Hope Restrained (Estate Series) (21 page)

She didn’t react to him. Bile spiked up her throat that she
would swallow back down refusing to give him any reaction to what he was doing.
Eventually he pulled out, lifting her hips with one hand before shoving himself
into her ass to finish himself off. She absorbed the pain, allowed the
endorphins to wash her into a numb place and to fan the flame of rage that was
building inside her. His other hand squeezed around her throat, and white noise
boomed in her head when he’d pinched the arteries and blocked blood flow to her
head. She struggled to stay conscious, coughing beneath his grip.

“… fucking your
girlfriend now …”

It was Patrick’s voice on the other side of the wall and the
man pulled out of her suddenly, but squeezed her neck tighter. She struggled
for breath, her arms and legs pulling against the chains that bound her. Her
vision tunneled, her body jerked over the wood, but her struggle was useless
and consciousness was lost.

His ribs were broken. Three men had held him, and the fourth
beat him with every available surface of his body, eventually moving on to
tools and heavy objects that now lay scattered across the room. He could feel
blood dripping thick and wet down the side of his head and the skin of his arms
felt like it had been shredded from the torture he’d endured.

He sat on the floor — his legs bent at the knees in
front of him, his head falling heavily against the wall at his back. Shattered,
splintered, broken and fractured, his body had been beaten, abused. Blood
choked out his lungs, crimson coughs bubbling from his lips. But, he wouldn’t
talk. Despite how they beat him, despite the chains that bound him, despite the
torment and suffering, the pain and the agony, he wouldn’t give them the
information they sought.

He knew they would kill him. They would toss his body aside
as nothing more than a useless carcass, not worthy of reverence of respect. He
didn’t care, couldn’t care because, despite the lies they spoke, he knew she
was gone.

Hope. A woman he never imagined to exist, her name was a
concept that was lost to the world in which he’d been raised. And just like the
concept, she couldn’t exist in this place, because there was no hope, no
redemption, no honor and no deliverance. There was nothing left but the obliteration
and annihilation of anything good. Morality didn’t exist and only pain
remained.

His eyes were heavy, his breathing slow and his body
protested the simple motion of his lungs expanding and contracting. He was left
lying in a puddle of his own blood and sweat.

Even more tortuous than their fists were the words — the
lies — that they spoke.

“She lives …”

It was impossible. He’d seen her eyes left empty and dull,
her body cut and broken, hanging from a wall. Her sister, the one thing she’d
cared to save, becoming the person who’d delivered the blows that took her
life.

He heard her scream, the memories — hazy and crude
— the drugs still working their way through is system delivering back
fragments of images, the spark of light off the chain, her tears that fell, the
blood that ran in rivulets down the scars across her body. She’d lost control
of herself, her body finding a release from the pain, her mind being torn apart
to take pleasure in the depraved act of the men that held her.

The scream echoed in his thoughts and his heart pounded to
hear it, blood curdling and strong.

“You’re screaming now,
bitch, aren’t you?”

The sound was muted, unreal. He never said that — Patrick
never said that. Hope had never given him what he wanted, but then …

The scream. Anguish and pain, heartache and loss, it went on
for what felt like forever and it tore at his heart. It couldn’t be real. She
never gave it to him. She fought until the end. Even when her body was forced
to act in opposition to her mind, when the one bit of light she had was used to
deliver her to darkness, she never gave in. But the scream he heard — whether
it was memory or reality — it was the sound of her soul shattering, of
her limits finally being pushed.

Xander’s blue eyes opened. Crusted blood blocked the clarity
of his vision and he reached up to wipe it from his face. His heart pounded
harder, his wounds aching under the sudden pressure pushing through his veins. The
wet trails that dripped along his skin, seeped harder and faster, the puddles
beneath him rippling from the drops falling from his skin.

“Show me how much you
like it, bitch! Fight against me now!”

Another muffled phrase and he shook his head to chase away
the confusion.

The scream again, louder — even louder and his fists
clenched, his jaw ticked, his entire body came alive to hear it. It had to be
impossible. It couldn’t be true.

The sound of a table moving, a rhythmic pounding against a
wall; he looked up.

“Fuck you, you sick
son of a bitch!”

