Broken Bonds Boxed Set 1-3 (10 page)

T
wist and loop
. Twist and loop. My fingers delicately twine the jute fibers, deftly working them to lock together. I caress the light strands, nurture them, putting myself into each tightly woven loop.

I have many ropes. All sizes, colors, widths. And I take great care of my collection. But none of them feel right for tonight. For Sadie…for this long-awaited moment…I have to create the perfect tool.

My chest stirs with warmth as I imagine the light brown rope against her pearly skin, the complexion, the contrast. Dark and bright. I almost feel drunk; the excitement coursing through me with a steady flow of adrenaline. I’m like a kid about to play with his favorite toy. A toy that’s been kept from him for too long.

Creating another painstaking loop, I twist the fibers slowly, relishing the imprint the bands will leave behind on her soft skin. Intoxicating.

“Making something special for tonight?”

Julian’s deep timbre pulls me out of my trance, and I glance up to find him leaning against the corner of the bar top, hands sunk into his black suit pockets.

Since he opened his own club, I haven’t seen him in a pair of jeans. He’s all business now. I guess I shouldn’t judge; I’ve buried myself in my work, too.

Unhooking the lead thread from the bar where I have my station set up, I begin to wind the rope. “Just needed some new material.”

He glances around the empty club before his gaze settles back on me. “They do have these things called stores. I know you’re all about the ritual”—his voice lowers—“but it wouldn’t hurt to take a shortcut every once in a while.”

“And see, that’s what you don’t get, Julian.” I stuff the newly braided rope into my pack along with the rest of my supplies. Then rising from the stool, I look Julian in his clear blue eyes and say, “The ritual is everything.”

His gaze turns hard, serious. He straightens, and the banter leaves his voice. “I do get some things.”

“And what’s that?” Apprehension dampers my mood. For months, ever since I took Julian up on his offer to work at his club, I’ve felt like I’ve been treading water. Edging the thin line drawn between us—the one that keeps us hospitable toward each other. It’s a very thin line.

“I get that this is the longest you’ve stayed in one place. At least since—”

“Don’t.” That single, deadly spoken word halts him.

His strained exhale is the only sound amid us.

Gaze still on mine, he says, “I thought that after all these years, I’d finally get my brother back. That if I just stayed quiet, let you deal with everything on your own terms, you’d eventually recover. But—” He shakes his head, breaks eye contact to stare at the floor. “She ruined you.”

Anger brims fire-hot in my chest. “I told you never to mention her again.”

“Colt, listen.”

But I’m already turning away and heading out of the rope room. A hand on my shoulder stops my steps, and I pivot, face contorted, beckoning all control.

Julian removes his hand and takes a step back. “I don’t want to push you away again.”

“Then don’t,” I snap.

He crosses his arms; defensive. Good. As long as I keep him rebounding, he’ll back off. “Fine. I won’t. We don’t ever have to have that conversation. Just do your Shibari. Entertain. Get your kicks…whatever it is that you get out of performing. But be careful.” He presses his lips together, features stern. “I’ve seen what happens when you get too…involved, Colt. The obsession takes you to a dark place. I don’t want you to get lost there again.”

I can’t help it—coming from him? This bullshit?—I laugh.

Then I walk away.

“Just know that I loved her, too.”

His words stop my retreat. But when I don’t react; all stoic control over my emotions, he says, “Just wanted to voice that. To finally have my say.”

Jesus. I really don’t need this shit right now. I drive a hand through my hair, attempting to wipe his admission from my head. Finally, I turn and face my brother.

“Love? Is that what you call it?” I ask, my voice thick with disdain. “You have the worst possible way of showing it, then.” As he opens his mouth to say something more, I hold up a hand. I’ve heard enough. “All right, Julian. What I get out of it—is that what you’re trying to figure out? Why I’m not like you. Sitting in an office, locked away, just on the edge of the scene.” I step closer, stare him in the eyes. “Control. I make sure that my world never spins out of control again. Say it’s obsession. Say whatever you want, but at least I was man enough to stay until the end. I had to face what you were too much of a coward to deal with. I looked it in the eyes…all that darkness…and I stayed. And hell, I’m sure it left an imprint. The price I now pay for having something so beautiful, however fleeting. So, I’ll do whatever the hell I want now. I’ve earned it.”

