With Visions of Red (Broken Bonds #3) (14 page)

T
he alleyway is
damp and chilly. Fall grips the air, letting us know winter’s presence is inevitable. The storm that blew through left behind a frigid reminder that we’re all susceptible to the cold and dark nights.

My heels
clack
against the pavement. The echo being drowned out by the thump of bass the closer I get. I turn a corner and music bleeds into the street—an invitation to enter the only nightlife along this strip of the city.

So I do. I walk through the doors of the bar, where just above a neon sign blazes: Raven.

It’s a small bar. Trendy. Only a handful of two-seater tables, one pool table, and a long stretch of cherry oak bar top that wraps toward the back wall. That’s where I sit; the far corner where I can see the front door, the one leading to a single bathroom, and the scope of the room.

As the bartender approaches, a man with a beard and stretched earlobes, I order my pink champagne, having to shout over the music. He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t mock my choice. I stare at the door, absentmindedly fingering the crest dangling from my neck.

A clatter draws my attention, and I whip around as someone whoops. Billiard balls bounce around the black felt, and I watch three sink home into the corner pockets.

“Ma’am.”

I swivel back around to find the bartender eyeing me. He sets the flute down, then slides a tumbler my way. “SoCo on the rocks.”

The nape of my neck tingles; the tiny hairs lifting away from my skin.

“I didn’t order that,” I say.

He tries to smooth it over with a smile. “No, ma’am. The gentleman at that table did.” He nods toward the opposite corner.

I don’t turn to look. Accepting my drinks with a corresponding smile, I pick up both the flute and the tumbler. Then I scoot off the barstool, my feet sure and my back straight as I pivot and saunter toward the table.

“Enjoying his drink is a little tacky, don’t you think?”

The man in the gray business suit drags his gaze over me. From my legs, up my red dress, to the necklace, meeting my eyes. A crooked smile hikes the corner of his mouth, jogging my memory. It’s the same knowing smirk he gave me that night in the club.

“It can’t be in bad taste if we enjoy it, now can it?” he says, his voice a mix of dark seduction and farce. “Have a seat. Please. I beg of you.”

I don’t approve of having my back to an open room, but considering the company, it’s best to keep my undivided attention on him. I set my drinks down and take the seat across the table from the UNSUB—who is no longer an unknown subject.

This secluded section gives us enough privacy, while being a good distance from the bar speakers so we can hear clearly, but our voices don’t carry to the other patrons. He chose well.

I drink from the tumbler, deciding that it’s about time I sample what Connelly favored, before I steeple my hands over the drink. “I feel as if introductions are a little late, but just the same…” I say, prompting him.

He crooks another smile at me. “Our given names are so trivial. But if my lady must know, I go by Price Alexander Wells.” His finger traces the tumbler before him as his dark eyes dance over my skin. “Lawyer by day, outlaw by night.” His smile dims when his poor joke gets no result. He clears his throat. “You have to forgive me. I’m somewhat nervous. See, this is a big moment for me.”

“Me, too,” I indulge him.

His smile returns.

“So, a lawyer,” I say, running my finger over the rim of the glass. “You wouldn’t happen to be Connelly’s lawyer. The same lawyer that transferred the title of his sailboat into Simon’s name.”

“Nothing slips past you.” He takes a sip of his drink. “Connelly thought it’d be a good idea to have a lawyer in his pocket. I guess, more than anything, that’s why he chose me. I used to flatter myself that there were other, more notable reasons. But when it comes right down to it, people are selfish beasts.”

“We are,” I agree.

He sits forward. “I hate to ask…because fishing
is
in such poor taste…but did you enjoy my gifts?”

A sharp pain hitches my breathing. The press of a blade against my thigh helps me swallow the yelp clawing up my throat, and I still the squirm traveling over me. “To answer that question truthfully, yes. At least, a part of me enjoyed them.”

His eyes darken. “I had hoped they wouldn’t be a disappointment. That by now, you’d realize that’s the only part that matters.”

The blade is gone within the same beat that he pushes back in his chair, giving me the space I need to present my case. I drink my champagne. All of it.