His heart stopped, his entire body froze, but his spirit was
reborn. That sound — those words — it couldn’t be, but it was.

Hope still existed — she lived — and she was
fighting against the bastard still. How long had it been?

Chains shook when Xander moved his arms and legs and he felt
around his body. His guns had been stripped, every weapon removed and taken. He
slipped a finger along the inside of his belt and smiled to feel the thin bit
of steel that still remained hidden beneath the thick strap of leather. Hope’s
blade — the one she’d used to stab him when he’d first captured her. It
was a tiny, unnoticeable weapon. So easily concealed that even searched, they
hadn’t found it. She’d told him it was her favorite — a hidden surprise
that had saved her ass in countless fights and now, it remained tucked away and
within his reach.

He pulled the blade from beneath the belt, still listening
to her screams. Anger raced through his veins, feral rage exploding within his
heart and mind.

The pounding, it was angry and raw. The walls shook from the
other side, the guttural moans of one person satisfying every vile and depraved
urge that his bloodthirsty mind had dreamed up.

Pulling his hand over his body, forcing the broken bones to
still work within his fingers, he used the thin blade to pick at the locks on
his chains.

 
Click …

It released the metal shackle slipping from his wrist
— her screams driving him to keep going.

Click …
The second
shackle fell.

“
I’ll fuck you bloody
bitch — just how I know you like it!”

Xander’s eyes widened. His body shaking with unbridled fury.
She screamed again — this one punctuated by the shame of her orgasm. He
knew she absorbed it, gathering the energy inside her, combining it with years
of abuse, years of training, years of turbulent wrath. He worked faster at the
chains, the links clattering against each other, his body jumping when the
broken bones moved — but he wouldn’t stop.

It was faint when he heard it: men screaming, shouting and
arguing. He stopped for only a second and when the gunfire erupted, his breath
caught in his chest. Hope’s screams stopped and it was quiet for a moment.

And then hell broke loose.

Down, two stories below him, but so loud, it sounded like it
was in the hallway on the opposite side of the door: men dying, torn apart by
bullets and blades. Shot after shot after shot, guns were fired. Screams and
cries, madness and chaos.

Xander smiled.

A door opened and slammed closed on the other side of the
wall. Hurried and heavy, the fall of boots on the floor, running. The sound of
another door and the room was left in muted symphony of the war taking place
below him and laughter — Hope’s laughter. He laughed to hear it and worked
harder at the chains, desperate to free the shackles at his ankles. The blade
cut into the tips of his fingers, but he wouldn’t give up. He needed to reach
her. He needed to place his hands on her and find that the warrior was still
alive inside her.

Click …

Metal falling against the tiled floor, once more.

Footsteps up and down stairs, walls shaking from the bodies
hitting against them. They’d reached the second floor. He worked faster, blood
now dripping along the blade he used to pick the lock …

Click.

Relief flooded his body. He pushed up and fell back to the
floor. His body was weak, electric pain shooting along his nerves with his
movement, but he pushed up again until he was standing on unsteady legs. Using
the walls to support his weight, he moved through the room, reaching the door
and finding it unlocked. His breath rolled over his lips, hot and heavy, his
blood pounding through his head. A thundering rush of adrenaline finally
forcing its way through his body and he was out the door.

Hope laid on the table, chained down, the crimson drips
formed trails that slid alongside the links, which pooled and flooded the
ground below her. Death teased her, sitting closely, watching her, but not
approaching, refusing to grant her oblivion.

Her skin was scored, the cuts not deep enough to bleed her
out entirely. Wounds made to damage but not kill. She stared the beast down as
he hurt her — the blindfold removed when he’d returned. He wanted to see
her pain — her fear. She didn’t give it to him.

But, even in her abject refusal, he pulled her screams from
her body, bathed in the pleasure of a woman who couldn’t resist the bite. Her
body betrayed her, but her mind remained strong. She focused on his death, kept
the image of his body ripped apart and bloody in her mind. It pushed her
through the worst parts, created a barrier behind which she could escape his loathsome
amusement.

Her throat was raw and her muscles would twitch randomly
across her body. Waves of euphoria flowing through her, pouring over her,
delivering her to the darkness, were awakening the demon inside her. One focus
— one objective — she vowed to make his death slow.

