Beauty in the Broken

Cars honk as I skip lanes and force myself between a minivan and a truck. I don’t know what’s driving me so hard. I only know I need to get back to her. Maybe it’s the little voice in my head that tells me I fucked up. Couldn’t I for once not deliver on a promise? I clench the wheel harder. I can’t make exceptions. It’s the shortest way to losing credibility. Why the hell did she have to force my hand? Lina’s pain makes me hard, but what I had to do today didn’t turn me on. I didn’t enjoy breaking her perfect skin. I desired her like always, but it wasn’t the sadism. It was the need to possess her. It was an all-consuming burn to own her in every way and hole possible, so she knows to who she belongs, where she belongs. I didn’t fool around. I took her hard. I should’ve ignored her request for space, damn it. She needs me.

Cold sweat breaks out on my forehead for no explainable reason. Exceeding the speed limit, I try to make it back to the house before peak hour traffic hits, but it’s too late. It takes over an hour before I get home.

Brink isn’t at the door. It’s a different guard.

“Where’s my wife?”

“Out, sir.”

Fuck. “Out where?”

“Supermarket, sir.”

I hope with all my soul it’s to buy jelly beans, but my gut already knows otherwise. Goddamn. I shouldn’t have left her. Not like that.

Charging through the door and up the stairs, I dial Brink. “Where are you?”

“At the strip mall, sir.”

“Where’s Lina?”

“In the pharmacy.”

I stop on the landing, my heart slamming to a standstill. “Tell me you’re with her.”

He clears his throat. “She said she needed tampons.”

Of course, that’s what she fucking said. The idiot. She doesn’t have a cent in her purse. “Can you see her?”

“Yes. Uh, no. She must be behind the shelf.”

“Go the fuck inside. Now.”

“Yes, sir.”

A car door slams and footsteps fall. A bell chimes.

The wait is too long. Five, ten seconds, but I hold onto hope.

A curse. A shuffle. Another bell.

“She’s gone, sir. Backdoor.”

“Find her.”

“Yes, sir.”

I cut the call and dial Lina. The phone rings from downstairs. Peering over the rail, I see it on the table in the foyer. Fuck. She’s alone, without money or a phone. So fucking vulnerable. Raking my hand through my hair, pulling at the strands, I try to think like Lina.

She ran. After what I did to her, she fucking ran.

I kick the wall. I dial my security company and get the manager, Maze, on the line. I tell him I want my wife back, unharmed. He puts ten men on the case, pronto. There’s nothing money can’t buy. Except my wife. I call a jail buddy and get word out. The reward is big enough to get anyone interested. Then I dial the guardhouse and summon one from the entourage who accompanied Lina to Brixton.

A short while later, a guard with a pistol and rose tattooed on his bald head enters the study.

He shifts his weight. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Tell me what happened at Dalton’s place.”

“Mrs. Hart went in to see him. She asked us to wait outside but left the door open so we could see them. They spoke for five minutes, and then she left.”

“Did you hear what they were talking about?”

“Only bits and pieces of the conversation. They kept their voices down.”

“Tell me what you heard.”

He swallows. “Brink was at the front of our group, sir. He would’ve been in better earshot.”

“I’m asking you.”

He glances behind me at the whips on the wall.

“I suggest you start talking. You don’t want me to make you.”

He sobers. “Mrs. Hart said something about getting evidence for him. They had an argument, but I couldn’t hear what about. I assumed it had something to do with the fact that she didn’t have it.”

“You’re dismissed.”

He doesn’t let me invite him twice.

The guard’s testimony confirmed my actions were justified. Lina lied to me. She collaborated with Anne and Zane. She knowingly broke my rule by going to Dalton. She planned her escape when she agreed to Zane’s terms, not that she’ll ever be able to hide from me. Now she’s gone. I showed her what I’m capable of, and she couldn’t handle the monster. It must’ve been pretty bad for her to have run, knowing what I can do to her when I catch her. Fear burns like a slow fire through my insides. My stomach twists, and my skin turns clammy. The thought of losing her makes me physically ill. This is my fault. Who I am makes me sick.

Charging to the fireplace, I rip the cane from the wall and slam it over my knee. With a clack, the wood breaks in two. I chuck the pieces into the empty fireplace. The whip follows. I do the same with the paddle and every other instrument designed to inflict pain. Then I pour firelighter liquid over the lot and light a match. The things I did to Lina go up in flames. It’ll burn to ashes. The marks will vanish. Will her hatred? Will she ever give me her faith again?