Page 74 of Those Who Are Bound

Elliott

Aweekago,Elliotthad been preparing to take on a new employee, leery about the prospect’s boyfriend who had been creeping on her. Now, she laughed out loud at the idea that Jonah had been a duplicitous partner. Then her heart galloped at the realization that he was nowherboyfriend.

The term was old-fashioned—they weren’t thirteen—but it still made her smile. It made her blush, even as she sat on the back deck by herself with her coffee; it was more of a flush—from pleasure, from the onslaught of unfamiliar, giddy emotion. She’d thought she’d had boyfriends before—in thebefore—before Gage’s death, but this was different.Shewas different.

Her whole world was different.

She’d never stopped to think about who she’d become after Gage had killed himself, other than that she’d had to change. She knew the effect of his death on her had been devastating—it was meant to be—she’d had to hold herself accountable, and so she had. The pain, the shock, the guilt, all of these things had become her focus, so who she’d been had died with him, her own form of suicide as she actively tried to kill that person.

Who and what.

ThebeforeElliott was the narcissistic woman who would tie herself to a man’s bed and wait for him to come home, explosive and destructive in her own obsessions, not caring who she dragged down with her. Becks had introduced her to the pictures when she’d been a child, after all, opening that door in her depraved mind that allowed her to see beauty in a tortured and tied woman.

She’d been seven years old. He’d been visiting, as he often did, with the family in Texas. There’d been a storm, and she was afraid of the power of it. Gage had turned her away moodily from his door, calling her a sissy, and she knew not to interrupt her parents. But the light in the guest room had been on, so she’d shyly haunted his doorway, her lower lip trembling as lightning flashed and thunder rocked the house.

Becks had looked up from where he’d been lounging against the headboard, files scattered about him, noticing her when she gasped and jumped. He’d given her a sympathetic smile and, without a word, scooted some papers closer to himself and flipped back the covers. He patted the mattress. Relieved, she’d flown to the bed and crawled in, covering up to her neck as she snuggled in next to him. He’d chuckled, one arm absently dropping over her for comfort, his attention returning to his files.

She’d drifted off almost immediately, feeling safe and secure, her face tucked into his hip. She didn’t know what had woken her later, but he was still awake, papers still scattered, and the photos were out. His arm was no longer around her. She’d shifted, pushed out of the blankets as she slept the restless sleep of a child, on her back, her arms flung wide. One was on his chest, but he’d left it there, like adults do, ignoring it as long as it wasn’t bothering them. Instead of demanding his attention upon waking, she’d looked at the pictures.

A woman, hogtied, although she hadn’t known what it was then, naked. Raped, although she wouldn’t have known it at the time, what that was or even what it would have meant. Dead. That hadn’t registered with her, either. She saw the red rope. She saw the beauty of a naked woman, exposed. She wanted to know what that was like, even then. Lifting her hand to the picture, she’d traced the line of the rope and said, “Beautiful.”

Becks had jumped, slamming the photo face down. “Shit!” He’d quickly gathered everything up. “You can’t look at these things, Ellie.”

Elliott had peered up at him, perplexed.

He’d grasped her arm and thigh and physically flipped her away, landing a solid smack to her bottom, meant to be a reprimand. “Go back to sleep!”

She’d giggled.

For years, she’d heeded him, not looking. But that image had been burned in her brain, that beautiful woman tied. Then she entered junior high and learned about social studies, and the subject of rape was brought up, and criminal justice. She’d approached Becks, stating she wanted to do research and that she wanted to specifically study violence against women.

Maybe it was because she was older, maybe it was because she appeared more mature than her tender years due to being an Army brat, or maybe because he believed her, but he agreed. And he went through old case files with her. She immediately discarded anything that didn’t draw her interest; in other words, she only wanted bound women. Eventually, that’s all he brought to her.

He’d talk to her like she was a colleague, like he might be mentoring a kid seriously interested in law enforcement. She barely listened to him. She hadn’t cared about justice or methods or police procedure; she just wanted the pictures. She wanted to imagine the moment of being bound, of being at the mercy of someone more powerful, of having no control. The fantasies excited her, aroused her.

She’d made the mistake of asking him once, “Do you think they enjoyed it?”

The look on his face had been one of complete horror before he’d expertly masked it. He’d asked back, “Do I think they enjoyed being tortured and killed? No, not for one second. I think they were fucking terrified and wanted to live. What thefuck, Ellie?”

So, he shouldn’t have been as surprised as he’d been when he came home that day and found her as he had. He probably should have been more shocked that she hadn’t been naked. But he’d beenpissed. Pissed at her and pissed at himself for not seeing this coming, or seeing it coming and not stopping it from happening… and then for wanting her. Like that: bound.

Yes, the before Elliott had pushed boundaries, acted on impulse, manipulated a detective and family friend into giving her what she wanted against his better judgment, his morality, his ethics. She hadn’t cared about the consequences. She’d wanted to be satisfied and had the confidence and arrogance to demand it, as though she deserved it at any cost. If she didn’t get her way, the result was like putting a match to gasoline; but when she got her way, the destruction she left behind wasn’t any different.

The boyfriends she’d had didn’t last; that much was true. She was a force of nature; her demands, at first, were considered tantalizing in a dirty-girl sort of way, but by about the third time around, they’d caught on that she wasn’t playing—or she’d already broken them and deemed them useless. This was a need, a dark one; a ravenous monster resided somewhere deep inside her that would devour them, and she’d destroy their psyche to get what she needed to feed it.

Men didn’t like to be challenged on that level.

Only Becks had proven to be strong enough to face her demons. After all, she was a monster he’d unwittingly shaped. That, and by virtue of his job, he was well acquainted with monsters.

Then Gage had happened.

Gage.

Elliott shifted in the seat, bringing the coffee cup to her lips as she stared sightlessly at the trees in front of her. She wasn’t going to think about those days around his death. But she’d burned her ropes afterward—all the rope she could find on the property—the act of watching them burn meant to symbolize her determination to kill the beast inside her.

Initially, Becks had grieved for Gage with her. He’d fucked her; it offered them both a moment of oblivion but only compounded the guilt. Then he’d borne her wrath. Only after making sure that she wouldn’t follow her brother into the grave, he left.

And Elliott continued to wake up, day after day, each day further away from the catastrophe, further away from the slaughter of who she’d been, careful to avoid the triggers—a length of rope, certain movies or books. She stopped watching television.

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