She heard the gunshots, felt the tremors in the walls of the
house from a fight transpiring beneath her. Patrick face turned white when he
finally heard it as well — when he recognized the sounds of fighting. She
laughed when he ran, half in satisfaction, half from insanity; her laughter followed
him out of the room and down the hall where he ran scared from what was coming
into the house.

The door opened, the blinding light from the hallway pouring
in. A large silhouette broke through, bent over and practically dragging. She
couldn’t see his face. The skin around her eyes was swollen from where her
cheekbone had been broken. She blinked her eyes, forced them to acclimate to
the light. He stepped forward and the light from the candles reflected in his
eyes.

She couldn’t breathe suddenly, and her heart raced while her
entire body froze. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she pulled at her chains,
not because she sought freedom but because she was desperate to go to him
— to touch him — to know that it was possible that he still lived.

He reached her, his face bruised and bloody, his eyes as
swollen as hers. The warmth of his palm was immediately on her cheek and her
body shook violently with her sobs. Reality splintered again, but came back
into focus. The sounds beneath them disappeared, nothing existing outside of
the room. His touch was the only thing she could feel; each broken bone, each
slice across her skin, each and every wound silenced by the warmth of his hand.

“You’re not real. You can’t be real. I watched you die.” It
was a breathless whisper that pushed past the fire in her throat and over her
broken lips.

He grinned. “No, Sunshine. It’s you who’s not real.” The
candlelight caught a tear that ran down his cheek and she cried harder,
overtaken by emotions she never dreamed she could feel. He leaned down and
brushed his mouth over hers — the simple touch sending her spirit
soaring. Redemption was held in that kiss, a wish finally come true. Fate had
never been so kind and she smiled against his lips.

When he finally pulled away, he pulled something from his
sleeve and held it up. She grinned to see her blade held in his hand, the same
one she used to hurt him, the same one she’d demanded he carry on him when they
first walked into this nightmare.

“It’s very useful for picking locks.” He grinned back at
her.

One by one, he removed her chains and helped her sit up on
the table. He examined her wounds, ensuring himself that she would survive each
and every one. “Can you walk?”

Moving her arms and legs to see if they moved, she pushed
herself off the table, testing their strength. Her gold eyes met the deep blue
of his. “Yes.”

The sounds below them grew louder and she noticed the
satisfaction that flitted across Xander’s expression.

“Please tell me that the cavalry has arrived.”

He grabbed her, pulling her body against his. Looking down
at her, he responded, “It appears that Aaron has found us.”

A short burst of elated laughter escaped her. “It’s about
fucking time.”

She pushed away from him and turned to pick through the
knives and tools that only moments before had been used to torture her. Selecting
a few blades, she turned back to Xander. “We need to find Patrick. Aaron better
not kill him before I have the chance to do it myself.”

Xander chuckled. “If you’re intent on killing him, then you’ll
have to get to him before me.”

Her swollen eyes narrowed at his words, the skin on her face
protesting the motion. He laughed while reaching over his head and slowly
pulling the shirt from his body. With each movement he made, she saw him
grimace, pain obviously shooting like lightning through him.

“How badly are you hurt?” It was her turn to look over the
different bruises and wounds that covered his once perfect skin. Cuts ran
across the broad expanse of his chest and down along the muscles of his abdomen.
Bruising blossomed out over his ribs and swirled with angry green, red and blue
marks. She was surprised that he could still move with the injuries he’d
suffered.

“Bad, but I can still fight.” He held the shirt out to her. “Put
this on. It’s sweaty and bloody and nasty, but I can’t stand to let another man
see you.”

Taking the shirt from his hands, she pulled it over her
body. “And here I thought you were more concerned about allowing me my modesty.”

He smirked. “Modesty is the last thing a woman like you
worries about. I’m not a fool.” He leaned over and kissed her again. “However,
I don’t have time to stab every man’s eyes out who looks at you when we cut
through the crowd.”

The walls shook again, more footsteps climbing the third
flight of stairs. Xander turned his head towards the sound. “We have company.”

They could hear the doors being thrown open as the men
poured down the halls. Gunfire still punctured the air, the sound of metal
against metal, the rattle of men choking on their own blood. The door opened
and Hope readied the blades in her hand, her body falling into a fighting
stance despite her injuries.

