Betrayal's Shadow (2 page)

No information, no details to help his people, and even less indication as to whether Xavier could be brought back from the brink of madness to fight for their cause. There were days when Turen wondered if Xavier orchestrated this abuse at Rasheer’s hands as the ultimate punishment for a comrade trusting enough to fall into his custody. That hypothesis assumed Xavier gave a damn.

Drug lord and leader of this den of thieves, Xavier never attended these sessions. Turen had yet to see more than a quick glimpse of him. Only Rasheer’s references confirmed this was indeed Xavier’s base of operations.

“The woman who betrayed you would have proved more malleable.” Rasheer turned away, one hand fisted around the whip. “Someone else delivered their bit of justice before I was able to question her.” He glanced over his shoulder.

Air stopped in Turen’s lungs and a heavy weight pressed with his attempt to breathe.
Isabella, dead?
He’d assumed her safe at the Sanctum. The undercover cop who had helped Isa track down Xavier had left with her before Turen arrived at the meeting point. A tiny sparkled outline of her mark on the alley’s brick wall was the only sign he had that she had been there and left.

He closed his eyes with a grimace. The little information he’d gleaned in this compound wasn’t worth Isa’s death. Nothing justified the death of one of his own people, much less the youngest.

“The whore would have been easy to break.” An odd vibration altered Rasheer’s voice, lending a sickening lilt to his words. The slight rise in pitch and cadence disturbed Turen more than the torture Rasheer meted out.

He scrutinized Rasheer’s face, examined every muscle twitch and gesture for some confirmation that Xavier’s second hadn’t executed the kill. The reflection of disappointment in Rasheer’s expression was reassurance enough. Yet he’d kept Isa’s death a secret for
two
months,
withheld the information until now as fresh torment. What else had he withheld?

Turen didn’t credit Rasheer with such patience. Or intelligence.

“She wouldn’t have broken for you.” Turen provoked Rasheer’s ire. His reward—a closed-fisted strike to his mouth.

“Fool. You live only by my choice.” Rasheer’s face, infused with a mottled flush of deep red, almost vibrated as he stepped away.

“Is that your version of mercy?” He forced a laugh. Rasheer whipped a quick lash against Turen’s stomach in retaliation.

He withheld a flinch, slowly spit blood from between his split lips, and maintained Rasheer’s gaze. The more he pushed, the more Rasheer lost control. Less control provided more options and sometimes information. It would also drive a faster end to this session.

“No matter.” Rasheer turned away and then back in an instant. “If you won’t break for me, then you can watch me break others.”

Turen couldn’t stop the growl that erupted from his throat or the lunge forward against his restraints.

“You’re an open book,” Rasheer whispered with a smile that didn’t reach his glistening black eyes. “I will flay you, Turen. Make you watch the fragile light fade from the eyes of others.” Rasheer stepped back, his hands fisted at his hips. “I’ll bring their bodies to the brink of death before I shatter them. Tear them to pieces until they beg for their end—from you. Because I will make it clear,
you
are the key to their escape. One word from you and I will stop their suffering. Quickly.”

Muttering a silent curse, Turen was unable to repress the twitch of anger in his cheek. Power boiled beneath his flesh. It churned and fired, pulsing for release only to meet in a puny sizzle of heat from the manacles around his wrists and ankles. Impotent rage coursed through him instead, until he let loose a harsh breath and exerted effort to decompress.

No force within him could break his power free despite the trigger of Rasheer’s cruelty. The damn manacles relegated him to mere human strength. Strength he needed to maintain in case the sadist provided an opening.

Rasheer was more astute than Turen had credited—a deadly underestimation in his abilities.

Turen couldn’t bear the burden of more souls, and Rasheer had known, had seen deeper than he should have been able. Not clearly, but with enough insight to know his methods caused a grievous effect. No matter how many more souls Turen might save, Rasheer would burden him with the death of innocent beings, a mental anguish more potent than any lash of the whip.

