Bound By Blood: (The Betrayed Series Book 2) (14 page)

T
HICK SCARLET LINES THE COLOR
of rubies decorate my body. Her dark eyes watch me intently, taking into account my every breath as she circles, her blade’s tip, kissing my skin along the way. She completes her rotation, coming to stop in front of me.

“Now, I’m going to tell you again, you’re going to renounce your American heritage, forget your father, and join me. Isn’t that right?” She narrows her eyes, focusing on my face.

A sizable lump has taken up the space in my throat, leaving me unable to speak. Despite the leaden feeling in my head, I give it a little shake. Baring her teeth, she advances with the deadly grace and speed of a panther. Stalking silently with intent and purpose, my mother swiftly raises the blade to my face, dragging the tip slowly across my cheekbone. The cold metal ghosts along my skin, never breaking the barrier. Fire spreads through my lungs, riding the edges of my nerve endings as the walls of my chest threaten to implode.

Thwack.

Unshed tears sting the backs of my eyes, threatening to spill over at the intense pain now radiating through my jaw. Blinking rapidly, I bite the inside of my cheek to keep them from making themselves known.

“Breathe, Ttal.”

Forcing myself to take a breath, my lungs scream a sigh of relief as I inhale, flooding them with much-needed oxygen. She plasters a condescending smile on her face. With the patience of a saint, she draws the blade down my neck, only pausing for a moment between the valley of my breasts to circle the tip of the blade around my nipples. My breath abandons me as she twists her wrist, digging the tip into my left nipple. Minuscule whimpers barely audible to my own ears can be heard as my blood once again begins to flow freely. A beatific smile emerges, transforming her face from the cold, dead mask she usually wears to that of an angel fallen from the heavens.

“You and I have much in common,” she says, her eyes transfixed on the rivulets of vermillion.

Swallowing hard, I slowly shake my head in disbelief. How can she believe I have anything in common with her? She’s spent most of my youth making it incredibly clear that I’ve been nothing but a failure in her eyes. An ache begins in my chest, spreading as the fissure in my heart intensifies and decimates any remaining strength I have left. Sagging, my head dips, my chin perched uncomfortably on my body. Tears burn my eyes, making the urge to rub the ache in my chest that much more unbearable.

I almost laugh at the thought. It’s physically impossible for me to move, anyway. She’s really done a number on me. I’ve been stripped of all my clothing—well, what little I had—and bound by my wrists to a hook in the center of the room. She’s suspended me from the ceiling so she could have her fun. A pang of sadness washes over me. Memories of a child long ago encircle me. With the memories, darkness always comes, the long and lonely road I’ve traveled my entire life all because a little girl wanted the approval of her mother. Hardening your heart against the woman who brought you into the world is easier said than done.

I’ve spent years hating her, dreaming of what I would say, how I would act. Yet . . . in her presence, I’m still that little girl quivering in the corner, clinging to Tango Bravo, desperately awaiting her mother’s approval. That fateful night comes rushing back to me.

Hot searing pain as each lash rains down on my backside, blood filling my mouth, spilling down my throat with each strategic hit to my face. The indescribable pain of her boot grinding into my ribcage. Death. . . A prayer for death going unanswered.

I spent years angry at God for denying that request. How can you put a child through that kind of pain? How can a mother who is supposed to love and protect her child do this? Why would a God who loves his children allow such a heinous act?

Now, for the first time in my life, I’m thankful that prayer was denied. Mr. Violet Eyes’ ruggedly handsome face flashes briefly in my mind’s eye. He is my saving grace, my reason to live . . . the light that shines brightly in the darkness. Slowly, like the tide washing out to sea, the memories begin to recede. Lifting my chin defiantly, I meet my mother’s curious gaze.

With a voice full of unshed tears, I say, “No, Mother, you’re wrong. We are nothing alike. I would never do the despicable things you have done to my child.”