He shakes his head. “I won’t deny you that. I was a coward.”

Arms crossed, back and shoulders tense, I wait for the rest of his speech. Wait to see if he’s going to take this all the way. Damn, and we really were doing so well. Where the hell did this even come from?

“Look,” he says, and my defenses climb. Here it comes. “You’ve found a way to put everything in place. Nice and neat. You’re a pro at compartmentalizing. But I’ve been paying attention,” he says, gaze narrowing. “I don’t want Marni to shadow the rest of your life.”

I huff a soundless laugh.
Asshole
.

“I’m serious. You deserve something good. This scene is fun…it’s a lifestyle, yes, but it’s not meant to replace real relationships. I’m doing it because—”

“Because it now pays the bills,” I clip.

He shrugs, his expression neutral. “Yeah. And because she loved it. It got me through the worst of it, afterward, but I don’t use it to lose myself. Not anymore. I’m getting out.”

Tension thrums in the air between us, and I push back against its walls. So this is what spurred this conversation. He always has an agenda. “And the club?”

His shoulders lift again. “I wanted to hand the reins over to my little brother. But not if that means watching him degrade into himself.” He searches my face. “I like the idea of you sticking around the city. Being here…with me. But we have to come to an understanding.”

My lips stretch into a smile that verges on a sneer. “An ultimatum, you mean.”

“Call it what you want. The only thing I ask is that you keep your ‘personal’ life out of the club.”

And understanding flits through me, transparent. I uncross my arms and straighten my back. “You were watching me last night.”

Shame flushes his face. “My name will remain on the lease, Colt. Everything will still tie back to me…” He trails off. “If you want to have your personal ‘sessions’—” He makes air quotes again, and my chest flames with heat.

“Stop doing that. Just say what you mean, Julian.”

He releases a heavy breath. “I can’t have accusations flung at the club if you go off the rails again. Okay?”

Sonofabitch. “You know what? Fuck you.”

“Hell, real mature, Colt.” He shakes his head, looks down at the tiled floor.

“You had no right to eavesdrop on me. What I do on my own time—personal or otherwise; in the club or outside of it—is none of your business.” I glare at him, trying to catch his eyes. “Hand the club over to someone else.”

He looks up then. “There’s no one else I trust.”

“Bullshit.” I take a step back, thoroughly over this conversation. “This is just your way to keep tabs on me. Keep things running the way you want, without having to actually do the dirty work.” I bark a laugh. “But I’m not your bitch boy—and you don’t run me.”

“That’s not it at all. Listen, I always get a little harassment from the cops,” he says, finally meeting my gaze again. “I’m used to it, but I can’t let it get out of hand. I have to have someone running the show who knows how to keep things…neutral.”

I wonder what he’d say if I told him that the woman I took to the back room last night was not only a cop, but a profiler. That whatever he’s so worried about keeping concealed, she’s probably already uncovered.

Only I know that’s not true. I might be a lot of things—things that don’t get me any slack from my brother—but a liar isn’t one of them. Sadie came here for herself, not her department. At least, that’s the truth I knew up until this moment. I never once questioned if she had an ulterior motive. Why would I, when she’s damn perfect for me.

Now Julian’s planted a seed of doubt, and I hate that. I can already feel it festering.

But—no. I refuse to let my brother infect my head. I’ve watched her long enough; I’ve tasted her. Her scent still clings to me. I’ve looked into those bottomless jewel-green eyes and I’ve seen the beauty among the abyss.

I find Julian’s gaze. “Why are you getting out?”

His fight to remain composed under my scrutiny is evident. “I’m marrying Bethany.”

Fucking hell.

“Congrats.” The word tastes bitter on my tongue. Then I tell him, “I’ll think about it,” before he can say anything further to disgust me.

Content with my answer for now, Julian nods a couple of times and says, “Thanks.” Then he leaves me alone with my spiraling thoughts.

Reaching into my pocket, I touch the rope I always keep there. My connection. My center. I need Sadie here, now. I can’t wait until tonight.

