“No.”
“I’m leaving.” This time, I get up, intent on getting the hell out of here.
“No, you’re not.” He doesn’t even move from his spot.
“I’ll scream the whole place down.”
“No one will hear you.” His voice drops. “This room is soundproof.”
My gaze strays to the door.
“Only my people are out there, so don’t even try unless you’re in the mood to be manhandled.”
I take a step toward the door anyway. In a flash, Jeremy reaches me and appears like a wall at my back.
He grabs my jaw and directs my attention to the painting on the wall. “I’m going to need you to watch a live scene with me.”
Like in some sci-fi show, the painting is lifted and glass appears, revealing another room that’s similar to this one. Only the entire scene is different.
I gasp as the person on the other side materializes in front of me.
“See. Landon isn’t exclusively a member of that club. He’s a member of every club on this island and beyond. He doesn’t have one kink. He has them all as long as he can inflict pain. One of his kinks is exhibitionism, which is why he chose a room where anyone can watch him.”
Bile rises in my throat as Landon drives in and out of a bound, gagged, and blindfolded brunette at a maddening pace. The sounds mix with the graphic scene.
Groaning, slapping, gagging, moaning.
Sharp pain stabs my stomach. Then all of a sudden, I bend over and empty what I just ate on the floor.
Just like I did two years ago.
Just like back then, I can hear his voice over the ringing in my ears.
“You’re disgusting.”
9
JEREMY
Cecily’s not moving.
She’s not breathing properly either, considering the blue hue that flares beneath her skin.
Her eyes are fixed on the scene in front of us, but they see straight through it.
The slaps of flesh against flesh overlap with the brutal fucking and the raw gagging. One of her two limits.
Yes, I could’ve just told her about this, but she had to witness the scene for herself.
She had to see that her so-called prince is nothing but a hedonistic motherfucker who fucks more women than Satan himself. He’s insatiable, over the top, and most importantly, he couldn’t give a fuck about her.
She’s the pathetic and desperate one who’s holding him in high esteem when she should’ve cut him loose a long time ago.
I’ve planned to show her this part of him ever since I found out about her fixation on him, but I resorted to following her instead. If not for anything else than to find out her exact relationship with the fucker.
If he used her to spy on me, then I’m not beneath doing the same.
But then I started noticing things about the outwardly boring Cecily Knight. Like her infuriating love for animals, her nerd tendencies, her deliberate fa?ade, but none of those held my attention for long.
What kept me coming back for more is manifesting right at this moment.
She’s zoning out—or more accurately, dissociating.
I know the technical term for it. More than anyone else, I’ve been exposed to this phenomenon since a young age and researched it as soon as I could understand what mental health meant.
Soon after I started following Cecily, I noticed these moments where she’d stare into space in a catatonic state, unblinking, and completely unaware of her surroundings. Her friends or her colleagues at the shelter would call her name and she’d show no sign of hearing them.
It would take them a few tries, snapping their fingers and waving their hands in front of her face to wrench her out of it.
At first, I thought it was an ill-fated coincidence. After all, what are the chances of me witnessing someone suffering from dissociation again?
But the more I watched her from the shadows, the deeper I inserted myself in her life, the surer I was that she definitely has it, and the worst part is that she probably doesn’t know about it.
It’s mild, barely noticeable, and unlike severe cases, she can be brought out by external intervention.
The ghost remains inside her, though.
Lurking beneath her skin, waiting for the time he’ll be able to completely take over.
It’s come back now, right after she threw up.
Her body has stiffened, and she’s no longer staring at her beloved bastard while he’s fucking another girl.
I hadn’t planned to bring her here tonight. I was following her as usual, all the way to her apartment. It’s become a habit to shadow every move she makes, lurk in the darkness, and wait for the ghost to return.
Don’t ask me why. Even I have no fucking clue why I want to tug that part of her out and sink my knife into it.
Or her.
I don’t know which at this point.
However, no matter how many times I follow her home, she doesn’t experience that state. She only slips into it when she’s with friends or sitting alone.
I planned to end the night as usual—watch from afar and gather clues, but then she stuck earbuds in her ears and some assholes thought it was a good idea to follow her.
Only I am allowed to do that.
When she saw me, there was no point in hiding further, and I made a last-minute decision to bring her here. She needed to realize that Landon King isn’t the revered saint she makes him out to be.
He’s a monster like the rest of us—if not worse—and has no business being held in high fucking regard.
But I didn’t think she’d vomit and dissociate at the view.
If it were anyone else, I’d completely ignore her and get on with my day. I have zero interest in people. Especially shady ones who might or might not be getting in the way of my plans.
But something stops me.
The stiffness in her limbs, the freezing state of her face. The bulging of her eyes that nearly pop out of their sockets.
I grab her by the shoulder and shake her, gently at first, but when that doesn’t work, I use more force.
Nothing.
Her gaze remains glued to Landon’s erotic show that he offers to anyone willing to watch.
Motherfucker.
I tug her with me, but I might as well be moving a stone. One that’s planted in place and refuses to move.
So I physically drag her behind me. But no matter what I do, her attention remains glued to the fucker.
I round the table and click the button underneath it that blacks out the scene and mutes the sounds. The painting slides back into place, but Cecily doesn’t snap out of it.
Her bulging eyes that have transformed into a muted green color watch the red impressionist painting with undivided attention.
I fall on the chair and pull on her arm so that she sits on my lap. Her muscles don’t unlock, remaining as stiff as granite, and she’s barely sitting. Her hands are glued to her thighs as if they’re an extension of them.
“Cecily,” I call her name with a firm voice.
She doesn’t show a hint of hearing me.