Silent echoes devils due.., p.4
Silent Echoes (Devil’s Duet Book 2), page 4
Accepting the keys, I grip the handle, swinging the door open. “Thank you.”
“Find her.”
Suppressing a whirlwind of emotions, I manage to swallow the lump forming in my throat. “I will.”
Despite the searing pain in my abdomen, pounding headache, and undoubtedly broken nose, I press on down the desolate straight road, surrounded only by endless trees.
Wearing Lilith’s sweatshirt, I fidget uncomfortably as it clings to me, restricting my movements. Rolling up the sleeves to ease the constriction around my hands while steering, I find comfort in the familiar scent that envelops the fabric—a poignant reminder of her presence despite her absence.
Restlessly tapping the steering wheel, I scan for any sign of Lilith. Impatience grows, frustration and anger brewing, threatening to overpower rational thought.
As the urge to release my pent-up emotions intensifies, an unusual sight on the road grabs my attention. Braking to a halt, I step out of the car, the gravity of my concerns multiplying with each step forward.
Scattered among the debris are shards of glass, some stained with crimson droplets. Near the roadside lie fractured glasses.
“No,” I whisper hoarsely, inching closer to the scene, tracing each fragment. “No, no, no, no, no.”
I run a trembling hand through my disheveled hair in a futile attempt to maintain composure, the vivid tide of emotions within me slowly becomes too powerful to ignore.
They took her.
She wanted to grab a medicine—for me—and they fucking caught her.
The notion of rational thought and strategic planning dissipates in the face of this reality, leaving me paralyzed by a storm of raw emotions. Grasping the broken glasses, I twirl them between my quivering fingers, each tremor a stark reminder of my helplessness in this situation.
It’s all my fucking fault.
I was always too blind. My neglect of Grayson now weighs heavily on my mind. I chose to ignore his behavior, only caring if it didn’t affect my reputation.
I underestimated the fucker.
A growing realization hints at the darker side of his job, hidden behind a mask of friendliness and success.
And I blindly thought it was a full picture.
Turns out, I have no idea what he is doing.
What he is really doing.
Something tells me that it has to be connected with the way he pushed me to have that educational day for students—the day I met Lilith. It’s possible that he set a trap from the beginning.
Only that’s very stupid of him because I’m willing to find my woman and take her home.
He didn’t just touch but took as well what’s mine.
He hurt her. Which means the next moment I’m seeing him, it’s going to be his last fucking day.
I wondered where that urge to kill went. Now I am sure that it’s returned—a hundred times more vivid than the previous one. I don’t care how and who gets hurt in the process, but I am going after Lilith.
And I’m bringing her home.
Aweek passes by.
A week of enduring the humiliation of peeing in a fucking bucket every hour, under the watchful eye of Harold—a towering, bald idiot with biceps that could crush my skull in an instant. At least he relented and turned away when I convinced him that I couldn’t perform under his intense gaze.
Each morning, I awoke as the sun just began its ascent—a fact gleaned from the tiny clock near my bed, since this godforsaken shithole lacked windows—my heart pounding against my ribcage as if it sought escape. I couldn’t understand why I woke at 4:20 a.m. every single fucking day, seven days straight. I felt like I was being watched, yet every scan of the room revealed nothing but dancing shadows cast by the torch.
Occasionally, I drifted off during the day, only to be plagued by the same dream. In it, a woman with black hair entered my room and tended to me, wiping my sweaty face, adjusting the medical cables, and brushing my hair. Her scent—a unique blend of creamy rose and green ivy—lingered long after she vanished, offering a fleeting oasis amidst the suffocating stench of decay permeating these walls.
Offering a relief of the fact that something nice actually exists here.
Only in reality, it doesn’t. It was just a dream, a hallucination induced by the cocktail of medicine coursing through my veins.
I visited Adam a few times, but we barely spoke. Each time, I brought him water and wet wipes, like the first time. He seemed worse each day. If his claim of broken ribs was true—and I had no reason to doubt it—his silence wasn’t unexpected. I was grateful he accepted the small offerings to ease his suffering.
