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PROLOGUE
Only the walls had heard her scream.
Old, crumbling, stone walls dripping with her terror.
The now-familiar drug-induced fog in her brain refused to lift, trapping her in the unending cycle of confusion and fear. How long had it been this time? Days? Weeks? Months? He always waited until she was asleep and every time she closed her eyes, she expected it to be the end. Sleep was his weapon of choice. Sleep and the drugs.
It never stopped.
When, when was it going to stop?
She never expected to die at twenty-three. But she would. Death teased her with sweet relief, but not even death seemed to want her. Yet. The thought of escape, of release, however she might attain it, brought a chilling anticipation of peace.
Acceptance had taken … time. Time that had turned her mind to mush and her will to dust. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d screamed. But she had screamed. So long and so loud her throat was scraped raw and she coughed up blood. Eventually, the screams had quieted and turned to tears which flowed into a rage that filled the windowless room with a fire stoked by every breath she took.
But it hadn’t mattered. Nothing did.
It didn’t matter how hard she pounded her hands, her palms, her fists against the intricately carved wooden door without a knob. It didn’t matter how many stone grout lines she’d dug into. She got nothing for her pain except raw fingers and ragged, shorn nails. Routine had set in.
Routine had worn her down even in the oddly luxurious room she was locked in. A room filled with images of the others who had come before; framed photographs of the other women whose screams were trapped in these walls.
Portrait-perfect faces touched by the same, careful hands that had touched hers.
It was a room out of time that spoke of glamour and beauty, even as it served as her prison and torture chamber. Amidst the glitz and delicate fragrance of the red lilies he replaced every morning, for a while, however dim, hope burned.
Until he’d come.
Until they’d come.
When they’d used, abused, and violated her in ways she could never have imagined, they had killed what little belief she’d still had left that there would be an end other than death.
She wouldn’t see her parents again, or her beautiful little niece. She couldn’t bring herself to think about her sister—her twin—who would feel her loss so acutely it would be as if a part of herself had died. And what about her dog? What breath she had, hitched in her chest as tears trickled out of the corners of her swollen eyes. She’d only had him a few weeks; he was still a baby. A sob pushed against her lungs. What was going to happen to Barksy?
She wanted to find comfort in the only thing she still had—the solitary half-heart charm that hung around her neck, and the only thing of hers he hadn’t taken from her—but she couldn’t. Desperation arced through her, pinpricks of energy that sputtered and died after impulse. She willed her arms, her hands, her feet to move. He’d be back soon. The last time he’d brought her food, wearing that blank, plastic mask that left only his piercing black eyes bare, he’d told her his plans.
He’d been so proud of how he hoped to play with her again. Pose her again.
Rape her. Again.
She’d struck out, panicked, flailing, catching him hard against the side of the face. She’d heard the mask crack; the sound splitting through the silence of the room. He’d gone stone still, as if in shock, holding a hand to his exposed cheek as he processed her attack.
She’d dropped to her knees, ducked her head even as she reached up with both hands to grab at his tailored, elegant jacket.
Apologies got her nowhere. She hadn’t expected them to. She’d needed to play her part to the hilt even if it meant paying an exacting price later. The price she always paid for disobeying and shattering his imaginary world like the mirror it was.
He wouldn’t hit her. He wouldn’t dare mar the skin he took such prodigious care of or muss the hair he’d painstakingly dyed, scalp burning, platinum blonde. Instead, he’d bent down and slowly, deliberately, locked his hands around her throat.
When he squeezed, when his gaze bore into hers, she’d clawed at this jacket, struggling to keep air in her lungs until she felt one of the buttons catch between her fingers. When he cast her away, she’d held on and tugged, falling to the ground in a heap, the button clasped securely in her fist.
She’d lain there, barely breathing, forehead pressed against the cold stone floor as he quietly withdrew from the room and closed the door.
She’d had a choice to make while emotions cycloned inside of her. She thought she’d been so smart, not eating the food this time, but now he only brought her water; water that was most certainly drugged. He’d honed his weapon of choice to a deadly edge. She looked down at the button in her hand. Triumph of a sort surged through her. With one swallow, she could use his pretentious clothing against him.
