Desecrating Solomon: Book 1 of 3 (Desecration Series) (10 page)

Sudden panic hit Chaos at realizing all the things she’d just let out. She waited in the silence, terrified of what he’d think of her now. And to say it was all a joke seemed blasphemous.

The bad fears descended so quickly that her breath froze—froze her body to the bed. She felt its icy fingers slipping inside her mind, coming to take her places she may never come back from.

“Can’t you sleep with me,” she gasped. “Please.” She dared not voice the fear.

He was there then, beautiful face and bright blue eyes at the bedside. “What’s wrong?”

At hearing the firm commanding in his tone, she latched her arms around his neck. “Please,” she whispered, pressing her cheek into the warm column of muscle. “Don’t leave me. Don’t let me go.”

“Okay, okay,” he shushed, lying next to her.

Chaos moved lower so that she could curl her body into his with her head in his chest and shivered when he wrapped his arms around her, even put one of his legs over hers as though to keep her from being taken.

The pain in her body stood little chance in the face of this kind of bad fear. She shook in the face of it, not remembering the last time it had come on so strong. Years ago. Very early training.

He began to hum then and Chaos whimpered in relief, pressing her ear to his chest to feel the power in his voice. This time when he sang the words Chaos became ensnared in them, able to make them out. The bad fears slowly receded farther and farther from her mind.

Then came the questions. They sprouted in her brain at hearing the words and Chaos clung to each, using them as anchors to keep her from being yanked into that bottomless darkness. She filed the puzzles away as they came. Why did she smile when the pain came? Did she learn comfort in pain as Chaos had? Was she really an orphan? Chaos sometimes felt like one even though Master said she was his flesh and blood.

Who was the boy in the song? And the man on the cross she’d not met yet? What was the name the angels called her? Did she have more than one name, like Chaos?

Then there was the one question that burned inside Chaos that she really wanted to know, needed to know for many reasons. How could his wife not know a lover, if she knew him? And why did that mean everything to him?

In the absence of fear, Chaos gradually became aware of the feel of him. The hot press of his arm along her back and the firmness of his fingers at the bottom of her back. She thought about the heat of his thigh over her leg and became breathless. Light soap tickled her nose where her cheek smashed into his chest. It felt… so good. So very good. Chaos wasn’t accustomed to experiencing this feeling and her body seemed to crave it. She realized she especially liked the soft, careful stroke of his other hand, gliding over her hair then arm, and back up to repeat the step over and over.

With the sound of his voice as he sang softly, Chaos snuggled into him, trying to remember ever experiencing such feelings before. She couldn’t. Ever. 

What exactly was this feeling?

She froze when the answer came to her. This was the feeling of Heaven. When his wife left him, he got a piece of the Heaven inside her. That’s how it worked. When you died, you left loved ones what you had in your heart. That’s what this feeling was, it was Heaven.

Chaos dared not disturb the wonderful impossibility of finding herself in such a place, with these feeling. She knew she shouldn’t be in such a sacred place.

And yet, very carefully she submitted to the warmth enveloping her. She was glad she had no family to leave things with. Glad she couldn’t love even. But even if she did have family and could love, she didn’t want to leave any person a piece of what she carried in her soul.

Chapter Ten

“Okay, it’s been four days,” Solomon said, coming to sit next to the bed where Chaos ate her breakfast on her own. He hated to do it but it was time. Past time. “I’ve given you an entire two extra days, I’m sure you’re aware.”

She nodded, chewing her food slower. Damn, he should have waited for her to finish eating. “Thank you,” she whispered, making it even harder for him to pursue. “What do you have to know?”

He stared at her, feeling like a bastard with every passing second. But after hearing her say those things about talking to demons and dead people and them not letting her talk to angels meant only one thing. Ritualistic abuse. And that was a whole lot different than a one man show. Solomon needed to somehow find out more. Hanging in a tree upside down, in a red dress, beat to kingdom come and probably raped, screamed mock crucifixion of some kind.

She angled her still discolored face at him, making him lower his head in guilt. But he needed answers, dammit. And she was the only one who could give them unless he went asking around town. And if it was ritualistic, it could be anybody so that was out of the question. And with the paranoia he’d garnered from all those great crime mysteries he’d watched when searching for his wife, trusting anybody was a no go. Especially local authorities.

“Let’s start with something simple.” He looked at her full on, trying not to notice how angelic she looked in the white cotton gown. The close proximity felt like weeks. She seemed to constantly need his touch and his body was a little too happy to oblige her. “What’s your favorite color?”

She regarded him in surprise before giving a small smile. “Purple,” she said.

Purple. “Kind of sick of seeing that color on you, actually.” She smiled full out, and he allowed himself a moment to study it. Her lips were practically normal looking now, her entire face was, really. It confirmed his initial assessment when he’d found her. She was beautiful. Incredibly so, in a rare kind of way. 

