Delivered (The Monster Trilogy Book 3) (6 page)

Fight back,
Lily willed her. Perhaps if Jess fought back, the men would switch the punishment back to her instead. But Jess didn’t have the strength. Lily couldn’t hate her for it. She’d been through so much, and perhaps she’d been a fighter when she’d first been taken, but the past few weeks had broken any fight out of her.

Marco pushed on Jess’ back, slamming her face down against the shiny mahogany of the table top. With a laugh, he yanked her dress up over her back, and then pulled down the flimsy underwear they’d been provided with.

“No, stop it!” Lily yelled, unable to just give up. “Don’t you fucking touch her.”

He looked up and smiled, and then breathed on the palms of his hands, as though warming them up, and rubbed them together. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

Marco lifted his hand and slapped Jess hard on her naked bottom.

Every muscle in Lily’s body tensed at the sound of the smack cracking, and she hissed air in over her teeth, feeling the strike for herself. Though she didn’t want to have that reaction, her inner muscles contracted, and her pussy throbbed as though she’d received the smack herself.

Jess didn’t make a sound.

Red bloomed on her pale skin, both erotic and horrifying to see.

Marco lifted his hand and hit her again. Jess’ body shoved across the table at the impact, but still she didn’t say a word.

Heat rose to Lily’s face as a familiar pressure and tingling condensed between her thighs. She bit her lip, trying to distract herself from the feeling. What the fuck was wrong with her? She couldn’t let watching Marco spank Jess turn her on. It was wrong in so many ways.

Marco smacked Jess again, and again, but still Jess remained pale-faced but silent. Tears trickled down her face.

“You like it, don’t you, bitch?” he growled. “Is it making you wet?”

“Leave her alone!” Lily screamed. “Take me instead.” She’d be able to take the spanking better than Jess—hell, the way her head and body seemed to be working lately, she might even enjoy it.

Rodriguez yanked her arms back. “You don’t get to offer yourself up like that. You belong to me.”

“I’ll screw every man in this house if he touches her like that again,” she spat back. “I’ll climb on that table, spread my legs, and invite every one of them to fuck me.”

Rodriguez’s body tensed behind her and then softened. “That’s enough,” he called out to Marco. “Let her go.”

Lily exhaled a sigh of relief. Her stupid mouth was going to get her in serious trouble one day.

Jess bent to pull her underwear back up her legs, and dragged her skirt back down to cover up her bottom. The men all stayed back, as she let out a sob, and covered her mouth with her hand. With her head down, she rushed from the room.

Rodriguez released his grip on Lily’s arms and she yanked herself away.

“I meant what I said,” he told her. “Every time you step out of line, it’ll be your little friend who gets the punishment. That was just a taste. Threaten me like that again and I’ll have every man I know rape her over and over, and I’ll force you to watch every single moment. Do you understand?”

Her inside twisted with a sickening hatred. She wanted nothing more than to kill this man in the most hideous, violent ways she could think of. She’d believed she’d hated Cigarette Hands as much as it was possible to ever hate someone, but Rodriguez had taken her loathing to a whole new level. Monster had been right when he’d said he would make the Gonzalez-Larrinaga brothers look like a couple of school boys. She understood now why he’d said such a thing.

Lily had killed before, and now she knew she’d happily do the same thing again.

Monster (Fourteen Years earlier)

Days had passed
since he’d last seen the girl with the honey-colored hair and creamy skin. Though he knew he should be relieved at the lack of repercussions from claiming the spilled meat and rice, and the ruined rug was his fault, he couldn’t stop worrying. Other than a missed meal, he’d not been punished in any way. The girl, however, had not returned, and Monster worried endlessly about her safety. His father must have known he’d been hiding something. Why else would he have stopped the girl from bringing him the meals? Or was it that his father had picked up on the attraction and affection Monster had experienced for the girl, and he’d wanted to bring it to an end before it could cause any trouble?

Either way, Monster struggled to believe his father had bought his story about tripping on the rug and spilling the food himself. He didn’t know how, but his father always knew the truth of what happened in Monster’s life. It was as though he had eyes in the corners of the bedroom, and ears pressed against the walls. Monster never got away with anything, but especially not something as big as telling a direct lie to his father.

The thoughts of what had happened to the girl troubled him. Every time he closed his eyes, the image of her deep blue eyes completely meeting with his filled his mind. He remembered the tears trembling in their depths, but more than that, he remembered how she’d focused only on him, and not on the birthmark which blackened one side of his face. He found himself touching his fingertips against his lips, remembering how they had brushed her soft skin, and imagining he was touching her arm again. He hated that the last thing he’d ever said to her had been said in anger.

“Go,” he’d snarled. “Don’t make me say it again, or I will be the one you receive the beating from.”