As the door swings open, Grayson strides in, his familiar idiotic grin yanking me from my reverie.
“Darling. Feeling better?” he inquires, advancing a few paces toward my bed.
Ignoring his question, I fix him with a deathly glare.
“You don’t have to answer, I see everything,” he persists.
Despite my attempt to fend him off, his hand reaches my face, prompting me to slap it away. Undeterred, he seizes my jaw, steadying my face.
“Your eyes. Not so tired anymore,” he observes, his own eyes narrowing into thin slits. “Started to trust us enough and finally got some sleep, didn’t you?”
I still don’t trust any of them. I never will. And there wasn’t a minute I was afraid that when I fall asleep, one of the fuckers will come into my room and rape me.
But despite my lack of trust in any of them, my body succumbed to exhaustion without my conscious consent. No matter how hard I wanted to remain awake, sleep claimed me.
“Not so talkative. As usual,” Moore remarks, his grip on my face relenting with a sigh. My skin stings from the pressure, the sensation unpleasantly lingering. “Tomorrow, you’re finally getting out of here.”
A part of me longs to escape this dungeon. Yet, another part of me—the cowardly part—hesitates to leave this bed. Whatever happens out there is fucking grim. Adam’s face haunts my dreams, his suffering too terrible to imagine. It prompts me to remain motionless, awaiting Caleb’s arrival. Hoping for his rescue.
“The Challenge finally starts. You must rest well tonight, Lilith, for tomorrow you’ll need strength like never before,” Grayson declares.
A queasy sensation churns in my stomach at his words. “What do you need me to do?”
His grin returns, casting a grotesque shadow on his features. “The instructions will be given to you tomorrow morning before the Challenge itself. The other girls are waiting for you and you only,” he murmurs, trailing off as he turns his head to the side. A grimace twists his features as he speaks through gritted teeth, “If it weren’t for Adam, none of this would have happened. Your fate would already have been predetermined.”
Anger coils in my throat, a bitter ball of defiance. “My fate? Who are you to decide my fate, Grayson?”
He fixes his wicked gaze on me, oddly composed. “I know it’s weird for you. But don’t worry, darling. Soon, the confusion will fade. Once you pass the Challenge and start serving Father as intended, you won’t need to worry anymore.”
This can’t be real.
I want to wake up in bed with Caleb, wrapped in his arms, soaking in the heat of his body that—no matter under what circumstances—provided me indispensable comfort.
“You’re sick, Grayson. You and your Father. I refuse to participate in your fucking games,” I declare, my voice betraying a tremor of fear.
“You’ll participate, like everyone else, for your own good. I won’t relish in torturing you, darling. You’re one of the few I favor, one of the few I wish to have at my side,” he says, tilting his head. “With whom I wish to rule.”
Part of me wants to believe he’s toying with me, that he’s not serious. But the glint in his eyes tells me otherwise. There’s something twisted, something depraved lurking behind his gaze—a man of many masks in the outside world, masking his true venom. A man devoid of soul, of sanity.
Suddenly, a chilling realization grips me—he will either be my downfall or my salvation.
He may kill me, or I may kill him.
It’s one out of two.
The clock says 15:34, and I am usually asleep by this time. It’s the hour when the woman with dark locks and the scent of roses frequents my dreams, attending to me with care.
But today is different.
Today, I choose to act instead of just considering escape or pretending to be at peace.
Barefoot, naked—I don’t fucking care.
Grayson’s disturbing words reverberate within my mind, echoing off the walls of my consciousness alongside his vacant stare—a dark void seemingly consuming all. His eyes possess a depth so profound that the mere act of meeting them feels like risking the expulsion of one’s soul.
Untangling myself from the medical cables, I grasp the blanket’s edge, pulling it off to reveal bare skin. The chill of the floor stirs my toes, prompting an immediate curl—my body is still unaccustomed to the frigidity of this fucking dungeon. I always feel a need to pee, and I’m afraid I got myself cystitis.
