Counterfeit Love

Most especially this bastard.

My free hand reached outward, grabbing an ice scraper that was hanging from the wall, flinging it across the space, feeling a small bit of satisfaction when it whacked off his head, making him shoot up onto his feet, his headphones pulling at the port on the monitor, making it slam forward onto the desk. Which was good. Because I wasn't sure me or Chris were prepared for what footage might be on it.

"What the fu--" he started, whipping off the headphones, turning, freezing when he saw us standing there.

He wasn't much older than the image she'd had in her file. A little wider in the gut. A little thinner in the hairline.

But unmistakable.

His gaze went to me first, taking in the threat, the gun in my hand, before looking over at Chris.

I knew the moment recognition hit. Even with her forehead and brows covered, her eyes shaded, Chris was undeniably Chris. And this man had likely relived his torment of her over and over in photos, in video.

He knew her.

"I remember you," he murmured, sounding almost, I don't know, happy? Like she was in some way there to see him?

Beside me, Chris was ramrod straight and silent, making me wonder if I was just supposed to raise the gun and shoot him, get this over with, or if she had some final words she wanted to impart.

I hesitated--luckily--because Chris reached upward, pushing up the brim, staring her attacker in the eyes.

The look she gave him froze the blood in my fucking veins and it wasn't even directed at me.

"I remember you too," she bit out, teeth clenched.

"I'm so happy you came back to visit me," he said, smile curling up, overjoyed.

What can I say? Sick fucks like him couldn't be allowed to live. Because they had no idea how fucking warped they were.

"Not a fucking step, asshole," I snapped when he moved to take a step toward her.

My arm rose, gun pointing.

That drew his attention, his brows knitting.

"What... what is this?" he asked.

Christ. How did people like this manage to live in a decent society? Walk around and brush shoulders with good people? How did everyone not know how evil he was?

"This is retribution for all the torture you have put innocent girls through," I told him when Chris said nothing.

"My girls?" he asked, confused. "Torture? No. No. They liked it. You liked it," he said, turning his attention to Chris.

It happened so quickly that I couldn't even react, didn't know if I would have if I could have.

Chris's arm shot out, ripping the gun from my hand, aiming, and emptying it into the fucker's face.

Every single bullet.

Right in his face.

"Fuck," I hissed under my breath, too stunned--and frankly too impressed--to figure out any other reaction.

But a clicking noise seemed to shake the shock loose, making me turn to find Chris standing there, frantically pulling the trigger of the empty gun, her arm shaking, her whole body shaking, her teeth knocking together.

"Hey, okay, okay," I said, reaching out, pulling the gun from her hand, tucking it into my waistband. "It's okay. It's over," I assured her.

Her gaze shot upward to mine, eyes welling. "I didn't want it," she told me, voice cracking, eyes overflowing. "I didn't want it," she added in a desperate squeak of a voice as she started to crumple downward.

My arms shot out, dragging her back up, pulling her to my chest. "I know. I know you didn't," I told her, arms going around her back and the back of her neck, holding her tight as she purged, shaking, soaking through my shirt, body wracked with silent sobs.

My heart felt fractured for her as we stood there for who-knew how long.

My fingers moved to stroke the back of her neck, up and down her back.

My gaze lifted toward the door, to the little windows up high, just making sure I didn't see any bright lights letting us know we were caught.

There was nothing.

But as my eyes shifted downward again, they caught the sight of something familiar. Someone familiar.

And there she was.

A sixteen-year-old version of the woman in my arms. She was huddled against a corner in a peeling-wallpapered bedroom in a dirty white shirt and nothing else, her knees pulled tightly to her chest, revealing a massive wound around her ankle raw from a rubbing restraint

My stomach soured as I took in the sharp juts of bones just under her skin. She'd been starved, losing all the curves that came naturally to her frame.

I wanted to whip around, shock that bastard back to life, then strap him to a chair while I chopped his dick off with a butter knife, shoved it down his throat, then carved out his black heart.

I couldn't do that, though.

All I could do was help Chris, get her out of there, get her back to the hotel. If she didn't recover from there, I guess call Ferryn for advice. Maybe her mom. Anyone who could help.