The memory of those words cut him deep. More than anything, he wished he could go back and sew his mouth shut. Would she hate him now? Was she frightened of him? Was that the reason she’d not returned, or was his father at the root cause? When he lay in bed at night, the thing that haunted him the most was the idea of his father hurting her. Was she lying somewhere, beaten and broken, because of the lie he’d told? If they’d been honest about what had happened, would she have received a simple punishment, but still be visiting him now?

He had so many questions he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

Two more days passed, and the rug his father had removed for cleaning was brought back to the room by a couple of his father’s servants. He wanted to ask them if they’d seen her, but couldn’t get the words off his tongue. They didn’t speak, or even look at him as they laid the rug down in its original position. They turned to leave, and as they did so, his father stepped silently through the door.

Monster inhaled, his breath trapped in his chest. He knew his father well enough to be able to read him instantly, the slightest bit of body language or facial expression—the tick in his jaw, a stiffness to his shoulders—to alert him to when trouble was brewing. Monster had known this all along. His mistake wouldn’t go unpunished.

“I’ve always taught you to respect your belongings and those of others, is that right, Monster?”

He used to call him ‘my little Monster,’ but he was too big for the name now.

Monster nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“When I speak of our belongings, I don’t only mean the inanimate ones. I’m talking about the men, women, and even girls who work for us, too.”

“Yes, sir,” he repeated. “I understand.”

“So what happened between you and the girl who was bringing your food?”

His heart rate stepped up a notch, pattering in his chest. “Nothing, sir.”

His father’s eyebrows lifted. “Nothing? You expect me to believe that? Have you been having impure thoughts about that girl? Did you touch her? Did you think about her when you touched yourself?”

His cheeks burned with shame, fire rolling down his neck and chest. “No, Father, of course not.” It was a lie, another lie. So many his father would certainly see through them all.

“Did you forget I was young once, too? I know how a boy’s mind works. Why else would you take the blame for something she had done?”

He knew. Of course, he knew. He always knew.

“I’m sorry, Father. I felt bad for her.”

“And you think feeling sorry for some girl is an excuse to lie to your own flesh and blood?”

He shook his head. “Not an excuse. I was just trying to explain—”

His father crossed the short space between them and his hand shot out and cracked across Monster’s cheek. He was bigger now, and the slap rocked his head, but didn’t send him to the floor. Monster clutched his cheek, now burning for a different reason. Anger coiled inside him, but he hadn’t been raised to fight back. His father was trying to teach him how to behave in order to protect him. Monster knew he was different. He didn’t have any experience in the world that would make him think fighting back was the right thing to do.

“You were happy to go without a meal for someone else. Let’s see if you’re still happy after several meals. Perhaps then you’ll learn whose side you’re supposed to be on.”

His father turned and stalked from the room, slamming the door behind him, and clicking the lock into place. Monster went to his bed and sank down on the edge of the mattress. How many meals did he mean? It was already lunchtime, and he was hungry, but he guessed there wasn’t much chance of that meal arriving.

Knowing it would do no good to bang on the door and try to get his father to change his mind, he sighed and threw himself stomach-down on the bed. He picked up the paperback he’d been in the middle of, determined to lose himself in the story and forget about his empty stomach for a few hours.

Dinnertime came and went, and no one disturbed him.

As the hours passed by, a need greater than hunger began to take over, but at least this was a need he could sate. Monster climbed off the bed and went to his bathroom, intending on turning on the cold faucet and drinking his fill. Perhaps the water would also help fill his empty stomach.

He turned on the faucet, but nothing happened. Confused, he turned it off, and back on again, but still the sink remained dry. Ducking down, he peered up the tap, wondering if something was stuck up there that might be stopping the water, but nothing was apparent.

Monster swallowed against his dry throat, and tried not to focus on the deep concern squirming around his gut. His father wouldn’t have done this, would he? Had he turned off the water?

He went to the shower and turned it on, praying the showerhead would spray, but again, nothing happened. He twisted the bath faucet, and held back a sob. His father must have had the water to this wing of the house turned off.

Trying to ignore the tightness of his throat and the way his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, Monster left the bathroom and went back to his bed. He threw himself on his back, his forearm covering his eyes. His father wouldn’t leave him long enough to die of thirst, but he’d torture him long enough to make sure the lesson was learned and remembered.

His hunger had taken a back seat to his thirst.

With nothing else to do, he curled up on his side and fell asleep. His dreams were haunted by tall glasses of water with ice clinking against the side. He lifted the glass and drank deeply, relishing every drop, but when he woke it was with intense disappointment and the realization nothing had changed.

Monster swung his legs off the side of the bed and walked to the bathroom again. He tried all the faucets, but there was no change. His bladder felt full and heavy, and he went to the toilet to relieve himself. Pulling up the seat, he freed himself and then paused. He was staring down into clear water—the only source in his vicinity—and he didn’t want to piss in it.