T
here’s
a moment right before a storm. When the sky blackens, ink-swollen clouds claw the sky, and electricity charges the air. You feel it building, an anxious clutching of your chest that you can’t quite comprehend, but you know lightning is about to strike.

You’re connected to the elements. Your bones, flesh, your blood. Your soul. It’s all linked and communicating with something greater than you…and if you could just reach out and grasp the fading wisps, you could finally make that connection.

You’d be a part of something more powerful than yourself, and you wouldn’t feel so alone or lost.

I’m standing on the edge of that storm now.

It takes all shapes and sizes, can strike at any moment. Most of the time, we’re not ready. I’m not ready now. But the eye of the storm is hovering, taunting. A false calm luring me into believing we’re close, and that once we connect this last, final piece, we’ll find our killer.

Only I’ve been in the center of a great storm before. I know the lie it feeds you right before the sky tears, and you’re swallowed.

There’s always more to come.

“CSU is waiting for us to make the first sweep,” Quinn says as he pulls the car along a sidewalk. “The unis have already secured the scene, and Wexler said to take only my best in.” He glances over at me as he removes the keys. “You ready?”

I should appreciate the compliment. He considers me one of his best. We’re going into the third crime scene and God only knows what the UNSUB has left for us this time. But my mind is still churning the discovery from moments ago. I’m mentally grasping for that wisp as it floats just out of reach, trying to latch on before I’m plunged under the monsoon.

“Ready,” I say, beckoning fortitude as I push open the door. I glance at the sky, noting again the looming darkness. “Let’s get in before the rain catches us.”

A crowd has gathered on the sidewalk, phones snapping pics, people craning their necks to get a glimpse around uniforms barring the entrance to the apartment building.

This means the UNSUB—who’s just graduated to serial killer status—is now making the news. I’m sure Quinn hoped we could keep this under wraps, at least for the next week. But once the press gets a whiff of a serial killer case, it’s game over. Someone made a buck leaking it to a reporter, and now we’re looking at constant press interference throughout the rest of the investigation.

We push through the throng, and Quinn gives his officers a couple of directions before a small group of us head toward the unit marked off with yellow crime scene tape.

“You need to suit up,” one of the uniforms says, and I look over at him. He’s covered head-to-toe in a white Tyvek coverall. The kind CSU wears—the kind we have to wear when the scene requires it.

Quinn and I are quick as we pull on the suits, and once we finally make our way into the apartment, I’ve adopted a numbness from practiced behavior over the years. I’m prepared…and then I’m not.

“Mother of God,” Quinn whispers. And I can just picture him crossing his chest like he’s saying a prayer, though I have no idea if he’s Catholic. He doesn’t actually do this, of course, but the action is so fitting for what we’re seeing that I wish he would. Someone needs to say a prayer.

The metallic taste hits my senses first. A bitter aftertaste that resonates in the back of my throat. The air crackles with a suffocating, dark energy.

Red paints the walls. Impact splatters. Cast-off stains. High velocity, low velocity. I could spend a week alone analyzing every drop and spray pattern. My eyes take in each spine and satellite stemming from the larger bloodstains. From the arterial spray—the UNSUB’s one signature slash across the neck—to the blunt force splatters that indicate how badly the victim was beaten before the real torture even began.

My mind drifts, and I’m sixteen. Standing in front of a mirror at the hospital. Examining the spray pattern that sheets my skin. Studying the different shades of red. Darker burgundies contrasting against my light skin; lighter pinks flecked across my cheeks. I could not love nor hate the blood; it became a part of me that day.

“Bonds.” Quinn’s voice reaches into the dark recesses of my mind, and I’m again at the crime scene, uniforms capturing the scene in pristine condition before it’s torn apart to uncover the story.

My gaze is steadily locked on the body. Quinn is already there; his first priority.

I carefully maneuver through the room, trying to disturb as little as possible, my plastic suit whispering in the still air, as I sidestep broken picture frames and blood pools, until I’m by his side and staring up at the suspended corpse.

The body has been hung from the ceiling by three lengths of rope. One band circles her shoulders, the next around her upper thighs, the third across her chest. And all I can think is: this is a new pose.

