Beautifully Destroyed (Beautifully Broken)

Dad won’t survive my death. Losing Mom almost killed him. He’ll blame himself for not being able to protect me.

A wail leaves me as I’m slammed down on a mattress.

Mattress?

The basement is supposed to be empty, except for the emergency supplies in case I need to take shelter.

My hands dig into my lower back, and when he takes hold of my right leg, I manage to kick him hard in the chest. He falls back, and I try to turn onto my side so I can sit up and climb to my feet.

With a growl, he darts forward, and with force, something is strapped around my right ankle. During my wild struggle to get free, my left foot connects with a piece of metal, the sudden bite of pain not even registering in my frantic mind.

This is not happening.

It’s not real.

My left ankle is also strapped, then something clicks in place, keeping my legs from closing.

My panic-stricken eyes lock on the man as he sits back on his haunches, his dark eyes drifting over me. I can hear his breaths from having to fight to restrain me. Or maybe they're my own.

My heart thunders, the organ beating faster than it ever has in my life.

“Finally,” he says again, the unmoving mask making the word sound threatening. He moves onto his knees and places his hand on my shin. “I’ve waited so long for this night, Finlay.”

What?

He knows my name?

I make a panicked sound, and it has the latex covering his fingers rub over my skin.

My eyes lock with his, and when I don’t see any rage, no madness, but instead, affection, a spine-chilling shiver rushes over my body.

The brown of his irises is actually filled with warmth.

Maybe he won’t kill me.

The fragile hope sprouts in my chest. I try to speak, the word “please” muffled.

Slowly he moves closer until he’s next to my side, his hand gliding up to settle above my knee. He tilts his head to the side, awe filling his eyes as he stares down at me.

“Oh, Finlay, you’re so beautiful.” His tone is filled with reverence.

My stomach muscles tighten, and as I try to shoot up, his hand darts to my chest, pressing me down against the mattress.

“Shh…” he whispers. “I’m not going to hurt you, my love.” He shakes his head. “I’ll never harm a hair on your body.”

My eyes lock with his again, and even though common sense tells me this is a nightmare, I search for any hint of truth in his gaze.

His hand moves up to my face, his fingers brushing along the curve of my jaw. “I love you too much to let anything happen to you.”

Something inside my chest coils tightly, the realization that he might not kill me, not comforting anymore.

He leans closer, and I hear him take a deep breath of me. “You smell so good,” he murmurs, sounding like a lover instead of a stranger threatening my life.

Whatever was coiling inside me snaps, the thought that he’s going to rape me settling like burning coals in my stomach. My soul shrivels, the whimper leaving me filled with desperation and terrifying apprehension.

“Shh…” He caresses my cheek as if to comfort me.

‘Please. Don’t do this,’ my eyes scream at him. ‘I’m a virgin. If you care about me at all, you won’t do this.’

He pulls a bag closer that I didn’t even notice, and my eyes dart wildly between him and his hand as he reaches inside. Pulling out a pair of scissors, my blood turns to ice.

God, I was wrong. He’s going to kill me.

“Noooo,” I cry, the gag robbing the sound of the hopelessness my soul injected into it.

ETHAN

I’ve just finished the last self-defense class for the day, and grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge in my office, I take a seat behind my desk.

I drink a couple of sips as I open my laptop to check the status of all the memberships. I like to send any new members a personalized welcome email to thank them for joining.

A weird feeling sends a shiver up my spine, and for a moment, I freeze, my eyebrows drawing together.

Shaking my head, I suck in a deep breath of air then focus my attention on the members’ list.

“Are we having a discount for new members in January?” Carl asks, making my eyes snap to the doorway where he’s standing.

“Shit, yeah. It’s only a month away.”

In his late fifties, Carl’s body is ripped with muscles, and he looks better than most thirty-year-old’s in Southport. Still, his wife cleaned him out during their divorce, and that’s why he had to sell the gym.

“I’ll take care of it.” Carl grins.

“Thanks.” When he starts to turn away from the door, I ask, “How’s the house-hunting coming along?”

Carl shrugs. “It’s not. B’s letting me crash on her couch.”