Chapter 3: The Lock

Adrian threw me into the suite so hard my shoulder clipped the doorframe. Bone met wood with a crack that echoed down my arm. I stumbled, caught myself on the bedpost, and tasted blood before I even hit the mattress.

The door slammed. The key turned.

"Take off your clothes," he said.

I spat on the carpet, a red glob landed an inch from his Italian leather shoe.

Adrian backhanded me, my head snapped right. My vision filled with sparks, before I could recover, his hand closed around my throat and drove me backward onto the bed, the canopy shook, Rose petals red, ridiculous, mocking rained down on my face.

"Last time I will ask nicely," he said. His breath was whiskey. "Clothes. Off."

I kneed him in the thigh, missed the groin by two inches, but the impact still buckled his leg, he snarled and punched my ribs, a short, sharp strike, something cracked. I gasped, sucking air that wouldn't come.

He tore my shirt, buttons popped like gunshots, I clawed his face. My nails caught the skin above his eyebrow and dragged down to his cheekbone. Four lines of blood welled instantly.

"You fucking bitch…." He grabbed my wrist, twisted, the joint screamed, i bit his forearm, hard. My teeth sank into muscle.

He roared and slammed my head against the headboard, once, twice, the room spun.

I went limp about to surrender.

He climbed on top of me, knees pinning my hips, one hand fumbling with his belt, he other wiping blood from his cheek, he was hard and heavy and reeking of alcohol.

Then it happened, he swayed, his eyes rolled back, the whiskey finally hit his bloodstream like a freight train, he collapsed sideways, half on me, half on the mattress, dead weight.

I shoved him, he rolled off and hit the floor with a thud that shook the nightstand, a glass of water toppled and shattered.

I counted his breaths, one, two, three, ragged, deep, out cold.

I slid off the bed, my ribs sang with every movement, my lip was split. My throat burned where his fingers had been. I checked my wrist, it moved, but the tendons felt stretched, angry.

I knelt beside him, searched his pockets.

Key, phone, flask.

I took the key, unlocked the door, cracked it open.

The hallway was empty and dark, I slipped out.

The mansion was a labyrinth of marble and picture s, I moved on bare feet, silent, hugging the wall. Every doorway was a possibility of being caught, every portrait seemed to watch me with painted eyes.

I passed a gallery of family photos, Adrian as a boy, stern, unsmiling, beside him, a woman with his green eyes and a smile like a knife, Mrs. Cross.

At the end of the hall, a door stood ajar, light spilled out, a study, i ducked inside.

A mahogany desk dominated the center, papers were scattered across it like fallen leaves. I moved to the desk, scanning for maybe a blue print of the mansion then I saw it.

A contract, thick, bound in blue leather.

I flipped it open.

MERGER AGREEMENT: CROSS HOLDINGS & VOSS INDUSTRIES

My name leaped off the page.

Elena Voss, designated spousal asset, to be transferred upon consummation and legal registration of marriage. Annulment prior to twelve-month term incurs penalty of 50,000,000 payable to originating family.

I read it again.

Asset, transferred, penalty.

I wasn't a bride, i was just part of another deal for Father, sold like a dog.

My hands shook, i kept reading.

Clause 14-B: In the event of spousal incapacitation or refusal, medical intervention may be authorized by party A (Cross Holdings) to ensure contractual fulfillment, medical intervention.

They'd planned for me to fight, they'd planned for me to run, they had a clause for drugging me if necessary.

I dropped the contract, I couldn't believe what I was reading, the terms and conditions, with no regards for me in any way.

A phone sat on the desk, a landline, i lifted the receiver.

Dead.

Of course it was dead.

Footsteps in the hallway, two sets, approaching.

I dove behind the door, pressed my back to the wall, held my breath.

The door opened.

Mrs. Cross swept in, silver hair gleaming in the lamplight, behind her, a guard, not like that of Father's men, bigger, meaner, a scar ran from his left ear to his jaw.

"The sister calls at eight," Mrs. Cross said, she moved to the desk and straightened the contract I'd disturbed. "Make sure the basement camera captures the correct angle. I want distress, not theater, her father will need convincing footage for the press."

"Yes, ma'am," the guard said.

"And the girl?"

"Still in the suite, ma'am. Mr. Adrian is... finishing the registration."

Mrs. Cross smiled, it was a terrible thing. "Good. By morning, the consummation will be documented, the marriage indissoluble, then we can dispose of her however suits us. A sanitarium, perhaps or an accident, Voss won't care. He's already been paid."

They turned to leave, my foot brushed the baseboard, a whisper of sound.

Mrs. Cross froze, did I just hear something or was it my imagination, check the room, the guard turned.

I lunged, I bolted for the window, he caught my arm before I took three steps, his grip was strong. I twisted and drove my elbow into his throat, he gagged but held on, i kicked his knee, it buckled, he went down, dragging me with him.

I scrambled free, Mrs. Cross stood in the doorway. She didn't shout, didn't call for help, she simply stepped forward and slapped me.

The impact snapped my head sideways, my already-split lip reopened, blood sprayed across her silk blouse.

"You stupid, stupid girl," she said, her voice was calm but cold. "Did you think we wouldn't watch every door? Every window?"

I wiped blood from my chin. "I heard you, the basement, the camera, you're framing me."

She smiled. "Framing implies you're innocent. You're not innocent, Elena. You're just the one who got caught."

She nodded to the guard, he rose, rubbing his throat, eyes murderous.

"Take her back," Mrs. Cross said. "Tie her to the bedpost, my son will wake soon and when he does, I want her exactly where she belongs, under him, under us."

The guard grabbed my hair, yanked, i bit back a scream.

They dragged me through the mansion, my bare feet left streaks on the marble, up the stairs, down the hall, to the white door.

The bridal suite, Adrian was still on the floor where I'd left him, snoring softly, the blood from his cheek had dried in rust-colored lines.

The guard threw me onto the bed, he produced silk neckties, Adrian's, from the closet and bound my wrists to the bedposts, the fabric bit into my skin, i pulled, the knots tightened.

Mrs. Cross stood in the doorway, she looked at her son on the floor. At me, spread and bound on the bed. At the blood on the sheets.

"Perfect," she said.

She turned to the guard. "Wake him."

The guard kicked Adrian's ribs, not gently. "Sir. Mr. Cross."

Adrian groaned, rolled over, his eyes fluttered open.

For a moment, he was disoriented, confused, he touched his head, then his cheek, then the bandage he'd wrapped around his bitten forearm.

He sat up slowly, looked at the bed, at me.

His eyes cleared, the whiskey was burning off.

"Elena," he said.

He stood, straightened his shirt, walked to the bed.

"You ran," he said, he touched my bruised cheek. His thumb traced the swelling. "You fought. You bit me." He held up his injured arm. "And then you tried to escape."

He leaned down, his face was inches from mine. I could see every lash, every pore, the green eyes that had been glassy before were now clear as jade.

His mother called him for a minute and whisper something to him.

"My mother tells me you were conspiring with your sister," he said. "Planning to steal the marriage, then destroy me from the inside."

"That's a lie," I said. "Your mother is setting me up. She has cameras in the basement, she's…."

He slapped me, bot a backhand, an open palm, full force, my head rang against the headboard.

"Don't speak her name," he said. "Don't ever speak against my mother."

He straightened, unbuckled his belt.

"You wanted to play games," he said. "Fine. We'll play."

He pulled the belt free, doubled it in his hand.

"By morning," he said, " You'll wish you'd never been born."