The End (Deadly Captive Book 3)

  The End

  Deadly Captive 3

  Bianca Sommerland

  The End © December 2017 by Bianca Sommerland

  Cover art by Fiona Jayde

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

  This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Contents

  Also by Bianca Sommerland

  Author’s Note:

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  About the Author

  Also by Bianca Sommerland

  Also by Bianca Sommerland

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  The Dartmouth Cobras

  Blind Pass

  Butterfly Style

  Game Misconduct

  Defensive Zone

  Breakaway

  Offside

  Delayed Penalty

  Iron Cross

  Goal Line

  Line Brawl

  Also

  Deadly Captive

  Collateral Damage

  The End

  Celestial Pets: Evil’s Embrace

  Solid Education

  Street Smarts

  Forbidden Steps

  Rosemary Entwined

  The Trip

  Tamed (Feral Bonds 0.5)

  Winter’s Wrath Series

  Backlash

  Diminished

  Inversion

  Author’s Note:

  To all the readers who’ve waited so long for this book, I just want to say I’m sorry. And thank you. Despite all the challenges, all the frustration, part of me always knew once I finally reached The End, it would mean as much to you as it does to me. Writing this book meant delving into the darkest part of my mind, returning to a place I wasn’t sure I wanted to go to again, but I’m glad I did. Because you need the darkness to truly understand the light.

  My career as an author has come full circle and I needed some closure to take that next step. I began writing pushing the limits and that will never change. This story reminded me of the twisted beauty I’ve always found reaching beyond what’s safe and comfortable.

  And the support from so many of you showed me no matter how far I travel into the terrifying, yet wonderful depths of my imagination, I’m not there alone. There aren’t enough words to tell you how much I appreciate you, but I hope you know, with each one I put down on paper, I’m saying it again. Thank you.

  Prologue

  I woke to darkness. The scent of damp earth surrounded me. Not close. I had room to move. Standing, with my arms stretched above my head, wrists in metal restraints. Blindfolded. Blood in my mouth. Naked.

  But I know who I am.

  Not who I had been, way back when I’d been a child or even growing up to become a lethal young woman. That would always be a blank. The first time I’d been captured my mind had been damaged beyond repair. But after I’d escaped I’d lived a new life.

  One that had ended too quickly.

  And this time, I’d walked willingly into my cage.

  I’d returned to Cyrus.

  Licking my lips, I held still, not breathing, my heart barely beating in my chest, though I knew he could still hear it. The sound would tell him I was awake. Which is what he’d been waiting for.

  “Having second thoughts, Lydia?” His lips brushed my ear and I ground my teeth, fighting the urge to jerk away. I hadn’t expected him to be so close. He chuckled softly as he removed the blindfold, only to reveal a darkness so thick, he might as well have left it on. “I’ll let you go if you ask me to. Say the word and this ends now.”

  Like hell. I wanted to laugh, but I wasn’t ready to test him. Not yet.

  “Good idea.” He walked slowly around me. His tone took on a curious edge. “You’ve never been this quiet. What’s the plan? If I unchain you, will you fight me? Try to escape?”

  The survivor in me wanted to scream “Yes!”, but escape wasn’t an option. I was here in exchange for the son of the man I loved. I could take a lot more suffering than that little boy. Until I had some guarantee of his safety, I wasn’t going anywhere.

  No point in voicing those thoughts out loud though. Who’d believe me? I could hardly believe it myself.

  And yet, I was here.

  I was here. I’d been free and now I might never be again.

  “I’m curious how long this will last.” Reaching up, Cyrus unclipped one shackle. Then the other. Supported me with a hand under my elbow when I swayed off balance. “You haven’t fed in days. Would you care for something?”

  Something? I tried to wet my lips with my tongue, but my mouth was too dry. And water wouldn’t help much. I needed blood, but would he give it to me?

  Was I ready to pay the price for it? There had to be one. There always was with him.

  “Tell me what you want, Lydia, and it’s yours.” He waited for a moment. Moved away. A tiny flame sparked and a candle lit the room.

  Not a normal room. I couldn’t see any doors. The floor and the walls were dirt. The ceiling above looked like more of the same, but the chains had to be bolted into something solid.

  In the corner, I spotted a small pile of clothes, folded neatly, which was odd since they were sitting in the dirt. I didn’t have to ask who they were for. Like blood, having them would cost me.

  “Go ahead.” Cyrus held out his hand, a calm smile on his beautiful lips. His black hair glistened in the candlelight, falling softly over his shoulders. Even in the dirt room, he looked refined, dressed in clothes that belonged to another era.

