Page 64 of Elicit (Decadence After Dark)

“You okay with me leaving you with all this?” I motion to the massacre on the floor.

“I’m fine. Go. The crew should be here any minute. I’ll hold things down.” Composed, even sentences flow out of Kayne’s mouth, but the worry is apparent in his eyes. We’re spinning way too many dangerous dishes at once, and one slip could mean a catastrophic crash.

“She’s fine,” I try to assure him. “No one knows where she is. She’s probably the safest person in the whole house.”

Kayne grimaces, incredulously.

I place my hand on his shoulder. “You know where I’ll be if you need me.”

“I’ll be fine.” He urges me to go. “London needs you. More than anyone.”

“We’re in the same boat, my friend.”

“That we are.” He crosses his arms authoritatively. Ellie’s safety is the most important thing on his mind.

I leave Kayne behind with the mess. Using the shadows to shield me, I make my way across the backyard and around the pool to the miniature house set off to the side of the property. It’s about as extravagant as the inside of the mansion, outfitted with an entire wall of French doors overlooking the blue pool water, a full country kitchen, cork floors, and a lavish white bedroom. Two people could live out here comfortably.

I sneak through the dark house toward the back bedroom. When I crack open the door, I pause, listening to the conversation taking place.

London is seated on the edge of the bed with Alistair kneeling in front of her. Her gaze is lost, someplace far off as she rambles.

“You remind me of a monster I once knew. He used to keep me locked in a cage. He called me his pet. He liked to see me cry. And liked to hear me scream. His favorite thing to do was rape me over the sink while holding my head under water.” She tries to vacantly touch his face, and he spooks like a cat. Very unlike Alistair, but hearing her hair-raising accounts could haunt a friggin’ ghost.

“Enough,” I announce my presence. Alistair scrambles to his feet and backs away from London.

“She needs a shower and sleep. And probably years of therapy,” Alistair advises, unnerved.

“I think we’re all going to need therapy after this.” I toss the fresh pair of clothes I brought him on one of the wicker chairs. “Go wash off and change. Leave your dirty shirt and pants behind. I need you back at the social ASAP.”

Alistair doesn’t waste a minute. He’s clean and changed in record time. “I’ll text you when the house clears out.” He’s itching to leave.

“My phone is on,” I inform him with my eyes glued to London. “Don’t let anyone see you,” I remind him.

“As stealthy as a ninja.”

A moment later, we’re alone.

“Hey, c’mon.” I take London’s hand and gently guide her to stand. She does so without any arguments or objections, still completely zombified.

I direct her into the small adjoining bathroom and turn on the shower. I test the water until it’s the perfect temperature before I strip out of my clothes and then strip London out of hers. I toss her bloody corset in the corner along with the items Alistair left behind. When she’s asleep, I’ll burn everything in the fire pit outside.

London barely registers what I’m doing as she stares off into space. I wish I could reach her—pull her back, bring her to me—but I know recovering from such a traumatic event is going to take time.

I place her under the hot spray, soaking her body and hair all at the same time. Red mixes with the clear water as it escapes down the drain.See, little bird? Your vile past is washing away.

Giving her the silence she needs, I lather up her hair with lemon-scented shampoo and coat every inch of her body with the suds. It’s my version of a baptism. A cleansing. Tonight is a new beginning.

“I’m right here with you, London. You aren’t alone.” I gently rinse the soap from her body, hoping my touch and my voice console and soothe and heal her.

After a little coaxing, we finally make eye contact as we stand under the shower. There’s an inkling of life sparking in her flat blue eyes. She touches my chest, and I place my hand over hers. She sways on her feet, then steadies herself. Her bottom lip is pouty, and her cheeks are redder than strawberries, but I know she’s coming around.

“Is he really dead?” she croaks.

“Yes, my little bird, you finally killed your demon.”

That pouty lip quivers, and I know another bout of waterworks is on its way.

“What’s going to happen to me now? I killed him.” The dam bursts.

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