I suggested to Harold that leaving a bucket for me to use would be more practical than his frequent visits, but he dismissed my idea with imagined dangers. Their unfounded fears that I might knock someone out with the bucket and escape—as absurd as it sounds—led to the humiliating routine of awaiting a fucking permission to perform a basic bodily function, tarnishing my pride with each day.
Relying on someone else for my needs distorted time, making it feel like it flew longer than it should. Expecting helplessly felt like being a puppy waiting to be let go, stretching each minute into an unbearable eternity.
Some of my wounds have mended entirely, leaving only faint scars in their wake, while others remain raw, vulnerable to any rigid motion that might reopen them.
Ignoring my protesting bladder, I reach for a water bottle. However, I quickly reconsider and decide not to take it, as I look forward to being able to run, climb, and jump freely without having to hold anything in my hands. Carrying the bottle will be uncomfortable.
Exiting my room, I shut the door behind me, finding an empty corridor after Adam’s recent liberation. Beads of sweat form along my brow, spine, the dip between my breasts, and even my feet. Unwell and battling both cystitis and a creeping cold, I press on.
The freezing cold of the hundred-foot dungeon continues, with dampness covering everything. The flickering torches on the walls are the only thing that provides some warmth here.
Standing on my tiptoes and seizing one torch, I feel the heat emanate through me as the fiery glow dances in my grip, enveloping me in a comforting warmth.
“Okay. Where to?” I vocalize, surveying the empty corridors that extend in every direction—left, right, and ahead.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and raise my index finger. Reciting eeny, meeny, miny, moe, I slowly open my eyes to find my finger pointing toward the passageway on my right.
Maintaining a safe distance between my face and the torch, I press on, ignoring the insistent ache of my full bladder. Inside, I feel like I’m on fire, but outside, the frigid air assaults my skin like a myriad of icy needles.
As I delve further into the dimly lit area, a structure reminiscent of Adam’s former prison catches my eye. Rows of empty cages stretch out before me, urging me to explore each one. Inside, I find only harsh metal fixtures on the walls and chains hanging ominously in the empty space.
Jesus fucking Christ. It looks similar to Victorian-era prisons. The once-distant past, confined to history books, now confronts me with its stark reality in the present moment.
“Un-fucking-believable,” I whisper my disbelief as a feeble shield against encroaching terror.
Slightly starting to feel energized as sensation returns to my limbs, I pick up my pace to a brisk jog, driven by a sense of urgency. Without hesitation, I move forward until a distant commotion interrupts my focus.
Shit. Voices. Plural.
I tense, trying to locate the source of the sound, focusing my ear in its direction. Fortunately, they come from behind me, offering an opportunity to avoid detection, made easier by the lack of a solid floor—my steps silenced by the sand beneath me. Moving swiftly, the sudden darkness ahead signals a crucial moment, with two paths ahead to choose from.
Maybe this is the exact way out.
Despite my uncertainty, I cautiously step into the unseen expanse, feeling a sudden warmth enveloping me. It soothes and energizes me, almost as if pulling me closer with an invisible force. This familiar sensation, akin to the eerie presence I felt in my room last week, now beckons me again, mysterious and compelling.
In a surprising moment, a hand—likely a man’s—grasps my shoulder, causing me to startle and almost drop my torch. Despite the sand’s deceptive cover, hiding my movements, it also masks the presence of another, who now reveals himself with this sudden touch.
I spin around, coming face to face with a stranger, my nose almost touching his chest. I lift my eyes to meet Adam’s intense stare, his icy gaze burning with a rage that contrasts sharply with his previous weakened state in the cage.
“Going somewhere?” His voice is barely audible, lips pressed tight, his countenance marred by faint yet unmistakable remnants of violence—a split lip, dried blood on the nose and brow.
Attempting a response, words catch in my throat, my voice faltering. “I just—I—”
His grip on my shoulder asserts pressure, demanding clarity. “You what, Lilith? Want to run away?”