  In so many stories, he would be the perfect image of the handsome hero. Even now, he probably walked down the street and made women sigh, wishing he’d look their way. Give them that glimmer of hope that a man like him could sweep them off their feet.

  Those women had no idea how lucky they were when he kept walking.

  “Put the clothes on now, Lydia, or I’ll burn them.” A hint of irritation crept into Cyrus’s voice, as if he couldn’t believe I’d rejected his ‘gift’. His jaw ticked. “I don’t care either way.”

  Bu
llshit. I stepped away from him, approaching the clothes cautiously, every instinct screaming for me to keep my eyes on him, logic telling me it wouldn’t make a difference.

  I got the clothes on in a rush. Underclothes. Jeans. A T-shirt and a thick white sweater. More layers than I’d expected. I couldn’t help relaxing a little, now that I wasn’t so exposed.

  Would take seconds to change that, but I’d enjoy every one.

  “Very good. You’re cooperating.” Another panty-melting smile. Or, more accurately, the sweet smile of a serial killer, but sometimes it was hard to tell the difference. Cyrus held his hand out. “Come here and I will feed you.”

  Looking around, I quickly realized there was nothing else in the room. No pretty bottles filled with blood, no other victims, not a glass or even a bag to bite into like a sippy sack.

  Only him.

  He wanted me to feed from him.

  Fuck no.

  So stupid, digging in my heels at drinking his blood, but the act was too intimate. He could hurt me, he could use me, but that was different somehow. Enduring, rather than surrendering.

  His light laugh chilled me to the bone. Completely unconcerned. He hadn’t moved any closer, hadn’t really done anything at all, but for some reason, his every word, every sound he made, reminded me the worst I could imagine didn’t come close to what he would do. Soon.

  These acts of defiance were an illusion of choice. Another move in whatever fucked up game he planned to play. But I couldn’t take my pieces off the board, so what could I do besides keep moving them as though I had any chance to win?

  “I won’t force you to feed from me, pet.” Cyrus lowered his arm to his side. “But you will ask to. Actually, I’d much prefer it if you’d beg.”

  You would. I pressed my lips together. Damn it, I wanted to sneer at him. Come out with some kind of sarcastic remark. Pretend I wasn’t absolutely fucking terrified.

  Doing so would be like asking him to hurt me and I wasn’t ready to do that either. Maybe I would be at some point. Maybe waiting for the inevitable would eventually push me over the edge. Hell, he was probably right. I might even beg for blood from him. Starving wasn’t exactly pleasant.

  That illusion of choice was all I had. And I’d hang onto it until he tore it away.

  I wasn’t sure how long we stood there, simply facing one another, but eventually, I couldn’t stand anymore. Backing away from him, I lowered to the floor. Falling asleep was tempting, but I didn’t dare.

  And he didn’t move.

  This fucked up game seemed to entertain him for a lot longer than humanly possible. Than possible for an immortal. Or for anyone sane.

  When he sighed, I let out the breath I’d been holding without realizing I had. He came at me so quickly I didn’t have a chance to brace myself. I cried out once as he dragged me back to the chains. Pressed my eyes shut as the shackles closed around my wrists and my arms were drawn up over my head again.

  Fabric tore. I heard him leave and didn’t open my eyes. I didn’t want to know what he’d return with. The violent CRACK! in the air was my only warning. Slicing over my bare flesh. A tug of metal embedded in my skin.

  The pain was familiar. Its own kind of escape.

  Chapter One

  So lovely, all covered in blood.

  Like a pale rose with crimson dew glistening on soft petals—until the dew evaporated and the petals dried, falling, lovely in death. For nights on end the most brutal violence had made the macabre beauty fresh again, but no more. Not a whimper or a wince; even defiance had faded. Soon all that remained would be a pretty shell.

  He didn’t want that. He’d played with her for weeks, just to see what would happen, but hadn’t anticipated what starvation would do to her spirit. The shackle around her ankle had to be tightened right to the bone to hold her now—not that there was any point to restraints anymore. She hadn’t moved in days.

  Cyrus smiled as he crouched down beside Lydia and stroked her ashen cheek with a fingertip. Her dry, cracked lips curled slightly away from her teeth. She trembled with the effort to bring her mouth to his hand, likely catching the fresh scent of blood flowing through his veins.

  I could almost…pity her. So beautiful, so strong, reduced to nothing. If he’d broken her, she’d be useless to him. He’d really thought she’d be more durable.

