Broken Bonds Boxed Set 1-3 (3 page)

“You haven’t even seen this guy.” Quinn grits his teeth, immediately wincing. And I roll my eyes. “Pure scum. He’s been in and out of the system since nineteen. And I can say with almost certainty that he probably has a juvi record, too.”

“That might be,” I say, standing to see him out. I’m weary and want to get back to my own work so I can get out of here. “But your UNSUB probably wouldn’t have a record. He’d be too careful, leery of leaving a trail. The crime scene stated caution. Regardless of how practiced the scene looked, it might have been his first acted out fantasy. He probably would’ve been planning it for months, maybe even years.”

“The same woman?”

I shake my head. “No. His victim probably wasn’t chosen randomly, but he’s had her role in mind for a long time.”

“Let me guess,” Quinn says, making his way to the door. “He matches a certain profile.”

Internally groaning, I say, “Yes. The perpetrator’s actions highly suggest a distinct profile. Though there may be some slight variations, as there are always variables that differ from person to person—”

“Killer,” he corrects.

“—he’d still be inline with the profile.” I nod toward the door. “If the boyfriend snapped and decided to play out his fantasy with the girlfriend, there’s always that. But I really believe the perpetrator was calm, collected though aroused, while he took his time torturing the victim.”

Quinn nods before leaving. He plays the tough, grumpy cop well, but there’s a good guy buried under that stiff exterior who wants to catch all the bad guys. And he’ll probably never admit to needing my advice, but I wouldn’t still be in this department if he didn’t.

That, right there, says more than he’ll ever voice.

“And go see a damn dentist,” I tell him as I usher him out of my office. “You’re driving me crazy worrying that tooth.”

He grunts. “No time for a root canal.”

“Right. Big baby.”

He waves me off as he leaves, and I shake my head. He’s seen more pain and suffering than the average person, been up against some of the most vicious criminals, and the dentist scares the man.

I walk back to my desk and open the crime scene file. Standing over it, I stare down at the quickly processed photos. I roll my shoulders, then release the hairband holding back my tightly bound, dark layers.

Studying the photo of the victim’s hands, I run my fingers through my tangled tresses and massage my scalp. I imagine the killer snatching the victim’s hair, dragging her over the bed, threatening her until she removed her robe and underwear.

His hands shaking—adrenaline pumping—as he searched her wardrobe until he found the dress he first saw her in. The one that drew his attention to her; the fantasy he’d been visualizing, rehearsing over and over, that didn’t have a face until that moment.

Something about that dress drew him in—it’s his selection process, why he chose her, and possibly even a clue to his past victims. As practiced as the scene was, this might’ve been his first kill—but there’s likely a trail of crimes he’s left in his wake. And if this was his first, any mistakes he made he’ll quickly correct. He’ll become even more difficult to catch.

I jot down a list of most notable aspects of the crime scene to run through ViCAP—the choice of the victim’s home for the attack and the dress could link this to other unsolved cases.

I sigh, knowing that I’m already building a profile that won’t align with the boyfriend. I don’t even have to sit in on the questioning. This wasn’t a crime of passion, or a revenge killing. This was too calculated. Planned. Carefully executed. A fantasy realized.

Clearing my dry throat, I flip through the photos, imprinting them in my mind. Seeking anything that stands out. I reach into my pocket and take out my packet of gum. I stopped smoking a few years back, but the gum habit stuck. I crave the idea of smoking. Having something to do while I’m working, looking through crime scene images. It always helped me not get pulled in too closely—a smoky barrier between the killer and me—while I delved into his world.

Staring at the photo of the victim with her legs spread, ankles bound, I envision the perpetrator kneeling behind her—degrading her. This position humiliated her, and he was her god. Towering over her, he was all-powerful, and that power intoxicated him. But he didn’t allow the adrenaline rush to overtake him.

He was calm, methodical, in control. Only his victim’s suffering is what he desired. He’s nothing like the weak woman below him. The slut. The whore. She deserves to be stripped bare, her flesh on display for him. She gives it up so easily, why not take what she’s offering?

