FALL (The Senses) (44 page)

To my animals who give uncondional love even when
I’m in eighteen hour writing binges. When I’m freaking out over a scene and you
sit calmly beside me and offer your support.  When I need a hug you guys are
always there.

Facebook fans, God I wish I could name you all,
but when you read this I think you’ll know who you are! I go on Facebook every
day and am excited to be able to interact with you guys. Your support has been
incredible.  Right from the beginning when I first started out, you guys have
been so kind to me. Really, this is a part of writing that I never expected. As
I was writing Fall I thought of you guys and wanted to brainstorm with you on
my posts, lol. Would’ve been great, but not sure how much you guys would like
it. This book is for all of you. I hope you love it!

Oh and for those authors who need an editor—this
is the chick. You saw my
dedication
, she’s the best.
www.TheRomanticEditor.com

JUMP (The
Senses book 1)

Prologue

She vomited the
first time she saw him.

The sick bastard
laughed.

That was hours
ago . . . or so she thought. Time meshed into a swamp of leech-sucking minutes.

Her body, weak
and exhausted from fighting, had become a toy to him. Clamped with steel
shackles, her wrists and ankles felt like someone had poured alcohol on them
and then held them over a scorching fire. Her muscles were cramped from the
constant shivering, and her teeth chattered like a jack-hammer.

She gagged on
the pungent smell of black licorice that permeated the air. Her sandpaper
throat made swallowing unbearable and every inhalation agony, while her mind
screamed in utter anguish and horror.

The terror of
dying had vanished hours ago. Now she prayed for it.

His long
dagger-like nails crawled along her neck where he’d bitten her repeatedly. He
gripped her neck, tilting her chin up and to the side. She locked her jaw,
waiting for the familiar pain. She didn’t scream any longer—it made no difference—no
one was rescuing her from this monster.

He hissed, the
sound like a zipper being undone. She squeezed her eyes shut as the smell of
licorice flooded her nostrils and his breath wafted over her skin. She groaned
and jerked as his teeth sank deep into her throat.

She lay
unmoving, powerless to refuse him, frozen in the nightmare that had become
reality.

He drank until
her vision clouded and her nails loosened from her palms as her body weakened
from the blood loss.

“My sugary
Danielle,” he said.

His voice was a
calm melody, as if a paintbrush were running across a fresh white canvas,
sweeping, rhythmic and subtle. She loathed that it was captivating. She hated
that she compared his voice to something she loved, but she had no control. It
was as if his voice had the ability to make her do anything.

She lay limp as
the shackles released and cold fish-like hands grabbed her arms and dragged her
across the damp dirt floor to the cage. Her haven. Away from him. Away from the
torture.

The monster
threw her inside, the gate slamming behind as she lay huddled in a torn
nightshift and underwear. The cage lifted off the ground and rocked back and
forth as it was cranked upwards until it settled next to two other cages
several stories above the ground.

Attempting to
block out the horror was impossible. It ate away at her from the inside out.
Soon it would become worse as the blood he consumed slowly replenished.

Why was she
here? Why her? God, what psycho’s hands had she landed in? Was he going to kill
her or continue to feed off her? The questions tormented her thoughts, but
there were never any answers.

Words refused to
pass her quivering lips. So cold. The endless shivering, muscles aching from
constantly trying to provide her body with warmth. Her throat was dry and
hoarse from screaming, as if a razor blade had scraped the flesh, leaving it
painful to swallow, speak and breathe.

Water. Just a
drop. One drop to ease the agony, soothe the torture of taking a single breath.

“Tell me you’re
still alive.”

The familiar
voice mixed with the constant sound of water dripping down the inside of his
cage, a torture in itself, had become her comfort in this hell.

“I’m sorry,” he
said. “God, I’m sorry. I just can’t . . .”

It took too much
energy to move, but she managed to open her eyes and peer at him. Her
neighboring prisoner gripped the bars, knuckles white, body tense like a spring
wound up so tightly that it was ready to fracture. His mangled leg hung
useless, but somehow he still managed to stand.

“Don’t give up,”
he said. “Others know we’re here. I promise you, I’ll do everything in my power
to get you out of here alive. Here . . . try to reach my hands, I’ll give you
water.”

Water. The
thought of it made her throat open with anticipation to ease the suffering. She
stank like vomit. She wanted to peel away her skin and throw it in the garbage;
it wasn’t even good enough for recycling. To drink water, wash out the taste in
her mouth, quench her thirst; such a simple everyday action had become an
obsessive need.

“Reach out your
hands,” he urged.

She hesitated
only because she wanted to die. How long before you died without water? A slow
death to be sure, but . . . she was actually contemplating death. Never in her
life had she thought of giving up on living. She lived by the moment, enjoying
each day no matter what it brought with it. The female thing about holding on
to a grudge for weeks on end—yeah, not her thing.

“I won’t let you
die,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Put your hands through the bars.”

The thought of liquid
sliding down her throat was irresistible, even worth the pain of moving limbs
that hung like overcooked spaghetti. Survival. She had it lingering inside her
still. The tiny hope that she’d see the sky again, feel the wind against her
skin and hear her cat purr.

Danielle put one
hand then the other through the bars. She cupped them together and closed her
eyes, afraid to watch. Afraid that he wouldn’t be able to reach her and the
relief would die.

The saturation
on her skin caused tears to pool in her eyes. Water dripped through the
crevices between her fingers and she quickly jolted back, afraid to lose a
single drop of what he was offering. She licked her palms, the wetness adhering
to her throat. Velvet. Sweet heaven.