  In this basement—little more than a wide, dirt grave under the cabin he’d procured for the first stage of her domestication—he released her once, just to see what she’d do. She’d sat in stony silence for hours on end, always alert, always watching him, but never giving a hint of how she planned to escape. Perhaps her sense of honor meant she would keep her word to stay with him, but he doubted it. And he’d grown bored of not touching her simply to build the anticipation.

  The next time he’d drawn her bound wrists high above her head, tearing away the clothes he’d given her, the same desire he’d felt when he’d first held her captive returned. As he had then, he used his favorite whip, with its hooked metal tips, to rip her flesh, filling the air with the sweet scent of her blood. He’d done everything in his power to get her to surrender—that she hadn’t pleased him, in some twisted way. He wanted more from her than he’d ever wanted from the others. All his thoughts made him feel as demented as people believed him to be.

  Tear her apart. Keep her whole. Taste her lips, her blood . . . and her screams.

  She was an old toy made brand new, one he’d tire of eventually, but he wasn’t done with her yet. There had to be something left of her to salvage. He smoothed her matted hair away from her face, speaking in a soft, gentle tone. “My stubborn girl, all I asked is that you beg.”

  There…only a spark, but there was still fire in her eyes. He’d have to kill her to douse out that flame.

  I want the flame. I want to own it. Control it. And yet, maybe he wouldn’t until he snuffed it out and built a new pit for the inferno from the ashes. He nodded to himself, pulling the key to her shackles from his pocket to unlock them all. He heaved her up to her feet, continuing to drag her when she couldn’t stand. Ascending the stairs, he pulled down a latch in the ceiling, half carrying her until they reached the front door.

  He tossed her outside, staring down at her as the sky lightened with the coming dawn. Tendrils of smoke rose from her red crusted skin. Like him, the sun meant a painful death for her. She’d be burned alive.

  “Is this what falling in love did to you, Lydia? You can’t live without him?” The very idea made the blood he’d gorged on sour in his throat, ready to come up in clotted lumps. “Die for him then. I don’t want you.”

  Lies, Cyrus! The part of him that craved her, that would hold her and treat her like something precious, clawed at the inside of his chest as he backed into the cabin and quietly shut the door. Leaning against it, he fussed with the white sleeves of the silk shirt he wore. Plain and modern and dull. He listened for a movement from her beyond the door. A whisper, a shift, any effort to survive.

  Nothing.

  There were others he could have. None as strong, but perhaps she wasn’t as strong as he’d believed. He could hunt down the sweet little schoolteacher taken from him much too soon, but her will to live came from the need to protect the little boy. And from the traitor, Vince, a man Cyrus had raised from a child to a ruthless killer. Actually, of the two of them, he desired Vince more. The things he’d done to the man, the things he could do…

  A faint sound. Nails on wood.

  He smiled. Waiting.

  Harsh breaths. A low whine, growing louder, like the pain-filled sounds of a dying animal caught in a trap. Desperate to be free. To live.

  The door hit the wall when he swung it open. He reached down, latched on to Lydia’s wrist, and jerked her inside, slamming the door shut behind her. She curled up at his feet, her frail arms wrapped around her knees, the flesh of her legs blackened in patches where the sun had touched her through the trees.

  Tarnished beauty, but she would heal. And unt
il he helped her, she would be in agony. So he watched her, unmoved by the bloody tears spilling down her cheeks, curious to see what she would do.

  “Cyrus . . .” Her voice lacked substance. She was too weak to do more than breathe out the words. “Please . . .”

  “Please what, Lydia? Please feed you? Please fuck you?” He let out a sharp laugh, knowing she couldn’t look at him with her eyelids dried together, couldn’t feel the impact of his derisive stare. “You’ve left me nothing to desire. Is this what I’ve received in exchange for the boy? He would be far more entertaining.”

  The little bitch could hardly speak, but she managed to growl at him.

  He chuckled and nudged her with his foot, forcing her onto her back. “Bad girl. You’ll get more from me if you’re good. Can you be a good girl for me?”

  She pressed her lips together. Her jaw went hard, as though she’d either refuse to reply or didn’t want to say the wrong thing. Abruptly, her expression relaxed. She lifted one hand to him and more red tears leaked out of her eyes.

  “I don’t—don’t want to—” He had to lean close to hear her last words. “—to die.”

  He knelt by her side, slipping his arms beneath her and lifting her carefully. With her body, slight and fragile and so very cold, cradled in his arms, he carried her up the second flight of stairs to his bedroom. Laid her on his bed, a shallow pool of tenderness settling inside him as he slit his wrist and brought it to her dry lips.