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Twenty four,” she answered, seeming proud and happy to tell him before getting slowly serious. “Why… did she smile when the pain would come? Your wife?”

It took him a few moments to realize she was referring to the lyrics of the song he’d sang. So she thought it was about his wife? The unexpected and forbidden topic prompted him to shut her down, then he realized that maybe she’d go for a “fair share” of intimate information. He thought about where that might lead with him and wasn’t sure he could stomach it. But then he thought about where it could lead with her. “It was just metaphorical.”

“So she didn’t like pain?”

He shrugged. “I doubt it.” He eyed her. “Why would she?”

She shrugged back, not lifting her gaze. “Sometimes pain can feel good.”

His stomach churned at what that might mean to her. “I guess I agree.”

“You do?”

“When I work out hard, it hurts but it feels good in my mind.”

“Because you know it’ll make you stronger?” she sounded hopeful.

“Yep. Do you have a middle name?”

She shook her head easily. “You?”

“Gorge is my middle name.” He wouldn’t ask for a last. Yet. Two more days, then he’d hit her with the bigger questions. “Your favorite food?”

She smiled down at her plate. “Your soup.” He waited for her to ask her question, his stomach tensing at what it might be. “Was your wife really an orphan?”

He shook his lowered head. “No.”

“Then…”

He hated pretending the lyrics pertained to her or him but he was so limited with angles. “To make me feel better, I think. I was the adopted one.” That second part was true at least.

“Me too,” she said, sounding happy.

He bit back his surprise and on the many questions her answer produced. “Your favorite flower?”

A smile tugged at the edge of her mouth. “I don’t have one. I don’t really like flowers.”

Her odd answer raised his brows. “You don’t like flowers,” he said, not about to believe that. But she didn’t seem to be lying which indicated a clue to a dirty secret. He shrugged. “Fair enough.”

“What was the name?”

“What name?” he asked.

“That the angels called her. Your wife.”

His heart hammered and he suddenly couldn’t tear his eyes from hers. They were full of genuine sincerity and some kind of longing. “Chantilly.”

He watched her mouth slowly spread into one of the sweetest smiles he’d ever seen. “Chantilly,” she repeated. “Such a beautiful name.”

Her breathless sincerity brought a painful ache and longing in his chest.

He cleared his throat and mind before a
to be continued
topic shut him down. “Your favorite animal?” The animal question would be his last. The idea to get her a pet came while checking the traps. If anybody could stand having something to love and be loved by, it was her.

“I don’t like animals so much,” she said, looking down at her plate and toying with her food.

Jesus. Solomon couldn’t take even the idea of what might make her not like animals. “Well… surely there’s one you halfway like.”

She shook her head. “Not really. I don’t like animals. They’re a distraction.”

“A distraction,” he repeated, struggling to maintain his cool. “Animals distract you how?”

She began picking at the hairs on her arm and rocking ever so slightly. “They don’t,” she said. “Because I don’t like them. So they don’t distract me.”

Solomon was officially back in the question game with that one. The sign of her irrational distress demanded it. “But if you liked them, they would distract you?”

He tried to sound amused but she picked along her arm faster now and nodded.

“I’m very easily distracted, so I get that. But I mean, what would they distract you from?” he asked, tiptoeing up to the junction of Fucked up and Insane for a peek around the bend.

She leveled her bloodshot eyes at him, her perfect mouth hard. “They distract.”

Her tone said she was done talking civilly about it. “Who told you that?” he dared anyway.

She stared at him, her spine slowly straightening as if in preparation of something. “What happened to your wife?”

The hard edge of her voice said she was aware of what he was doing and had been aware all along. And now, if he wanted answers she didn’t want to give, he’d have to pay the toll likewise.

Solomon stared at her, weighing the price, checking his pockets.
Wonder if she’d accept a check?
“I told you she died.”

“How?”

He took his lower lip into his mouth then slowly scraped his teeth over it. “She was kidnapped and murdered,” he said evenly.

She stared at him, her jaw still set on stubborn but her eyes were burning with something. “Master told me that pets would distract my training. When was she murdered?”

Solomon’s heart sped up at the exchange of sick info. “Six years ago. And who is Master?” he hurried, before he lost his shit for her and him.

“Master is my stepfather. I was adopted. How was she murdered?”

“I don’t know, we never found her. Why do you call him Master?”

“Master likes to be called that. So I obey. How do you know she was murdered?”

“Because they never found her remains.” Solomon knew how that sounded, and finished with, “I know it in my gut.” He decided to use his gut right then. “What is the name of the organization you belong to?”

She stared at him for several seconds that heat in her gaze cooling a little. “The United Church of Jehovah’s Witnesses. Do you think I’m pretty?”

