Mind of the Phoenix, page 23
“I’d fuck you.”
“No, thanks,” I grind out. “You’re not my type.”
“Oh, come on,” he says teasingly. “What happened to that day when I watched you bathe? I saw the way you were looking at me. You wanted me then.” His eyes narrow in malice. “Or was that a lie?”
Yes, it was, you sick bastard. But I only think the answer, rather than say it out loud. Granted, I had been flirtatious, luring him with my breasts, but it had all been for an entirely different kind of seduction. I had wanted to prove to him that he wasn’t as in control as he thought, but the detective had interfered before either one of us could assert our authority over the other.
“I bet the detective is your type,” he taunts, his teasing nature back on. “You like them tall and scrawny?”
The detective is tall, but he’s hardly scrawny. The night of Mr. Anderson’s private event, I had run my hand down the length of Keenan’s chest and felt muscle beneath the layer of clothing. He may not be the bulky mass that is Constable Bradford, but he is far from being skinny. The constable is again just trying to goad me into a reaction, so I keep my mouth clamped shut and hope that I have the will to remain silent.
“You know, you shouldn’t tease people, but I suppose that can’t be helped.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand, suddenly furious.
“You’re a concubine, Moira,” he explains. “Isn’t that what they teach you at the pleasure house, that and how to be submissive and–”
“Shut up,” I snarl, my resolve to ignore him quickly vanishing in the heat of my anger.
“What’s the matter?” he says, feigning concern. “Have I touched a sore spot?”
No, no… I continue walking and try to ignore him. If I can just reach the hotel, then he’ll leave me. It is so far away with this disgusting man beside me, and I contemplate running toward the safety of my room. But I immediately reject that idea, because it will only prove to him that I am weak and afraid, which is exactly what he wants. I can sense that he feeds off of fear, and, if I continue to act confident, his arrogance will flounder.
“Is that what you’re doing with the detective? Teasing him?” He continues even though I don’t respond. “I suppose he enjoys it. The man is unusual, after all.”
Ignore him, ignore him, ignore him…
“You know, I can show you a good time,” he says quietly, his hand brushing my cheek.
I immediately cringe away from him, adrenaline making me want to run. It wasn’t what he said that bothered me, but rather the thoughts that trickled through his touch. He wants me, wanted me since the first day we had met, but this time he’s not going to let anyone interfere. He plans to take me by force, and I realize that turns him on. He has every intention of raping me, just like the other women…
And then it hits me like the crack of a whip breaking my skin. I look into his eyes, gleaming with malicious intent, and know for certain that I’m correct. He’s the one who killed Ginny Parker and Rebekah Gray. I glance at the scratch marking his neck, and it dawns on me that there was never any cat. The feisty cat he had tried to pet had been Rebekah Gray all along, which explains why he had found the whole conversation amusing. I begin to panic, because now I know for certain that I don’t want to be near this man. If I run, he’ll chase me and perhaps shoot me. He’ll tell everyone that I tried to escape, and then no one would believe me. But if I allow him to escort me to my room, I will be raped and most likely killed.
No, no… I take a steadying breath as I continue to walk, ignoring the way he is eyeing me. I can do this. Should I let her out? No, that’s not an option. She’ll just kill him, and then I’ll be back in prison. I can persuade him once we’re alone, and then we’ll see who’s in control. Does he know I have guessed that he’s the killer? When I glance at him sideways, I see that he does suspect, and that the idea turns him on even more. I quickly look away and focus on a plan.
The moment we enter the hotel, I immediately pierce through the mental barriers of the hotel clerk at the desk. The man looks up at me abruptly, but doesn’t say anything. I put a lot of force to plant a seed of persuasion in his mind.
Go to the police station right now and find Detective Keenan Edwards. Tell him–
“Come along,” says Constable Bradford, yanking me toward the stairs.
My concentration shatters and I lose my hold on the hotel clerk’s mind. I glance back and find him staring at me in confusion, but the persuasion quickly takes hold in his mind. He moves toward the exit, and I only hope that the detective will understand what I had been trying to say. I’m pulled along up the stairs, Constable Bradford’s fingers digging painfully into my arm. I have to calm my breathing and remind myself that I’m not powerless. It’s a hard thing to do when you’re faced with someone who can clearly throw you around like a doll. I’m brutally reminded of my fragile feminine form, and that his is all hard muscle.
He opens the door and releases me. I step into the room and prepare myself to break through his mental barriers. I’ll have to do it quickly, because as soon as he realizes I’m in his mind he’ll use physical force on me. I have to buy myself time so that I can use persuasion on him, or until the detective barges in. Slowly, I turn to face him and find myself staring down the barrel of a revolver. Damn, I had forgotten about the weapon.
“Scream and I’ll shoot you.”
“What?” I tease, trying to buy time. “You’re just going to kill me, constable?”
“Yes.” That venomous smile returns, twisting his face in a menacing way. “But first, I plan to take my pleasure that you owe me.”
“I don’t owe you anything!”
Instead of responding to my comment, he says in an authoritative voice, “Take off your clothes.”
“How are you going to explain this to the detective or the Chief?”