Before I’m completely consumed by his world, I quickly break away and put in a call to the M.E., asking to be updated as soon as possible on her findings. Then I sit and open a new grid worksheet, and start clicking away at the keys, filling in the fields. Quinn will use what little I can devise from the scene to question the boyfriend further, or he can run it through the shredder. Either wouldn’t surprise me.

The perpetrator is above average intelligence. Mid-twenties to mid-thirties. And like Quinn scoffed at, he probably has an extensive porn collection centering on bondage and demeaning women. The fact that the UNSUB knew he had time to commit his crime in her home, with no interruption, means he was most likely watching her for a while. It could also mean someone who knew her personally—like the boyfriend. But I build on the facts, not the suspect.

I grab the photo of the victim and hold it up, studying it once more. My vision flickers, and the room fades away, replaced by nearly bare white walls. My senses prickle. My skin heats. I can feel the rope tied around my ankles. The coarse threads rubbing against my skin. Smell his sweat; his excitement.

His fingers dig into flesh as he takes his hard-won prize…

My face flushes, and I drop the photo. Dammit. Envisioning this scene from the victim’s perspective is too dangerous. I know this. Shutting my computer off, I swear under my breath. It’s been too long since my last trip. Since I first glimpsed the victim, I knew this case would get to me. I need to go. Tonight.

Before I leave my office, I stand paused near the door, my gaze searching the bookcase in the corner. I march over and snatch a book on medieval serial killers from the shelf. Then I stuff it into my bag as I exit.

Quinn totally called me out. He knows me a little too well. There is more to this kind of specific torture the victim endured—the method the perpetrator used to damage her fingers. But my thoughts aren’t going to be voiced or recorded in that profile until I know more.

It could be a sick coincidence. Or maybe the perpetrator stumbled over the torture technique during his online searches. It might have intrigued him. Excited him. For a sadist, inserting needles under the nails is a vicious deed.

But it’s also very precise to the torture techniques favored by one of the most infamous serial killers of the millennia. A killer I’ve spent countless hours studying, analyzing, speculating. A woman who’s as loathed as she is fascinating.

The Blood Countess.

On my mission to understand, to compartmentalize, how a human can commit such acts of violence, I came across Elizabeth Bathory, a Hungarian Countess from the sixteenth century. I wanted to understand what kind of energy, hatred,
fear
was needed to torture and kill over two hundred young girls.

She became my rule, the bar by which I measure—she is the ultimate testament in human cruelty. What we are capable of, and by some degree, what I might even be capable of.

It’s just human nature and a touch of psychology, really. I once thought if I could unravel the mystery around her, I could understand what happened to me.
Why
it happened. And how someone could fall so far into the darkness they only existed to inflict another living being with their maliciousness.

Bathory is my ultimate intrigue as a profiler. Not only that, but as a victim myself.

The fact that our newest perpetrator emulated her technique is interesting—but that’s as far as I can allow my brain to process it. A strange, yet intriguing coincidence.

Besides, other than the fact that Quinn will laugh me out of the building for trying to link a current killer to the sixteenth century, I have more immediate needs to remedy.

Arlington is a fairly quiet city. Low crime rate. One of the reasons it was my top choice for transfer out of the field office that kept me moving and dissecting crime scenes across Virginia. Now, the carnage has followed me to my own backyard.

I haven’t had a case like this in a while…and I’m going to need my head clear and my conscience subdued in order to work it.

I
watch her
.

Since her first visit to The Lair months ago, I’ve been watching. Just watching. And she watches, too. I assumed she was a voyeur. Only here to feed some curiosity, or feast on the sight of flesh and violence. But the longer I watch, the more I see it in her jade eyes; she’s hungry.

How she even got through the front door, I don’t know. Julian must have been feeling charitable that night. Maybe thinking the same as me—that she was just wanting to settle some curiosity. But here she is again. It’s her MO.