Remorse is there in her dark eyes for a moment before it passes, leaving me questioning my own sanity. Why in the hell would she feel remorse? Chuckling, she takes a step back, putting some distance between us. My gaze lowers to her hand. Her grip is so tight on the blade her knuckles have turned white.

“You know nothing, ignorant child.”

Striding forward, she places the blade against my right nipple. Flicking her wrist, she twists, piercing the tip. All of my breath gushes out of me as agonizing pain zips through my breast.

“You only know what I’ve allowed you to see,” she says, removing the tip of the blade from my breast.

Trailing the blade down the valley of my breasts toward my flat abdominal muscles, she pauses, tracing patterns into my skin. The light pattern starts off soft, making my body twitch in response. Her gaze lifts, meeting mine for several moments, a carnivorous glint flickers as she lowers her eyes and submerges the tip into my abdominal wall. My body tenses, little twinges of agony rocking me to my core.

Sweat beads on my brow with the extreme effort it’s taken to hold in my screams. Biting my lip to keep from showing weakness, I feel the warm coppery tang I was so familiar with in my youth begin pooling in my mouth.

“I was once young and naive like you.”

“I find that debatable,” I retort.

Glaring in my direction, she levels me with her gaze. Her blade resumes its delicate dance across my midsection.

“What beautiful skin you have,” she breathes out, her fingertips dancing along the edges of my collarbone. An unsettling feeling ripples through me as her eyes follow the path of her fingers.

“It really is a pity that you’re making me do this,” she whispers.

My heart skitters, thumping out an erratic pattern as my breath quickens, drowning out all other sounds. Acting on impulse, my body shies away, her words arousing the feeling of danger, no doubt trying to stave off the countdown to my demise. Instantaneously, she wraps her delicate fingers around my neck, holding me in place.

Tsking, she asks, “And just where do you think you’re going? Hmmm?”

Her fingers press into my flesh mercilessly, cutting off my retreat. My fingers dig into the rope suspending me to the ceiling. Every muscle in my body screams from the exertion of being stretched and bound. Shaking uncontrollably, my chest burns as she continues to squeeze, constricting my airway. If only there were some way to escape. Some way out of this hell I’ve found myself in.

Still keeping her gaze firmly fixed on mine, she relaxes her grip. Gasping, I take huge breaths, filling my deprived lungs, unsure if this will be my last breath. Her wild eyes stare deeply into mine as she withdraws from me marginally. Dropping her gaze, she eyes my abdomen for a moment. I have but a second to take a breath before I feel the bite of the cold steel cutting through the flesh and tissue.

Wailing as loudly as possible, an agonizing scream is torn from my throat. Muscles in my body I didn’t even realize I had tighten and spasm at the fiery intrusion. My body jerks, shaking uncontrollably from shock as I sway, suspended in the center of the room. Every shift, each movement sends another ripple of fiery pain rocketing through my nervous system. A deceptive smile spreads across her face as she slowly begins to remove the blade. Ceasing midway, she looks to me, taking in the color rapidly draining from my face, the breaths sawing in and out of my lungs, eyes dull and glazing over in pain.

With a tilt of her lips, she says, “See, I knew you were like me. No matter what kind of torture your body is put through, you can handle it.” A hint of pride laces her voice.

Pride? Mentally, I berate myself. I’m starting to think I’m hallucinating. There is no way in hell this woman holds anything other than contempt and hate for me. With swift movements, she yanks the blade from my abdomen. Waves of nausea pounce, attacking me with the force of an atomic bomb.

My stomach lurches, plunging as bile begins to rise in my throat. Unable to bite back the vile acid, I turn my head to the side, spewing the contents onto the floor. Focusing her gaze on me, she observes me for several moments, scrutinizing me as I desperately try to breathe in through my nose. Turning on her heel, she marches over to the corner. Placing the blade on the table, she grabs a bottle of water. Taking a sip of the water, she looks at me, her eyes narrowing again.

“You feeling all right, my dear?”

Laughing, I respond, “Peachy.”