He chuckles darkly. “Easy, I’ll just say that you tried to escape and that I was left with no choice but to kill you.”
I glower at him, because his plan does sound easy. I don’t doubt for one second that everyone at the police station would believe him. According to them, I’m just a worthless whore and an empath who murdered her last master. No one would think otherwise when the constable tells them that I had tried to escape. In fact, the detective himself has accused me plenty of times of having it in my mind to flee before the case is solved. Would he doubt for one minute the constable’s story, or would he accept it without hesitation? As much as I would like to believe that maybe I had begun to earn his trust and that something was sparking between us, I know that his clockwork mind would take the most believable explanation. And what was more believable, that a committed slave would try to escape or that a respected constable of the law was responsible for raping and murdering two women and had been about to do the same to me?
Yes, easy sums it up very nicely.
“Take off your clothes, Moira.”
I obey, only because perhaps if he’s preoccupied with staring at my body, I can sneakily enter his mind. I languidly take off my skirt and then my blouse. His eyes slither away from my face and absorb the length of my body that is barely covered in just my chemise and corset. He’s visibly turned on, and I decide that now is my chance. I creep my way toward his mental barriers and carefully brush them aside. I make sure not to touch anything because that would only alert him to my presence. His eyes narrow as if he feels something, and I immediately pause.
Suddenly, I’m unceremoniously turned around with his hand clamped over my mouth and the cold metal of the revolver pressed against my neck.
“Continue to move and I will shoot you,” he snarls into my ear.
I’m done with sneakiness, no longer caring if he senses me in his mind. I try to circumvent his emotions and thoughts, but they flood into me like a torrential wave. It takes a lot of effort for me not to pull away from his mind in revulsion and hold my ground. So much desire, the kind that makes your skin crawl and your bones rattle. It’s not the sensual desire I had seen exchanged between Rachel and Constable Evans; it’s not even the careless need with which Daniel had taken Rachel. Nor is it the sadistic battle of control that turns Mr. Anderson on, even though it’s precariously close. No, it’s something worse. It’s the kind of desire that demands, takes, and kills. With the detective, I had feared my desire because when your heart is on the line every single touch can become lethal. But with Constable Bradford, I know that with every stroke I become increasingly closer to actual death. He will rape me and then kill me. There is no question about either thought.
“Does it turn you on to be inside my mind while I rape you?” His warm breath is against my skin, begging me to flee. He wants me to see his dark thoughts; it turns him on.
He doesn’t know that I’m capable of persuasion; he thinks I’m just a whore, thinks that I’m powerless against him like Ginny and Rebekah had been. And physically, he’s correct. I force my way further into his defences and begin to place a seed of persuasion. I can’t speak because he’s covering my mouth, so I say it mentally like I had with the hotel clerk and just hope that it works.
Let go of me!
He immediately releases me and I turn around, prepared to plant another seed. But before I can persuade him further, he focuses on his memories, so that I’m overwhelmed with thoughts and images. I see a young woman beneath me; she’s crying as I continue to force my way inside her. I don’t want to see this, especially not through his perspective. I can feel his lust, his perverted pleasure. I hate it, but I can’t escape. The scene quickly changes to reveal another face, and my stomach turns with the threat of vomit close to my throat. The detective was correct in his assumption that the man who killed Ginny and Rebekah was no stranger to rape. Then, the scene shifts to reveal Ginny Parker. He wanted her as he watched her serve the other patrons of the pub, but he couldn’t act with Constable Smith present. So they had left the pub, and he had come back later when her shift was over. She had tried to evade his advances, knowing that he was a constable of the law, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
I need to get out of his mind, but the images continue to flood my senses. I hear Ginny’s cries, feel her skin beneath me, and hear the thoughts that run through Constable Bradford’s mind. But then something changes. He’s no longer satisfied with taking her by force; he wants more. I decide that I will relish watching this man hang, seeing the life vanish from those cruel eyes.
He shoves me onto the bed while my mind is overwhelmed with a new memory. I see Rebekah, but this time he doesn’t get what he wants so easily. She manages to fight him off and tries to flee, but, just like in her afterimage, he catches up to her and hits her with the end of his revolver. It’s not as satisfying for him, because she isn’t conscious to watch him. And then I decide that I will kill this man myself.
The images subside, and I finally come back to myself to find him lying on top of me. I immediately begin to panic. It’s horrible to feel so powerless. Outside of the hotel, I had managed to convince myself that I would react and not allow this man to control me. But thinking about it is completely different from acting on it in the moment. Earlier the revolver had momentarily rendered me frozen with the knowledge that if I moved he might pull the trigger, and now I find myself abandoning reason and trying to fight him off. It is a futile attempt, because he has both weight and muscle against me.
“I’m going to enjoy killing you, whore,” he sneers into my ear. “Just like I enjoyed killing those other two bitches.”
He unbuttons his pants and I try to squirm further up. My hand hits something in my attempt to break free, and a cry of relief echoes in my head. It’s his revolver. The bastard had abandoned his weapon—perhaps thinking that he no longer needed it. I reach for it, but then my breath is violently cut off by the tight squeeze of his fingers around my throat. Now that I’m incapable of fighting him off, I remember that I can persuade him. I’m angry with myself for not doing it earlier, but there’s no time to wallow in my thoughts. I push through his barriers and force the persuasion into his mind.