Then, “There are two antisocial dispositions”—I narrow my gaze—“psychopaths and sociopaths. Those who are born, and those who are forged.”

He clips a light laugh. “Battle of wills, is it?”

I nod slowly.

Arrogantly—as I anticipated he would be—he reaches across the table and steals my tumbler. His eyes drill into me as he tips the SoCo to his mouth. Then he returns the drink to me. “I always take what I want. I have since birth. So I suppose that means I was born to it,” he says effortlessly.

“And I was created.”

“The difference?”

The difference? Is there a difference when it comes right down to it? Until Colton found me, I thought I was incapable of feeling. Of empathy. After my captor broke me down to my barest attributes, I saw just how similar I was to him—how when stripped of all the things we think matter, everything we believe defines us, we’re all just creatures who will hurt, kill, deceive…who will do anything to survive. But not just survive:
thrive
.

The lesson my captor taught me was this: destroy or be destroyed.

Pain doesn’t always stem from those who intend us harm. It can come from the ones we trust the most. A parent—a well-meaning parent who, trying her best to shelter her child, suffocates them. A lover who believes he’s helping you overcome your pain, but inflicts it upon you in the process. Because he loves you so deeply…he can’t live without you. His codependency becomes your guilt.

I was never so disillusioned. My captor relieved me of that deception. I knew all too well how easy it was to slip from one side of the spectrum to the other, all in the name of love. Feelings. Emotions.

I was thankful to my captor for removing the burden of having to balance on that precise emotional edge of right and wrong.

That’s why, I think, during those early years where I searched desperately for an answer to someone like me, I found a connection in Elizabeth Bathory. She, too, was created. She, too, had to have experienced some immeasurable suffering that cast her in the design of a monster. She, too, couldn’t help but seek out a source to funnel her pain.

I believe she saw something of herself—something she envied or lost—in the girls she killed. Maybe she envied their carefree childhood. Maybe I identify with her there—my own having been stolen away. But ultimately, it’s not why I formed a bond with the Countess.

Uncovering my own historic relation to Bathory sealed my resolve.

Once I understood my lineage, I transformed myself into a stalker of stalkers. A killer of killers. I would not wait for the broken and devastated souls to come to me; I would seek out their tormenters and punish them for their life-destroying sins.

Born or forged? With a bloodline linked to one of the most infamous serial killers of the millennia, does it matter? I could’ve just as easily been born defective.

Only I wasn’t. I was created. Colton proved this to me, showing me that I can cure the raging demon within. That it’s not pain that feeds the beast; it’s the depth of our love that quiets it.

Killing the thing I’m most terrified of becoming is no longer my calling. Though I’m sure there will be times when it’s the only answer, I can
choose
. I can determine who is worthy. I am not bound to deliver the monster’s bidding at its mercy.

Connelly was not my first, nor will he be the last. But he’s somehow the one who called my reckoning. For that, I am humbled.

So, is there a difference?

“Yes,” I say with absolute certainty. “The difference between you and I is that I am distinct in my defect, by which I have a choice.” At his confused expression, I continue, “You can’t help the monster you are, Price. You have to snuff out the threat of innocence. It’s a cruel taunt every time you glimpse it. You will never know what it’s like to empathize. Me, however…I remember a time when I could. And I want—oh, I want badly—to feel it again.”

A disgusted look crosses his face. “Well, that is a disappointment.”

I tilt my head. “My apologies. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

He shrugs. “You’re just confused. I should’ve done away with the bondage rigger years ago. He’s been a distraction that I didn’t anticipate. See, I thought I could use him. When I first came to you, you weren’t ready for me. So timid. So frightened of your own self. I knew I had to do something to tip the scales.” His gaze hardens. “I didn’t count on you fucking him.”

The cool brush of steel graces my knee. I lift my chin. “We would’ve found each other regardless. You’re not fate’s master.”

He laughs boldly. “Ah! But look at you now. How you’ve grown. Look at how strong you’ve become.” He licks his lips. “You’ve transformed before my eyes, beauty.”

“That has nothing to do with you.” I let the affront of just who is responsible for my transformation go unsaid. But he knows.

“So, this is our impasse?” he asks.