“You have extraordinary resilience, for a
man
. But then, you endure like no normal human.” Rasheer paused. “You make me wonder about immortality. Where is the ultimate challenge if one can’t die? Not in the petty human issues of life and death, pain and suffering.”

Balanced on the rigid edge of control, Turen waited.

Rasheer pressed the end of his whip along Turen’s shoulder. “You may not consider me your equal, but I promise you, I can keep your attention.”

“Maybe this time I’ll die and rob you of your prize,” he snapped.

“Really? My master is happy to let you rot in his cells. He’ll never notice you’re gone, much less care. However, he believed the woman’s note—that you carry answers of value, some resolution, some closure. To what?” He spoke the last to himself and moved away. “I could have pulled the answers from her had I not wasted the time to deliver you here.” With a low grunt, he turned back, the sneer a solid fixture on Rasheer’s face again.

His moods were mercurial. What Turen wouldn’t give to permanently remove that smirk.

“Xavier recognized her and that she wanted something from you—something you refused her.” Rasheer made a cluck with his tongue and moved his whip in a caress down his hip and thigh. “I would have given her what she needed.”

Turen swallowed back bile. Thank God; Isa hadn’t fallen into Rasheer’s hands. He prayed no woman ever did.

A buzz signaled from the phone at the captain’s waist. With a quick glance at the message, he pressed a button on the wall’s intercom and signaled the hybrid guard to take Turen away. “Another time.”

The heavy chains rose in the gray tentacles’ grip. Turen staggered to his feet and followed the creature, while his thoughts churned.

This session had delivered one horrific bit of information—notification of Isa’s death.

For her sake, for his, if there were more to learn here, he would muster the patience to find it.

***

Mia Bowman toed off her running shoes, pressed the blinking light on her phone cradle, and leaned against the counter to stretch out her legs.

“Hi, Mia. It’s Becca. Hope you’re okay. Haven’t heard from you. Rob and I still want you to come up and stay with us for a show and dinner sometime soon. Let me know if you’re free in the next few weeks. Quit hiding. Call me.” A click signaled the end of the call.

A tame message. Not one of Alex’s friends, thank God.

She grabbed several unassembled boxes propped against the wall and dropped them inside the guest room door on the way to her bedroom. Clothes stripped off into a wad on the floor, she walked into the bathroom and flipped on the hot water.

Steam, thick and heavy, enveloped the walls in mist, covering her image in the mirror. For minutes, she stared at the shades of shapeless color. No flashes of insight guided her thoughts. Her life evidently didn’t merit divine clarity. With a mental shrug, she stepped into the shower.

The water and suds washed over her body and removed the sweat. But dark emptiness and anger remained stuck to her like a second skin no matter how much she scrubbed.

The anger was the hardest. She refused to lash out at unsuspecting friends. Instead, she worked to tamp it down, but strong and unfamiliar, the emotion gnawed at her, unrelenting. She twisted off the water and forced an end to her train of thought.

How typical that Alex wasn’t around to absorb the fallout from his actions.

Wrapped in her long terry robe, she padded into the spare bedroom.

Clothes and belongings littered the bed and floor. She assessed the closet and dresser drawers with bitter resignation. Did she need more moving boxes, or should she just give in to the temptation to open the window and chuck everything out? With an exhale of frustration, she sat on the bed and rubbed her face to dispel the irritation. Ten years of marriage gone to hell.

Twenty-one days ago, after Alex’s death in a car accident, she’d embraced regrets. The divorce papers, delivered the day after, stemmed that emotional bleed. The woman who had introduced herself at the funeral, the coworker Alex had been screwing, snapped the lid on Mia’s self-recriminations. The shiny full carat ring Alex had purchased for the new Mrs. Bowman released her anger anew.

She had no more delusions. She and Alex weren’t soul mates, but their marriage had seemed…normal. No, normal wasn’t the right word. Happy didn’t cover it, either. And obviously, committed didn’t fit.