When Avery arrives and begins her examination, I won’t need to inquire. I won’t need to ask about what was done to her. My eyes snag and hold exactly what Quinn is staring at. What he’s trying so hard not to turn away from.

“This countess,” he says, obvious revulsion in his voice. “Was she known for this?”

“Yes,” I say simply.

“Hell,” he breathes out.

And there’s no better descriptor to capture this scene. Hell. This is hell.

I’ve never worked a case that involved mutilated genitalia. And I don’t want to ask Quinn if he has. Past experience won’t matter, regardless. The MO of the sadist who could go to this extreme would be a very different profile than the one I’ve already compiled for this case. He’s a copycat. Torture is his signature. And it’s not even his own.

We remain quiet as we inspect her battered and disfigured private parts. Besides the numerous contusions and cuts, and seared flesh covering her body, the mutilation of her lower region makes her nearly unidentifiable as a woman. Right now, I’m thankful for the blood that obscures most of her injuries.

“Back here,” someone shouts from the side bedroom.

Without words, Quinn and I both head toward the master bathroom that has garnered new attention.

“No one drain that tub,” Quinn instructs. “I want it skimmed out first. Look for anything hidden beneath the surface and around the vic.”

Bathed in blood. Poetic. The second victim is something right out of a Bathory legend. A fictional work that depicts the Countess as a creature of the night who exsanguinates women to bathe in their blood.

I’m lost in the meaning, confused as to why a purest—as the UNSUB has been so far—would lower his standards to hearsay and fictions…until my eyes discern the brutality masked under all the swirling red decoration.

A single, jagged slash across the second victim’s collarbone.

He sacrificed his kill method to send a message. The recipient: me.

The air becomes thick, my lungs struggle to accept a full breath. The bathroom is so small…too many bodies pressing against me. This whole apartment is like a tomb; taking on the shape and surroundings of a lightless, dank basement.

“Where are you going?”

But I can’t answer Quinn right now. I’m making my way back through the press of uniforms and through the living room, and then out through the front door, where I finally drag in an unobstructed breath.

No one knows about me. What happened all those years ago. My scar. That’s personal, and that’s
mine
. He’s been inside my house. He’s watched me. He knows secret details I’ve scribbled in my journal. The one place where I share my history.

The poem. What it means to me…the pain. The terror. The shame. The unbearable verses recited to me over and over, my captor making me feel each line. Fashioning and molding me into the perfect, virtuous woman through his special brand of torture. I was a dirty girl, one he desired to transform into a delicate beauty that was above reproach.

I know every stanza by heart. And back at the first scene, when I read those words, the old wound tore wide. And I’m bleeding…

“Sadie…” My name, softly spoken by Quinn, snaps me out of my panic. “You can’t have a meltdown here,” he says, gripping my elbow. He guides me down the pathway, away from the apartment building. “Too many people. I’m sure some of them reporters.”

I notice Quinn removing his coverall, and I decide to do the same. I slip out of the plastic, forcing it down my body with shaky hands, and kick out of the suit.

As I crumple the plastic into a tight ball, what Quinn said finally registers. “Wait.” I stuff the balled suit under my arm and turn to face the crowd.

“We can catch Avery later. Let’s go get some food in you. We’re going to have a long night—”

“No, Quinn. He’s here.” Swinging my gaze around to Quinn, I widen my eyes, discreetly nodding to the gathered bodies. “The profile suggests he’ll insert himself into the investigation.”
And my life
. “This was his big masterwork. The crime scene that would undoubtedly link everything together.” I scan over the crowd, seeking each individual face. “I’m sure he wouldn’t be able to keep away.”

From my peripheral, I see Quinn take out his phone and put it to his ear. “Make sure you get shots of the crowd. I want every gawker at this crime scene photographed.” I give him a raised eyebrow as he lowers his phone. “Well, we can’t go up to each one and ask if they’re the killer, can we?”

I press my lips together, conceding. “No…yeah, you’re right.” But I
have
to recognize him. Maybe. I’m so careful about who I allow to get close. My world consists of a handful of people.

Except at the club.

The place where I go to unleash the side I keep hidden
from
those people.