“I’m afraid so.”

The blade slips away again. “I won’t accept that. You got off with the man who tortured you. I read your psych evaluations. You were born, Sadie. Admit it. Your abductor uncovered your true nature. He didn’t design it.”

I push my tumbler farther away, deciding this conversation has gone stale. He’s letting his anger slip. “An orgasm is a physiological response to physical stimuli. During rape, it’s referred to as an involuntary orgasm. For years—despite what my therapist said—I thought something was wrong with me. If you paid attention to the notes, then you already know that I struggled to become who I am, Price.”

“Or struggled to accept what you already were.”

Ignoring his baiting comment, I press on. “Colton is the one who helped me accept myself. I don’t have to hide who I am with him. No matter how I came to be, he’s my answer.”

His eyes squint. “So you will accept the weakest explanation. I had higher hopes for you.”

I drum my nails on the table. This needs to hurry along.

“I understand why you chose Avery,” I say. “Not because you were worried about her discovery of the epithelial cells. No. You planted the evidence to incriminate Simon. You chose her because you had to teach me a lesson. But why Julian?”

He gives me a calculating once over. “You would assume to hurt your dear Colton. But honestly, that was just fun. Blackmailing a blackmailer is always a good time.” He sneers. “Seems Julian had a thing for underage girls. It wasn’t too hard to pull his strings and get him to hide my presence in the club. That is, until he grew a conscience. But, once the jig was up, he was of no more use.”

“You did the honors?”

He chuckles. “No. That sloppy work, along with the lab technician, was all Simon. My eager-to-please apprentice. He was so young. So willing to learn. And so impulsive. Honestly, taking a trophy before you complete the kill? A tooth? How unoriginal. No wonder he suffered from premature ejaculation.” He shakes his head. “Alas, as dexterous as I am, I couldn’t possibly be everywhere at once. Really, that whipping boy was an unfortunate choice. A convenience that I found and recruited from Connelly’s forensic lab.” He takes a drink, clears his throat. “But unfortunate choice or not, Simon did come through in the end. I needed—
we
needed—a scapegoat, after all. So that we can start fresh.”

The moment of truth. “Why me?”

His eyes beam. “I have so much to learn from you, my love. I had wished to become your apprentice.” He exhales an excited, shaky breath. “There can be no greater thrill than to hunt a hunter.”

I smile. “And I’ve truly enjoyed this hunt.”

His features fall. “Yes. I suspect you’ve learned as much from me as I have from you. It’s terribly sad that it has to come to an end. I do wish you’d reconsider my offer.”

“I’m satisfied where I am.”

He sighs dramatically. “Well, disappointment aside, I do have a legacy to carry on.”

“Then we’re done?”

He chuckles. “Hardly. We’ve just begun.” Dark lust fills his eyes. “We should be leaving now.”

“Why would I go anywhere with you?”

“Because—” he sits forward and jabs the point of the blade into my thigh “—I have amassed a collection of evidence on not only your
involvement
with Connelly, but all your other dirty deeds you’ve committed over the course of your career.” He reaches into the inside pocket of his suit and flashes a USB drive before slipping it back in.

“See, I’ve spent two years studying you, my love. And I came prepared. I was more than happy to let my apprentice take the fall for Connelly, my final gift to you, as it were—but only upon your agreement of my terms.”

I shake my head resolutely. “I will never agree.”

“Then, you either come with me, or this information finds its way into the hands of your department. I feel confident that you’d rather die than be seen as one of the serial killers you’ve spent your career hunting.” His smile stretches. “See? Preparation. It’s of utmost importance.”

I nod.

“Move slowly,” he says. “I’ve arranged a lovely homecoming for you. I was so looking forward to it being a celebration in the joining of our talents…but I was also prepared for an alternate ending. Oh, the ending. How I love a good story.”

I allow him to lead me out of the bar. He keeps his weapon concealed under his sleeve, his arm stretched across the small of my back. But it’s unnecessary. Neither of us will give the other away.

The music of the bar becomes a distant sound the farther we move through the city.

Near the crosswalk, Price turns onto a vacant alley and braces his hand against a building.

“Something wrong?” I ask.