Twisting to one side, he held his penis over the side of the tub and urinated onto the porcelain. The urine was a dark yellow, and the stench of it hit him like ammonia, making him turn his face away. He wished he had some way to wash the piss away, but he didn’t want to waste any of the water he had available. At least he hadn’t needed to take a shit—he guess there were some benefit to not having eaten recently. Emptying his bowels would prove to be more of a problem than peeing in the bath, but, considering he hadn’t had anything to eat or drink for hours now, he doubted the situation would be a problem any time soon.

He glanced toward the water, motionless and clear in the bottom of the toilet bowl, and swallowed again. No, he couldn’t drink from the toilet. He just couldn’t. His father would let him out, or at least have one of his servants push a tray into him soon. He just had to hold out a little longer.

Putting the seat back down, so the sight of the water didn’t tempt him, he left the bathroom and went to the bedroom door. Using his fist, he pounded on the wood.

“Hey!” he tried to yell, though his voice came out as a raspy croak. “I’ve learned my lesson. Please, I’m so thirsty. Don’t give me any food, but please just let me have a drink.”

No response came, no hint that someone was even out there, never mind had heard him and reacted to his pleas.

Holding back tears, Monster went back to his bed. The effects of dehydration were taking their toll on his body now. How long could someone last without water? Five days? A week? He’d read that just mild dehydration could cause fatigue and dizziness. He didn’t know how long it had been since he’d last had a drink—perhaps twelve hours. It wasn’t long. He didn’t even want to think what sort of state he’d be in after another twelve.

He slept again, but woke with his lips cracked and his mouth as dry as sand. He rubbed his gritty tongue over the roof of his mouth, trying to generate some saliva, but there was nothing. When he blinked, even his eyes felt dry, as though it took more effort for him to get his eyelids to slide back up over his eyeballs. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep.

Getting to his feet, he stumbled back to the door, his legs weak beneath him, and banged again.

“Father,” he rasped. “I’ve learned my lesson now. Please, I’m so thirsty.”

How long had it been now? A day? Even if someone could last five days without water, he didn’t think the final days would be pleasant ones. He hadn’t even needed to urinate again, so he knew he was severely dehydrated.

Unable to give up hope, he tottered toward the bathroom again just in case the water had been switched back on. Imagine he’d been suffering all this time, only for his father to tell him the water came back on hours ago. But when he checked, the pipes still ran dry.

His eyes were drawn back to the toilet again and he gulped. He didn’t want to go there, imagining all the microscopic feces and germs in the bowl. He could fight it, he could. He would go back to the bed and wait for his father to unlock the door. There was no way he was going to debase himself by drinking out of a toilet.

Inspiration suddenly struck. Water wasn’t just held in the bowl. There was more, fresh water held in the tank above, ready for the next flush. If he could get to that water, he’d be able to drink his fill.

Adrenaline caused his heart to race as he hurried to the porcelain tank. There appeared to be a ridge between the main tank and the lid, but it was glued down with some kind of adhesive. Monster ran his blunt nails between the groove, but he didn’t feel any give. He tensed his arms and tried to pry the lid off, straining with the small amount of strength he had left, but it didn’t budge.

“Fuck,” he cursed beneath his breath, still worried his father might hear the bad word.

There was no way he’d be able to lift the lid off. The only other option was to try to break it.

Monster glanced around for something he might use. His hands wouldn’t be enough; he needed something hard and heavy. There was nothing in the bathroom that would be hard or heavy enough, so he walked back out to his bedroom and stared around, his muddled brain trying to figure out what would work. His gaze alighted on a set of weights in the corner, which his father had given him and instructed to use to keep him physically strong, despite his lack of access to the outside world. In particular, the metal circle of one of the dumbbells caught his eye.

That would work!

Monster crossed the room and bent to pick the object up. It was heavier than he remembered, though his current physical state didn’t help. Determined to get access to the clean water, he carried it back into the bathroom and stopped beside the toilet.

Holding the weight in both hands, he lifted it as high as he could, and brought it down on the porcelain lid. It hit, the impact reverberating up through his hands and arms, and he almost dropped the weight, but managed to hold on. He stared down at the white lid, inspecting the damage.

A crack fractured across the top of the lid, and he drew in a breath. He placed the weight onto the floor and straightened back up. Carefully, he reached to one side, hoping to pry off the lid. He wiggled the top, and the crack spread, running down the side of the tank.

“No! Don’t you fucking dare!”

But an inanimate object was never going to care about his curses. He tried to lift the piece of the lid that had cracked, but the crack down the side ran deeper. It was a case of getting the lid off and taking a drink before the whole thing fell apart. Filled with urgency, he heaved the chunk of porcelain off the top, intending on sinking his hands into the tank and drinking his fill, but even as he tried to lift it, he discovered it was heavier than he’d thought. In his weakened, dehydrated state, his grip slipped and it dropped, hitting the top of the tank.