I round the bar, tapping Onyx on the shoulder to let her know I’m taking off. Then I duck under the bar top, the beat of the house music thumping in sync to my ramped heart rate.

She hasn’t been back for a while. Maybe two weeks. And I’m like a hunter stalking my prey, needing to get a long, lustful gaze at my conquest. Although, truth be told, I have no intention of making a move on her. She’s too perfect. I just want to marvel. To watch as she watches…taking in her labored breaths. Her fingers clamped tightly around her flute of champagne.

I lean my shoulder against the wall and fold my arms over my chest and black T-shirt, letting my gaze travel over the room until it locks on to her. This is just one room in the club. The voyeur. Set up with a stage and plenty of space for the audience to roam and play while each scene is enacted for the members’ enjoyment.

I’ve wondered before if she ever visits the other rooms. If she ever visits mine…if she plays…but I’m trusting my instincts on this one. That, and the fact that Julian has confirmed he’s never set her up with a Dom or Domme. Okay, fine. I’ve asked about her. Even against my better judgment and Julian’s unwelcome probing into my life.

All my thoughts cease as the scene on stage begins. The music dies down, and in the sudden, stark silence, a low and melodic beat starts. The dungeon master walks a blindfolded woman onto the stage and commences strapping her to a St. Andrew’s cross. It’s a classic scene, one that the sub requests each week. She likes to be flogged while a Dom frees her from her daily monotony as a CEO of some company. Then she prefers her master to go down on her as she climaxes.

But it’s the first time
she’s
been witness to it. And I move a bit closer, needing a clear view of her face as she watches. My breath moves past my lips, slow and measured, as I spy her vivid eyes trained on the scene. Her lips parted, black dress clinging to the curves of her slim body.

Her chest rises with her sudden and deep inhale. The V of her dress teasing me; the creamy skin of her chest hidden beneath a scarf, the round swells of her breasts just below, inviting. From the corner of my vision, I see the flogger make contact across the sub’s tits, and my pants tighten painfully as my target’s hand goes to her chest. She caresses her smooth skin beneath that infuriating scarf as if she’s been struck.

I slide my tongue over my lips as she crosses her legs. I imagine her thighs pressing together tightly, putting needed pressure against her clit, her panties wet. Fuck. I reach down and adjust myself. This is getting ridiculous, how much I crave this stranger. But she’s not like the others.

So many tempting beauties occupy this scene, and though I’ve played with my fair share, and it was satisfying on a carnal level—I’ve never been entranced the way I am when I watch her.

What would it feel like to tie her down, discover what she desires? For her to let me in and reveal her darkest fantasies? Extract her fears and inflict them on her, making her tremble, scream,
ache
. Then fall to my knees and gratify her as I worship my goddess.

The muffled cry from on stage cracks into my musings with the strike of the flogger, and I’m awoken from my trance, only to fall into my own form of torment. I watch as my goddess becomes bold as the other members play around her. She snakes her hand up her parted thighs…under the hem of her dress. Her eyes shut against the scene as she touches herself.

Fucking hell. I’m going to come undone. Yes, beauty. Rub that slick, swollen clit. I reach down and run my palm over the rock-hard bulge pressing against my jeans. I feel the connection to her as she pushes her hem up enough for me to witness her sliding her underwear aside, then I envision her trembling finger sliding into her warm flesh. Her eyes are clamped closed against the darkness, her breasts straining against the taut fabric, her nipples peaked.

I want to be there with her. Right there, when she comes. I’m tempted to yank my cock out this instant and beat the fucker off.

But my hand stills, my breathing catches in my throat, as a guy moves in front of my line of vision. Dammit. I’m already stepping closer to get around him when my feet stop. He lays his hand on her shoulder, then bends over to whisper in her ear.

My hands curl into fists.

If she welcomes his advance, I’m going to lose my shit. I won’t be able to stand here and watch someone else give her what I know she needs. Fuck him. He hasn’t watched her for months; he hasn’t logged away countless hours discovering what she yearns for.

And he sure as shit doesn’t know that she doesn’t want to be touched. But I do—and I’m two seconds away from breaking his hand.