Anger flashes briefly in her eyes as she stomps back to where I’m swaying in the center of the room. My skin bristles from the cool air as she nears. Lifting the bottle to my lips, she says, “Drink.” Keeping my lips firmly closed, I just stare straight ahead. Her eyes soften around the edges as she coaxes, “Ttal, I’m not trying to harm you. I do not wish for you to become dehydrated, especially considering you were sick. Now, please drink.”

Blinking several times, I stare at my mother. I’m struck by a sudden inability to speak, the shock from her words rendering me speechless. Why would she care? She never has before. It must be some ploy to get me to stay with her. She is right, though. I cannot afford to become dehydrated, not if I plan on escaping from this hellhole in one piece.

Gaining control of my reflexes once more, I open my mouth, allowing her to pour water in. Swallowing, I watch the genuine smile spread, softening her features. I survey her in awe, drinking in her appearance. Dark mahogany hair is stylishly pinned into an elegant side bun. Her olive skin is polished and shines to perfection. She’s dressed as if she were about to debut her outfit on the runway in Milan and not torture her victim to death in a home on the outskirts of who knows where in South Korea.

Peering up through my lashes, I scan my mother’s face. It’s one not far from my own. Our features are very similar; it’s something I’ve tried very hard to forget over the years. Sadness crushes me as my lashes fuse together. Hot tears beat the backs of my eyes like the intense heat on a warm summer day. It’s difficult . . . looking at a stunning creature like my mother. Looking at Min Sun-ye Parker and knowing that she’s hell bent on torturing her daughter to death.

Tears swell, flowing freely from my eyes as she retrieves her blade and saunters back in my direction. Tension builds as my muscles quiver. My body’s natural fight or flight response takes over as she grows near. Gripping the rope tighter, I begin swaying, shoving, moving as much as I can to try and prevent her from doing anything further to me. My efforts are useless. My body dangles, suspended, waiting for her to do her bidding. Closing my eyes, I drop my head to my chest.

Weariness seeps into my bones, each muscle protesting, disapproving of any movement. Tugging on the rope jolts my head up, sending a wave of nausea crashing through me. Moaning, I bite back the bile and turn my head to the side. Our eyes meet for just a moment as I whisper, “No, please.”

“Be still, child. I’m only cutting you down.”

My eyes widen just a fraction. She’s cutting me down? I want nothing more than to run and hide at this moment. All of my thoughts have become unclear and fuzzy, each one muddled and confused. The rope snaps, startling me. Yelping while I fall, my mother catches me in her arms, cradling me to her chest like a newborn babe. Frowning, my thoughts are clouded with indecision as she sits on a beat-up sofa in the corner.

My mother releases the bonds on my wrists and ankles, knowing I’m too injured and weak to go anywhere. Cradling me to her chest, she begins rubbing them coaxing circulation back into the neglected limbs. Feeling trapped, I want nothing more than to ask her to release me, or at least set me away from her. She grabs a blanket, covering me. Peeking up at her, I watch mesmerized by this devastatingly complex creature.

Stroking my hair absently, she stares at the wall blankly as she says, “When I was a child, I grew up in a village not far from here. My grandmother lived in a neighboring village. She was a harsh woman. Believed in the old ways.” Inhaling through her nose, she continues stroking my hair. I’m paralyzed, frozen in fear, unable to move, terrified that if I do, she may go back to the monster from before.

“Our ways are different . . . one might even say barbaric. As a child, I was taught the ways of our family. My father, much like his father, was a cold man with a heavy hand. Ruled with an iron fist.” A laugh devoid of humor sounds from her red painted lips. Her gaze falls to mine, taking in my fear-laden eyes.

“Do not be afraid, Ttal. Yes, I am much like my father. I rule with an iron fist as I was taught. I am teaching you as he taught me. You’re receiving the same training he bestowed upon me. You see, we are bound by blood to carry on and conduct the family business. You were always meant to be here.” Her brow furrows. “Things just got out of hand.”