If she’d bothered to pay attention, she would have recognized the signs of Alex’s infidelity sooner.

That wasn’t what bothered her. Okay, the infidelity bothered her a lot, but it was the glaring lack of loss, the lack of emptiness inside of her. Anger, yes, she had plenty, but no loneliness. No ghosts lingered in the house, no echo of sweet words, no treasured smile missed each day. That the lack felt like her failure only served to fuel her anger more.

With a heavy sigh, she turned back to erasing Alex’s presence from her home.

Several hours later, brown boxes trailed from the center of the room to the doorway, a miniature city skyline outlined against the bedroom’s white walls.

Shoulder muscles tight with fatigue and a tiny drum of pain nagging behind her eyes, Mia sank onto the bed and leaned against the headboard to take stock.

Closet empty. Drawers empty. Boxes sealed and ready to go. She glanced at the clock—two in the morning blinked back in pale green. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and listened.

Pre-dawn stillness hung in the room. No sounds from the birds, no ticks as the house settled, no clicks from the thermostat, not even the sound of her breath. Just a hush of silence.

She rode the rhythm and kept a clear image in her mind. Miles and miles of endless blue unraveled and forced her thoughts to calm. Weariness fought her hold on the image. She curled her fingernails into her palm to focus against the distraction.

Behind her eyelids the blue diminished. Darkness wavered in its place, wisps of black interwoven with gray. Smoke and shadows veiled her from any view. She fought to reestablish the blue sky. It eluded her. The effort drained her until she gave up and swirled farther with the currents that pulled her toward the darkness. Smoke dispersed, replaced by a cold, moist chill that shocked her skin as a damp stench assaulted her nose.

She blinked. Fuzziness receded but not the dark.

A dream? No, the cold was too vivid. She searched for the source of the numbness in her legs. Her toes peeked from the bottom of her robe. Her lower body was shaded in gray against a frigid black stone floor. Not home. Not her bed.

“Don’t cower in the dark.” A deep voice growled from the shadows. Mia’s body rippled with an involuntary shudder.

Dim light from slats at the top of a closed door to her left framed a large male body across from her. Coils of chain looped around the floor by his legs and snaked off into the darkness. Dark streaks crusted the visibly mauled, naked flesh of his abdomen above the waistband of his ragged pants. The shadows hid the remainder of him.

Mia released her breath and realized she’d been holding it so tight her chest ached.

Keep still and silent. Blend with darkness.
Distance seemed smart too. She scooted backward until a hard wall pressed against her tailbone. The veil of black had reached its limit. No way to put more distance between herself and the only other occupant of the claustrophobic room.

Too real. Time to wake up.
Mia gripped her knees and squeezed for control, but she couldn’t pull her eyes away from the man across from her.

Long legs extended across the floor and morphed into thick thighs that stretched the seams of his pants. Hard, corded muscle wrapped beneath the flesh of his wounds and torso.

He was a lot bigger than she was. She glanced between them, comparing the length of her legs to his—taller too.

A surge of sympathy for his condition intruded on her thoughts, dampened immediately by the threat of being stuck here. Or could she leave? She sidled to the door to give it a tentative push. Solid. Yep, stuck.

“You’ll gain nothing in the shadows, whatever your master’s plan.” The chains rattled in concert with his momentary outburst and then silenced.

Mia cringed. The gravel of his voice spoke volumes of his treatment. It wasn’t a natural vocal inflection. The tone was grated and rough from lack of fluid, or worse. Perhaps he was guilty of unspeakable crimes, though the stone cell, the chains, and antiquated door didn’t resemble any form of humane justice. That she was here with him curbed her sympathy. At least until she arrived home safe in her own bed.

To his credit, he left her alone. She couldn’t gauge whether he physically couldn’t move or just had no interest, but he didn’t say another word.

Need to wake up, Mia.
She pulled back again and buried her head against her knees. Her ears alert for any movement from the man, she scrunched into the smallest ball she could make, wrapped her arms around her legs, and counted her breaths.