But I keep watching, regardless. If she’s ready to play, finally, I’ll make sure she’s safe…

She’s shaking her head, trying to get away from him. She’s rattled. He’s not what she wants. She’s here to watch, not play. She’s not ready.

Relieved, I slowly back away. I’m pissed hot that he interrupted our moment, but there will be another. There’s always another. She’s getting bolder. And so am I. Only when I glimpse the distress on her face, her panic mounting, I immediately stop.

The guy touches her again, this time on her waist. He’s leaning over her, trying to persuade her to join him. He grips her around one thin wrist and forcefully pulls her against him.

That’s breaking the rules, fucker.

I’m storming toward him before Onyx can alert the bouncer.

His hand slides around her stomach as she pushes away from him, fear marring her gorgeous face.

“She said no,” I blurt. Towering over the guy, I bring all of my six-foot self forward, a dominant shadow cast over him. I haven’t touched him. Yet. But my fists are locked, every muscle corded tight.

The guy—who’s wearing a dark gray business suit—straightens his back to bring himself fully before me. “She wants it. She’s just shy.” He glances down at her. “Needs a little persuading.”

Hot breaths saw in and out of my nose. “The lady wants to watch. No means
no
, asshole. In any establishment, but especially here.” Hiking my thumb over my shoulder, I say, “I think you’ve played enough for tonight.”

His eyes narrow, but he shrugs, deciding it’s not worth the consequences if he wants to take this matter further. He gives me a once over, sizing me up, before he walks around and leaves.

Releasing a strained breath, I let the adrenaline ebb. Gain my composure before I look down at her. When I finally do, my muscles go lax. She’s mortified. I can see it painted clearly all over her beautiful face, splashed with red, even in the darkness.

I kneel down, my whole body strung tight with the need to touch her. I’ve anticipated this moment—when we’d first look at one another; when I’d hear her voice—but I hate that it’s like this. With fear in her deep green eyes. At least, fear that I didn’t put there.

“He’s a douchebag. But are you okay?” I ask.

Her burgundy layers fall to conceal her face, and I want so badly to push them aside. It’s a wig—I realized this before now. I’ve imagined what her real hair looks like; dark, to match her eyebrows. Soft, silky, long. I want to strip her of the fakeness and curl my fingers around a thick hank of her real hair. Pull her head back; look down into her eyes. I push the enticing thought away.

She nods a couple times, her movements jerky. “I’m fine. Just embarrassed, I guess.” Lifting her chin, she fixes her penetrating gaze on me. All logic flees my brain. “But what did I expect? I mean, look at where I am. I overreacted, that’s all.”

Blinking hard, I break the hold she has over me, searching for the right words. I need to please her in this moment. But I’m already so lost to her. “You should expect members to behave appropriately. At the very least. You’re not doing anything wrong by being here, watching. That’s what this room is all about. He knows the rules.” I nod my head toward the black wall, where submissives are lined up in knelt positions. “You’re not on your knees. You’re not asking to be dominated. There’s always a bad apple, and it just looks like one found you.”

Long eyelashes frame widening eyes. She’s staring right into the depths of me. “Don’t blame the victim,” she says, her voice throaty. “I know that by heart. You’d think I’d believe it by now.”

I feel my brows furrow slightly. It’s as if she’s talking more to herself than me, but I tuck this interesting morsel of information away. “That’s right. Now,” I say, moving a fraction closer. “I’m technically off work. So I’d like to help you get back to enjoying yourself.”

The thin column of her throat bobs on a swallow. “I’m not into…”

“Shh,” I say. “I won’t lay a hand on you. I won’t touch you. And I can leave…if that makes you more comfortable.” I pause, praying that my goddess doesn’t send me away. When she doesn’t speak up immediately, I push on. “I only want to see that look in your eyes, that passion on your face—the one you wore just moments before that rude interruption.”

I watch as her breathing quickens. The tremble of her red, red lips. “No touching?” she questions.