She reached out
again and this time opened her eyes. His large hands collected the water from
the shower head attached to the top of his cage. It dripped slowly and it took
agonizing minutes just to gather a small handful.

They repeated
the process five times, until her arms resisted rising any longer. “Thanks,”
she whispered as she collapsed back onto the cold metal floor, legs curled
beneath and arms wrapping over her breasts, trying to provide herself with some
sort of warmth and dignity, although the latter was improbable after all that
had happened.

She thought she
heard him growl, but she wasn’t certain. So many sounds blended with
others—screams, chains clanking, water dripping.

She drifted in
and out of sleep, pain mixed with the terror of hearing the clanking of her
cage being lowered. Numerous times, she jolted awake to hear the cries of
another being tortured.

“Little one.”

She woke to the
deep male voice that had become her savoir. Her teeth began chattering again
and she wrapped her arms around her shivering body. She heard him curse and
knew her reprieve had ended.

The chains
rattled and her cage lowered. God, no. How long had it been? Days, minutes,
hours? No concept of time, just the realization that the monster would drink
from her again.

“Little one,” he
repeated.

She shuddered,
unable to think of anything except what was to come. Her stomach curdled, but
she had nothing left to vomit.

“Listen to me.
You will survive this. Don’t give up on me. I promise you, I’ll get you out of
here.”

“Don’t let . . .
not again . . . no God . . . please,” she muttered in a haze of shock.

He cursed again,
his fist pounding on the cage bars next to hers. His words were like an
assortment of colors mixing together to form muddled sounds. She had no clue
what he was talking about. How could he get her out of here? How could anyone
help her? Was he losing his mind too? Because she sure as hell felt like she
was losing hers, almost welcomed it.

The cage lowered
until it settled on the floor. The door jerked open and cold hands gripped her
forearms, dragging her across the dirt floor to the cold steel table. Clanging
sounded and then the harsh cold metal clasped around her ankles and wrists. She
sucked in air as her abrasions rubbed up against the restraints. Her body lay
shivering on the harsh surface as her silent screams bellowed inside her head.

Footsteps. She
tensed. That same step, a slow, precise, casual stride. Then the smell of black
licorice penetrated her nostrils. If she survived, she swore she’d never touch
the wretched stuff again.

Her throat
constricted, reflexes making her gag.

Closing her
eyes, she prayed to wake from the nightmare as his filthy nails ran across her
shoulder to her neck.

“God, you’re
magnificent. Skin so delicate and soft . . . like a dove. Soon you’ll become my
Underling. Eager to do as I please, begging me for my blood.” His fingers
pressed on the punctures in her skin.

She jerked
against the shackles.
Not again. Please God, let him walk away. No more.
Please. Please.

“No. God no,”
she cried.

He chuckled. “I
wondered if I’d driven away that fierce spirit. You look rather . . . accepting
now. Drink from me and this will end.” He ran a nail across his own wrist and
blood rose to the surface. He held it inches away from her mouth. “Drink,
Danielle.”

She turned her
head away from the nauseating sight.

“Soon, my sweet.
I am very patient.” He gripped her chin and tilted her head to the side.

She heard the
familiar hiss and her entire body revolted. Her legs and wrists fought the
restraints as the scream that tore from her throat screeched like a tortured
animal caught in a trap. Rebellion took hold, a fight for her life, for her
spirit, which was being sucked from her insides like a vacuum.

He laughed at
her screams, his grip tightening on her chin.

It was then she
heard his voice from above. That deep strong voice that lived in hell with her.

“Stop. Damn it.
Stop. I’ll do what you want.” His voice came hurtling down from his cage in a
deep haggard tone. “For Christ’s sake, just let her go.”

The icy hands
left her body.

She lay shaking,
unable to decipher what was going on around her. The man’s words in her mind
were familiar and soothing.

“You will not
suffer any longer. Never again, my little one. I swear to you. Never again.”

Chapter 1

Two years later

“Danielle, for
the love of God, you have to stop doing this,” Anstice said. “It’s not . . .
it’s just not healthy.”

Danielle stared
at the portrait of the man—eyes green like a leaf that had consumed an
abundance of rain. His chin sharp and angular, lips thick and a nose with a
slight notch on the bridge. Arrogant, confident and definitely proud. She’d
painted his dark umber hair wet, drops of water clinging to the ends of the
strands that hung an inch below his ears; one drop rested on his cheek as if he
were crying.

It was her best
one so far, truly capturing his pain with the corners of his eyes drooping,
sadness penetrating as he stared directly at you from every direction. Alone
and haunted as if something horrific had happened to him—a tormented soul.

“This is it,”
Danielle said, eyes transfixed on her painting. She rubbed her arms, easing the
familiar goose bumps that rose whenever she looked at him. “He’s the one in my
dreams.”

Her best friend
sighed. “You said that the last time and the time before and the time before
that. You’ve painted what . . . twenty, thirty of this guy?”

Danielle
shrugged. Yeah, so what. She’d lost count. He lived in her dreams every night,
haunting, driving her to paint him again and again. He was like a mosquito
buzzing in her ear and no matter what, she couldn’t swat it away. The ruse of
it was that the damn mosquito had become a familiar friend.

She ran her
finger across the canvas, touching his slightly parted lips. He was real. In
her heart she knew that at one time she’d known him, spoken to him. She knew
his voice, a deep baritone with a hint of huskiness like the soft roar of a beautifully
tuned Ferrari.