and twists to fight me off, her voice thick with pain as she begs me to stop.
Bile rises in my throat, but her next words have my thoughts spiraling, and my focus shifts from the guilt of what I'm doing to her words instead.
“The church,” she keeps repeating. I want to ask why. Instead, I place my free hand on top of her head, fisting her dark hair before yanking it backward, letting my fist knock the headboard with each thrust, giving them the illusion that there is more of a struggle going on with every sound.
“I promise you. I will do my best to save your daughter,” I whisper in her ear between labored breaths.
Then, I pull her earlobe into my mouth with my tongue and bite down hard. Her blood pools in my mouth as my teeth slice and bite through her skin, removing her entire earlobe as I rip my head back with a forced jolt.
This time, her screams are real.
Her eyes squeeze shut as she rides out the pain. I'm so fucking sorry. I'm sorry. I don't say this, though. I want to. Instead, I say nothing as she wails in the agony I’m putting her through.
“Tell her that I loved her... t-till my very last breath. That everything I did, I did for h-her. To save her. To f-find her. Tell her, please. But most importantly. Tell her that I am proud of her, and I'll be watching her from the skies,” she chokes up, her now quiet voice raw and breaking as blood and tears mix together, coating our scarred, naked bodies. “Tell her that her m-momma loves her more than all the stars,” she sobs now, and I know what I have to do. This is the most disgraceful, un-fucking-forgivable thing I'll ever do in my miserable, good-for-nothing life.
“I promise. I have to say goodbye, Angel. I can only follow through with this if I can't hear you cry.”
“Thank you. I don't hate you for this. Please just save my baby.”
“I'll die trying,” I say before pressing my lips to hers again, only this time, she kisses me back.
I grip the knife tighter, lifting it away from her throat, then lean back slightly. Not allowing myself any time to think, I drive the knife downward and into the place between her eyes with every bit of strength I have left in me, her blood now dripping from my face. I move my body, staying in place long enough that it looks convincing as I fake my release, hating every minute, every second that I breathe afterward.
Guilt wraps its claws around my broken, tainted heart, and it’s all I can do not to turn this room into a fucking bloodbath, starting with Valerie. But I just made a promise. And it may not be much, but I can't let her down.
I remove myself from her slowly, committing her face, the scene to memory. I deserve to see the aftermath of what I’ve done, and to live with the torment that will undoubtedly follow me until I'm nothing more than a pile of rotten bones.
“That was so romantic!” Valerie shrieks, jumping up and down in one spot, clapping like a lunatic.
Someone throw that fucking cunt a fish.
“It was the most visually poetic thing I've ever seen.” This comes from one of the bodyguards. My head spins in his direction. He's wearing a brightness in his eyes like he's just met his idol for the first time. His face is familiar, and it takes me no more than three seconds to put together that he works for the president.
How fucking appropriate that he's here.
“Now, why don't you go and have a shower, Ren? As mesmerizing as it is seeing you covered in that bitch’s blood, we have a plane to catch.” With any luck, it will fall from the sky.
On that note, I turn away, leave the room, and head straight into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I rest my hands on either side of the basin, looking at myself in the mirror. I turn on the faucet and frantically wash the blood from my face, neck, and hands.
I am filth.
I am the product of death and pain.
I am wreck and ruin, and if I get out of this alive, my fractured soul will forever be a prisoner to this night. They finally took from me what I’ve worked so hard to hold onto this past year.
My humanity.