My pulse speeds. “Only if you ask.
Always,
only if you ask.”

She continues to stare at me in guarded fascination, the seconds suspending us in our own sphere of heat and caution. And when she gives a sure nod, I’m lit with fire.

As she swivels on the stool to face the stage, I peer down at her. Amazed at this stunning creature I’ve somehow discovered. I pull another stool up close behind her, take my seat. Her shoulders tense as my thighs and body cage her in from behind. I can feel her body heat radiating off her, caressing me, beckoning me. Her fragrance of sweet-scented shampoo and body lotion fills my senses, tantalizing.

Slowly, carefully, I lower my head next to hers. As close to her as I can get without touching. With difficulty, I aim my attention toward the stage. The Dom is placing nipple clamps on the sub, her high-pitched moans piercing the charged air between us.

“Do you know why he connects the chain to her mouth gag?” My words slip past my lips in a whispered plea.

She remains silent, her gaze steady on the scene. A slight shake of her head invites me to continue, and my dick swells.

“It heightens her desire. Her awareness.” I breathe her in, a glutton, needing to satisfy my senses. “It also heightens her suffering, increasing his pleasure.” As the flogger makes contact against the sub’s stomach, she jerks her head, pulling the chain taut. “He’s punishing her for moving, but that sharp spike of pain gives her so much pleasure…that she can’t help but be disobedient. She needs the punishment almost as much as she needs the release—the gratification.”

My gaze flicks lower as my goddess clamps her thighs together. I bite down on my bottom lip, inducing a slight pain to keep my emotions in check, my head clear. The need to slip my arms around her and hike up that damn dress…spread those legs wide…is almost unbearable. I grip my jeans near my knees, clenching the rough material, to keep my hands from roaming.

This—it’s not nearly enough. But as the wisps of her hair caress my cheek, hinting at her trembling body, I revel in this profound moment my goddess is gifting me. To indulge in her—to enter into her sanctity. She’s my temple and I’m her slave, willing to kneel before her on command.

And as she tentatively runs a finger along her thigh, drawing up the hem of her dress, sliding her hand between her thighs…God. The anguish is pure hell. A torment so divine I nearly come loose at the threads.

I will beg for more.

I’m not ashamed to own it—to confess what I’ve been craving for months.

“Can you feel what she feels?” I ask, my voice husky with restrained want.

I watch her tongue slip out to wet her lips as she gazes at the scene, and I grit my teeth. The sub—now sated from her penance—throws her head back in bliss. The Dom hikes one of her legs over his shoulder as he kneels before her, devouring her. Taking her into his mouth with unguarded vigor.

“She’s stripped raw, laid bare…” I whisper. “She’s utterly vulnerable to him. Having submitted her whole being over to him, she’s now free to indulge in the ecstasy that comes from that liberating release of control.”

She shudders next to me, and my eyes follow the trail of her hand upward. Farther and farther—so painstakingly slow—until she’s there. Her head lolls to the side, her eyes close, and we’re lost together as she caresses herself through the thin barrier of her black underwear.

“I wish I could have that…” she admits, so low. And my whole body is piqued, awaiting her next admission.

“What do you need?” I ask, my fingers curled so tightly around my jeans they ache, could shred the fuckers. My dick is so hard I swear it’s going to rip straight through my jeans.

“To be free,” she whispers.

I squeeze my eyes closed against the severe quake that her softly spoken words elicit. “Slide your panties aside.”

I’m just in control enough to open my eyes and witness her obeying my order. A primal need to throw her down and ravish her—right here; right now—barrels through me.

“Push inside. Deep. Until it aches.” God, but she does. Holy hell she spreads those sweet thighs and sinks her finger inside until I hear her desperate moan. “Fucking move your hips. Go deeper…”

A shrill moan resounds around us, and the spell is broken. Her eyes fly open and she stares at the stage, to where the sub is coming with a fierce and quivering pleasure as she pulls at her restraints.

“Relax,” I say, restraining from touching her. “Let me be the one to take you there. Just like that. Let me…”