Page 61 of Daughter of a Monster

Forced by him.

I know that, but it’s still hard to deny them when a flood of relief and excitement rushes through me when I hear the creak of the door. Or like now, when I feel the heat of him and long to be wrapped in his arms, bathing in the comfort of human touch.

It was almost easier before. Before, I knew what was expected of me. I knew the rules and the punishment if I broke them. I knew what my masters wanted. I knew how they expected me to behave, even if I didn’t always choose to.

But I don’t know what he wants. I don’t even know his name. He insists there’s a reason for my captivity but he won’t share what it is.

His eyes are still locked on where my knee brushes against his. It’s like he’s both terrified and hopeful. Shuffling forward even closer, I interlock our legs, one of mine between both of his.

He swallows and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down, the lump rising and falling, pushed against the dark material. “Hope.” He lets my name out as a gush of air and his hand falls to my knee.

He starts to massage the flesh, inching his way further and further up, his eyes lowered to our connection. Between his legs, I see the rise of his erection. I’ve seen it before. Often. It’s clear he wants me, but never, not once has he acted upon it. Apart from that one time, he’s never asked me to kiss him, touch him, and other than a hand on my knee, he’s never touched me without reason.

Moving slowly because I think anything rushed would startle him, I straddle his lap, resting my hands on his shoulders. His breathing quickens.

“Hope,” he says again, closing his eyes and drawing in a deep breath.

He isn’t touching me. His hands are hanging at his sides but his eyes are fixed on me hungrily. I know he wants me but he’s fighting it. Maybe, just maybe, if I let him believe that I want this too, his guard will come down. My hands travel across his shoulders, teasing the base of his neck. I want to grab the balaclava and rip it from his face. I want to see the man who holds me captive. I toy with the edges of the black material and his hand rises, grabbing my wrists and pulling them away. His fingers cut tightly into my skin as he shakes his head slowly, revulsion clouding his eyes.

“Don’t touch me.”

chapter twenty

JERICHO

The lock slides closed with a finality that cuts me deeply. To see people do this and not interfere is one thing. To be doing it myself is quite another. I rest my head against the door as she pounds against it.

Her.

Berkley.

Everly.

My prisoner.

She is ruining everything.

She isn’t supposed to be locked up. Not yet. Not while she could have been free, but she snooped where she didn’t belong. As soon as I’d stormed out of my office, my stupidity hit me. I’d left her alone, able to find the information that would show her the truth. But by the time I turned back she’d already found the file and was flicking on the screens. Thankfully not the one that showedhim.

The look of horror on her face disgusted me. She thinks I’m evil. She thinks I’m just like him. And I guess to her, I am.

I’ve often asked myself how far I’d be willing to go. If, in fighting to find Hope, would I end up just like the people I despise? But as I slid that lock across her door, something cemented within me. Who I really am. Someone who made a promise and intends on keeping it. It doesn’t matter that years have passed. It doesn’t matter that the likelihood of finding her has sunk to zero.

I’ve risked too much.

I’ve risked everything.

I will find her.

And Berkley, Everly, whatever her name is, will help me do it. Her father deserves to be punished. But it isn’t enough to hurt him. He needs to realize the pain he’s inflicted. He needs to be witness to the gut-wrenching terror that comes with the knowledge that a loved one is hurting and you are powerless to stop it.

The screens are all still on when I return to my office. Berkley is standing in the bathroom, staring blankly at herself in the mirror as she repeats the same five movements over and over. I can see her lips moving, counting as she goes through the motions. Tears fall uninhibited down her cheeks.

Every now and again she folds over as though she’s broken and just can’t go on any longer, but then she pulls herself upright, setting her shoulders and lifting her chin. Her strength is plain to see as she starts the sequence again, becoming more powerful and determined with each repetition.

I sink into my chair, placing my elbows on the desk and let my head fall into my hands. But I keep watching her through the bars of my fingers. It takes all my strength not to return to her. Not to gather her in my arms and tell her I’m sorry. Not to take her cheeks in my hands and kiss her until she begs for more.

But this isn’t about me. This isn’t even about her. It’s about a woman who is lost, a girl without a mother, and a man who thinks he can do as he pleases.

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