Shoving his hand away, a scowl of defiance creases my features. “Maybe I do. It’s not cool when you wait all day long for some asshole who will allow you to pee in the bucket, you know?”
He reacts with a derisive snort, finding amusement in my frustration. “You’re lucky, sweetheart. I was pissing in my pants seven days in a row. Do you want the same experience?”
“I don’t.”
“Then stop fucking running around. Go back to your room and wait for tomorrow,” he commands sternly.
Stepping away, I examine him closely. His outfit—a mix of garments from another time—includes a high-collared linen shirt, a vest, wool trousers pulled up high, and leather boots. Straight out of the 19th fucking century.
Who the fuck are these people?
“I’m escaping this shithole,” I state.
He scoffs. “You’re so eager to get your head on a stick, young lady. You’re coming with me.”
Retreating further, I wave the torch warningly. “The fuck I won’t. Take another step closer and I’ll set you on fire along with these old-fashioned fucking garments.”
Surprise flickers across his features, prompting a swift adjustment of his clothing. “Old-fashioned? Fear not. You’ll don similar garb once a part of our community.”
Jesus Christ. He even speaks like he’s from the 19th century.
Stunned into silence, I can’t muster a response. The idea is just too absurd to dwell on.
“What’s there?” I ask, gesturing toward the enigmatic source of energy—or maybe, a figment of my own imagination.
Adam momentarily shifts his gaze toward the source, a fleeting expression crossing his features before refocusing on me. “Nothing,” he mutters, bridging the gap between us to seize the torch from my grasp. “Come on.”
As I stand rooted in place, he clutches my hand with a force that elicits a pained whimper from me. Ignoring my objections, he tugs me forward, his body showing surprising strength as he pushes me ahead with unwavering resolve.
“Let me go!” I whisper-scream, swatting at his hands, but my efforts are futile against his deceptively frail yet strong grip.
“Why do you have to be this fucking difficult?” he spits, jolting me with a violent shake. “Do you need to get hurt to realize that you need to play by the rules?!”
Suddenly, he releases me from his grip, the unexpectedness causing me to fall onto the sand with a loud thud.
“What was that?” a voice nearby breaks the solitude, disturbingly intruding.
Fuck. Shit. I didn’t know there were others.
I lock eyes with a bewildered Adam—his disheveled locks cascading like unruly cobwebs across his brow, his countenance a picture of surprise. Evidently, he too, was unaware of the presence of somebody else in here. In a moment, he extinguishes the torch, plunging us into utter darkness.
“What the f—”
“Shhhh,” he cautions, assisting me to my feet and covering my mouth firmly. “Shut your mouth.”
Luck grants us concealment in this dark corner of the dungeon, hidden from view. Suddenly, a stranger appears in the faint torchlight of the corridor. He resembles Harold—bald, tall, emanating a dangerous aura like a poised viper ready to strike.
Enduring Adam’s hand pressed over my mouth, I commend myself for maintaining silence. Despite my compliance, a lingering sense of distrust lingers in Adam’s actions, evident in his reluctance to ease his grip.
Engulfed in an eerie hush broken solely by the gentle susurrus of Adam’s breath and mine, the faint crackle of flames not far away from us, and a haunting whistle stirring from the dungeon’s shadows, an unsettling stillness prevails.
This path may not be an escape, but there’s definitely something in there. Something I’m not sure I want to see.
After a minute that feels like forever, a man’s figure retreats, his departure signaling a release of tension. With a sigh of relief, Adam finally withdraws his hand from my mouth.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he whispers angrily, seizing my arm to propel us forward.
“I’m not into kidnapping people, locking them in the dungeon, and forcing them to participate in some sick games without even knowing the rules of it,” I retort through clenched teeth. “Sorry that I don’t want to be a part of your sick family.”
“Stupid girl, getting yourself in trouble. How many tricks do you plan on throwing at us until you finally understand that there’s no escape?”