It would cost her her life, but if her gamble paid off, it might also, someday, cost him his. Someday, someone would have to stop him. Maybe … maybe she would be the one. Even if from the grave.
Curled into the smallest corner of the room, she placed the button in her mouth. Hands trembling, she lifted the bottle to her lips and drank, swallowing the button with deliberate thought. Arms wrapped around herself, she rocked herself in comfort, waging a war with exhaustion, gaze pinned on the door. Waiting.
Waiting …
She woke up on the bed.
Lying flat on her back, hands clasped under her breasts, she could feel the soft fabric of whatever he’d dressed her in this time. The surreal antique chandelier glowed over her, hypnotizing her with the glittering lights.
She could smell the chemicals in the makeup he’d slathered on her face, her neck. Her breasts above the exposed skin of her chest. She tasted the toxicity of the thick lipstick he’d painted on her dry lips.
She was tired. So tired of hurting. Of fighting. Of feeling.
Her eyes drifted closed. What she wouldn’t give not to be able to feel.
“It’s time.”
She started awake, eyes going wide as he loomed over her. Time for what?
His mask had been replaced, but the white plastic was now black, making him appear faceless in the shadows.
Certainty descended.
She’d go to her grave never having seen her killer’s face.
His hands slid under her, lifted her into the air then cradled her against his chest. As he walked to the door, chills erupted all over her body as a cool breeze bathed her skin. She could hear breathing. Steady, quiet, purposeful breathing. Not his. And not hers.
They weren’t alone. She sobbed, but the sound caught in her throat.
Had she the strength, she would have panicked at the line of masked faces, the suited figures watching as she was carried past.
Even if she had the energy—the will—she couldn’t fight. There was no way to escape his prison. He’d taught her that.
Darkness loomed. Shuffling footsteps echoed all around her as the shadows closed in around. Watching.
Something was different this time. Whatever hope she still possessed was quickly doused by the bright lights of the cavernous room she was carried into.
The air was frigid. The stone walls arched into a dome over her head. She could see a sliver of the moon through a center, round window at the top. Her hands turned to ice and she nearly cried out in shock as she was placed on a solid, unforgiving concrete platform. But no sound emerged from a throat clogged with horror.
The room was silent save for the ever-so-light breathing of its occupants.
She’d lost count of the masks she’d seen, of the faces she imagined behind them. Five? Ten? A dozen? More?
All she could do now was stare up at the night sky shining through that one, small circular bit of glass and pray.
A sudden rush of water erupted. Impulse had her wanting to look, to see exactly what was happening, but the drugs had done their job and paralyzed her into ignorance. Light sprinkles of moisture landed on her face, on the back of her hands. Soaked through her dress from beneath.
She could hear the area around her filling up and then, as suddenly as it started, the water stopped.
It took all her effort to breathe, in terror managing to open wide eyes that had stopped cooperating long ago.
He waded into the water to stand beside her, looking down at her with such … compassion, such reverence, she wondered if this was all some nightmare in her mind.
“It’s time.” His tone was solemn, respectful and … grateful.
He lay the flower—a solitary, blood-tinted lily—onto her chest.
Dread and panic skittered through her body like ants escaping a fire. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. Could barely breathe. The heartbeat she’d clung to all this time began to slow. Slower … slower …
His face shifted behind the camera. The same camera he’d used on her time and time again. The platform rumbled under her and began to lower.
She whimpered. A pathetic, hollow sound that didn’t come close to conveying her terror. She didn’t want to die! She didn’t want to …
The water lapped around her face as he leaned in, focused the lens on her eyes and the flower as it drifted into the water, brushed against her cheek.
“There,” he murmured. “Almost there. Almost … there. Yes. Ah, yes. There it is. Perfect.”
The flash exploded with an odd, dull snap. The click of the shutter echoed in her ears.
She drew in one last, desperate breath as the water closed over her head.
End of Excerpt