He could be a member. He could’ve followed me home one night. Waited until the right moment to break in and pry into my life. But the question remains:
why
?

“It doesn’t match the profile,” I say to myself. But Quinn picks up on it.

“What doesn’t?”

Damn.

Facing Quinn, I prepare to deprive him of the truth. For the first time in our working relationship—that has had its almost good moments, and its difficult ones—I cannot give him the unvarnished truth.

I have to withhold evidence—or at the very least, my suspicions.

Without knowing how this is linked to me, or why, I have to keep my guard up. And the truth is, I’m afraid. Though I don’t want to admit it, there’s the possibility that my mind is selectively piecing together this terrible reality with my past. After the abduction, there was a time when I seriously doubted my sanity—but that was a long time ago.

I’ve overcome so much, and I do not want to degrade back into that doubt. But that’s exactly what the UNSUB is making me do; doubt myself.

Until I discover just what it has to do with me, Quinn has to remain in the dark. He may pull me off the case, otherwise. And if the UNSUB’s game does revolve around me, that will only anger him. I’ll play his game—for now. I have to, to see what the rules are. Then I’ll turn them around on him.

“There may be a subtle difference forming from the initial profile,” I say, working out the weak details as they form in my mind. Quinn cocks his head. “We’re still dealing with a copycat, but I was off on his reasoning. He’s not just emulating Bathory, he doesn’t just admire her…he believes they share a special bond. A romantic relationship…” Quinn’s features shift, his face contorting in confusion, and I know I’m losing him. “Erotomania,” I blurt.

He shakes his head. “Really? You’re going there? With a delusional UNSUB who believes that a dead woman—for over four hundred years—is in love with him?”

Yeah. Hearing it out loud doesn’t seal the deal for me, either. But it’s all I have to work with. And I have to keep my conjectures close without giving anything personal away. I nod assuredly. “It might not be romantic at all, actually. He could think that he’s one of Bathory’s accomplices. That he’s carrying out her work in tribute. But yes, ultimately, he would believe that the Countess has true affection for him. Whether he thinks her to be dead or alive, that’s irrelevant. In his delusion, he could’ve created a conspiracy around the vampire legend. He may think she’s come back from the dead…” I trail off at Quinn’s grimace. “Look, his reasoning isn’t as important as the clear fact that he’s striving to impress someone. He probably believes that she’s been sending him secret messages, telling him how to fulfill her will.”

“Jesus,” Quinn says. He groans and turns to unlock his Crown Vic. He opens the door and lays his neatly folded coverall on the floorboard. “Can we just go get some food?” he asks, spinning to face me, his arm braced on the hood of the car. “I can’t deal with this on an empty stomach.”

So I guess he doesn’t want to hear the part where I profile the UNSUB’s next move.

At least Quinn’s looking where I want him to, and not in the one place where the answers lie. The perpetrator very well could suffer from erotomanic delusions, only it may not be the deceased Countess he’s trying to impress.

There are now too many variables I have to consider before I come to a firm conclusion—but I need a safe place to sort through them. Quinn reads me too well, and I’m shaken. I admit it. I’m the one who analyzes the killers…not the other way around. And this UNSUB is most definitely invading my head.

As I reach for the car door handle, I hear my name being called. I turn to see Avery flagging us down. We meet her away from the crowd. “What do you have?” Quinn asks.

“Hell, good to see you too, Quinn,” she remarks.

Despite my unease, I smile. I hope she has something solid; some evidence that will lead us in the right direction. I’m through being a chess piece maneuvered around a board. I want to make the next move.

She looks at me. “Got that update on the rope,” she says, and I actually hold my breath. “First of all, it’s made entirely of jute fibers, not cotton. Secondly, it is handmade. But it’s the third variable that’s the kicker. The origin.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “Vienna.”

My breath expels.

Quinn looks between us, hands fisted on his waist. “Am I missing something?”

Yes, Quinn. With this case, you’re definitely missing it all. But I don’t clue him in. Instead, I focus on what I can reveal. I shift the rumpled suit under my arm and reach into my bag. Pulling out my tablet, I select the most recent eBook on my virtual shelf, then hand him the device.