If their conversation had brakes, it would’ve screeched to a halt with that answer and question. His gut said she’d just told her first lie. But he’d check it out in case. As for her question, he considered it an easy one to answer and one he didn’t mind answering. For her. “I don’t think you’re pretty, no.” At seeing the pain that caused her, he quickly clarified. “I think you’re beautiful.”

The shocked look she gave him was more telling than all her answers she’d given to all his questions.

“You didn’t know this?”

She shook her head in all seriousness, looking like she’d just learned there wasn’t really a Santa Claus. The idea that she not only didn’t know how pretty she was but had likely been told the extreme opposite all her life, made rage burn in his gut.

The need to immediately erase that lie from her mind hit him hard. “Well, it’s the truth. You’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.”

She lowered her head at that. “Chantilly is the other woman?”

“Yes. And my mother.”

The smile she gave him made him sick. For anybody to get that much joy over such a simple thing indicated extreme depravation of basic needs. No pets, no compliments. Sexually abused. Call a sick bastard Master. “Is Master the one who hurt you?”

She shook her head a lot. “No more questions, no more questions. I think you’re beautiful too.” She smiled brightly at him and at seeing her on some kind of ledge in her gaze, he got alarmed.

“No more questions,” he hurried.

“I like possums,” she blurted. “Baby possums.”

For the first time since Solomon had left college, he wished his major had been criminal psychology. She was a puzzle waiting to be solved that led to a sick tunnel to some hell. “You like possums?” He struggled to get the crazy train back on track.

She nodded quickly, telling him the window of opportunity would be random and short-lived. “Baby possums.”

Solomon realized her mind needed careful directing. But now that he realized how fragile she might be psychologically, he needed to tiptoe there. He also realized he especially didn’t need to let any inappropriate emotional attachments develop right when he realized how many nights he’d slept with her. But how else was he supposed to calm her down when she latched herself onto him that way? In his mind he’d seen her as a broken person, that’s all. But what was he to her? That was the worry.

But as much as he needed to stay away from her physically, he needed to engage exactly that. Mind and body. He’d need to be even more cautious now. “How would you feel about starting physical therapy?” 

She flashed him a look. “You mean… physical training?”

“Yes. I’m going to help you get stronger, faster.”

“I like that. Help me. Teach me.”

He stared at her, suddenly nervous about the idea of touching her. She’d probably not go for all the touching after what she’d just endured. What was he thinking, she seemed to crave his touch. No, touching her was a bad idea, he needed to pull back there. But how long did he have?

“It can be very painful. You should probably wait I think.”

“But… I want to get strong,” she said, suddenly sounding worried and scared.

Solomon tried for another angle, one on the other end of
you’re so beautiful, let’s do physical therapy where I touch you all over
. “Okay. I’ll get you started on a self-applied therapy routine that will build your strength in no time.”

Her smile said she was thrilled with that and Solomon relaxed a little as he thought about how to get more clues. The plan was simple in that regard. He’d gather them, compile them, and then use them.

To bury every sick bastard that hurt her.

Chapter Eleven

“You do that every morning?”

Solomon jerked, startled to find Chaos sitting up in bed, watching him do his morning workout. “I try to.” He quickly put his shirt on, cursing himself for taking the chance. He hated working out with a shirt, hated the feel of it clinging to him. He’d been careful to be ninja quiet and wasn’t sure how she heard.

“I have a routine too,” she said.

He finished pulling the shirt over his sweaty abs. “Do you? What is it? Tell me while I get your breakfast.”

“Then we start my training?”

“Yep. You ready?” He pulled eggs out of the fridge and turkey.

“I think so. I’m not afraid of pain,” she said easily.

“That’s good,” he nodded, tossing the loaf of bread on the counter. “Because there will be plenty of it.” Solomon washed his hands, making a point not to look at her. His body was still recovering from her episode during the night. Another nightmare, another physical clinging session with singing. Another success at putting her back to sleep. But leaving her after she fell asleep never happened. Not because he couldn’t but because he felt compelled not to. He made it all okay by laying with his back to her and that would’ve been fine if she didn’t glue her front to it and his mind spent all night painting pictures of what it felt.

So, he didn’t sleep. Not one wink. And the reasons why had him up early, punishing his body for such a weakness. Especially with her.

He chalked it up to divine biology. It was not something he ever toyed with. Even with his fiancée he’d been especially careful not to put himself in vulnerable situations. He intended on being a virgin when he married her, the way his uncle said it should be despite the current culture laughing at him. He’d learned to find pride in the persecution. His wife was worth the wait. Every tormenting second. Did he fantasize about her? God, all the time. He imagined their first time to death. And he’d imagined so many other things. Things he wanted to do to her. With her. Things she wanted to do to him. He wasn’t ignorant of any of it, he’d had his bout with lust before his uncle changed his mind.