Let go!
He releases me at the same time that my hand closes around the revolver. I turn to raise the weapon at him, with every intention of shooting. I will not feel fear or regret because this man deserves neither emotion. I suddenly realize that I have never used a revolver before, and I hope it’s as simple as pulling the trigger and hitting your mark. I decide there is no other option other than to try, and I instinctively shoot. The bullet embeds itself somewhere in his shoulder, and despite the crimson stain blossoming on his shirt I know I’ve missed his heart. His confusion and pain are quickly replaced with anger, and I feel his thick fingers close around my throat once more. As the air quickly escapes my lungs, I’m left with one prevailing thought: one of us is going to die, and it won’t be me.
18
Just when I’m close to shooting once more, I hear someone say, “Release her, Constable Bradford. Now.”
The man’s brown eyes focus on me, and, even though they still contain unbridled hate, they’re no longer murderous. Within a second, his hands release me and he slowly rises to meet the detective’s gaze. The left side of his shirt is covered in blood and his pants are still unbuttoned, but neither fact seems to bother him. He lifts up his hands as if in surrender, and that’s when I realize that the detective has his revolver pointed at the constable. Yet Constable Bradford isn’t worried, because he has a plan—one that will paint me as the guilty one. He will tell Keenan that I tried to escape, and then I’ll be executed because no one will believe me. I sit up and tentatively touch my bruised neck, my other hand still tightly grasping the revolver. Could I threaten them both and try to escape?
“Thank God you’re here, detective,” says Constable Bradford, feigning relief. “The concubine tried to escape. I’m lucky I–”
“Why are your pants undone, constable?” asks the detective coolly, his revolver still aimed at the other man.
“What?” Constable Bradford looks down in momentary confusion, but quickly recovers. “She tried to seduce me, sir. That’s when she grabbed for my gun.”
I grit my teeth at the sound of the lie, but remain silent. There’s probably no point in trying to deny the constable’s story, especially since Keenan had walked in on a very similar scene many days ago in the bathroom.
“What’s going on, detective?” asks Rick, who has appeared behind him along with several other constables. Damn. Threatening Keenan would have been difficult, but threatening five men of the law is just impossible. Still, my grasp on the revolver tightens.
“The detective saved my life,” says Constable Bradford, buttoning his pants. “I would have been a dead man had he not barged in.”
God, is that a smirk of satisfaction on his face? Still, beneath that smile I can feel his anger. He’s annoyed with the unexpected intrusion and, with the wound I inflicted on him, I know it won’t be long before he makes another attempt to kill me. He thinks that next time I won’t survive, but he’s wrong. Next time, I won’t be caught off guard, nor will I be foolish with my use of persuasion. There are many things that I could have done differently, and they would have all resulted in the same outcome: me back in prison.
Rick’s eyes immediately fall on me, but they don’t contain the blatant accusation that I see in the other two constables behind him. My chest tightens at the knowledge that at least someone doubts Constable Bradford’s story. Too bad it won’t save me.
“Moira, give the revolver to Constable Jamieson,” says the detective in a casual tone, though the command in the words is unmistakable.
I’ve been very careful to avoid his gaze since the moment he entered the room, but now I look up at him defiantly. “No.”
I see a flicker of annoyance in those green eyes before it disappears in that neutral mask of his. “Moira–”
“I wasn’t trying to escape!” I shout, rising from the bed. His calm exterior infuriates me and has made me blurt out. “This sick bastard is lying. He–”
“Give me the revolver,” he demands, his patience gone.
“No.” I point the weapon once again at Constable Bradford and try to ignore the fact that my heart is galloping at an alarming rate. “If I die, then he dies as well.”
I hear the detective sigh in exasperation as the other two constables draw their weapons on me. Rick continues to glance between me and the detective. It’s obvious that the only person who might possibly believe me is Constable Jamieson, so I’m as good as dead anyway. I have no desire to crawl back into the underground prison just to be executed days later in front of a hateful crowd, nor do I have any intention of letting Constable Bradford get away with his crimes. If the detective and the rest of the police won’t carry out justice for Ginny and Rebekah, then I will. But this time I promise I won’t miss his heart. My resolve deepens as the bastard gives me a victorious grin. I give him a look that promises he won’t be smiling for long.
“Fine, Moira, we’ll do it your way,” says the detective reluctantly. “Constables, detain Anthony Bradford.”
“What?” blurts Constable Bradford, his previous rage returning. And I have to admit that even I’m confused by the detective’s words. “Don’t you mean to detain her?”
“Detective?” questions one of the constables in confusion.
“I said detain Anthony Bradford now,” he demands once more, and the constables quickly approach the other man.
Constable Bradford struggles against them, but doesn’t resist when they handcuff him. “You’re making a mistake, detective.”
“I don’t think so,” says Keenan, as he returns his revolver to the inside of his jacket. “Constables, escort Anthony back to the underground prison. I’ll be there shortly.”