“Aaron! He’s in here!”

Their heads swiveled in the direction of the door to see
Aaron stalk in, his expression blank and unreadable. He stilled when he entered
the room and Hope noticed the blood that ran over his face, dripped from his
hair; the blades held in his hands that were stained in a glistening crimson.

Nobody spoke, three people staring at each other as if they
were ghosts. Suddenly, Aaron’s feet moved, heavy boots falling across the tiled
floor and his arms surrounded Xander, pulling his friend into an embrace that
was flooded with relief and concern. Xander flinched from the pain and Aaron
released him immediately, holding him by the shoulders looking over the wounds
that Hope had earlier examined. “Can you fight?”

Xander nodded, his voice deep and gritty when he responded, “You
better fucking believe it.”

The corner of Aaron’s lip turned up and he pulled a gun from
the back of his pants. Handing it to Xander, he said, “Well, then — let’s
do this.”

Aaron turned to walk out the door and Hope yelled after him,
“If you find Patrick, don’t you dare fucking kill him. That asshole is mine.”

Aaron looked over his shoulder and smiled. “I’ll be sure to
let my men know.”

Surprise overtook her. Xander grabbed her hand and squeezed
it to get her to look at him. “Stay at my back.”

She squeezed his hand in return. “No, you stay at mine.”

Entering the halls, Hope allowed the numbness to cover her,
pulling from the pain of each injury on her body, she rushed into the fray,
twisting and weaving through the men, her blade catching their throats or
burying itself in their hearts. The blood sprayed from their bodies, spreading
across her skin, bathing her in vengeance and reprieve. She came alive, each
small movement of her body an instinct to survive and to destroy. She could
feel Xander behind her, could hear the sickening crunch of their bodies broken
by his fists. The sound of gunfire blasted behind her and she felt his back
against hers, men falling to the floor around them as they turned.

The strong iron scent of death and destruction wafted around
her, men bleeding out and writhing on the floor. She’d become a machine as she
cut threw them, her eyes open and searching for the one man she wanted most of
all.

When they’d cleared the hallway, Hope and Xander followed
Aaron and his men down the stairwells, throwing open doors and tearing apart
any man they found inside. Hope searched the faces of the dead, not recognizing
most of them. Her body was tired and the pain became too much as she continued
to move. Xander dragged at her side, and when enough of Patrick’s men had been
slaughtered, Aaron and his team took over, allowing Hope and Xander to follow
behind. They held onto each other providing support when the other became too
weak to move forward. If not for her rage, she wouldn’t be able to walk, but
she had to find the sick and depraved bastard who’d enslaved her sister and who
sliced up Hope’s body while he raped her.

Reaching the bottom floor, the house had become eerily
quiet. Dead bodies littered the floors and Hope had to step over them and
between them to look at each face and determine that Patrick was not amongst
them.

Calling out to Aaron and his men, she asked, “Have you found
my sister? Any of the women that they held?”

Aaron looked over at her from where he knelt down,
graciously ending the life of some poor bastard whose stomach had been split
open in the fight. “No.

Xander commented, “You need to check the basement. Most of
the captives were held there. From what I saw when we arrived, not many of them
will be alive.”

Aaron nodded and stood up. Looking at Jason, he motioned
towards the back of the house that led into the dark and dank basement beneath.
Jason followed without question, but both men stopped suddenly when Hope
shouted, “Wait!”

Their heads swiveled in her direction, watching as she stood
up and walked over to join them. “If there are men hiding downstairs, can I
trust you two to kill them and watch our backs while Xander and I search for
the women?”

Aaron’s brow arched over his eye and he smirked. “You are
either very brave or very stupid for the way you think you can speak to me.”

She shrugged. “You’re not royalty.”

Xander grabbed her arm and forced her to step back from
Aaron and Jason. “You’ll have to excuse her, she’s had a bad couple of days.”

Aaron’s blinked.

Xander grimaced. “Let’s go finish this.” His fingers dug
into her skin, holding her still to allow Jason and Aaron to enter the room
first. She heard fighting almost immediately when they passed the doors.

She attempted to move forward but Xander pulled her away
from the door. “I want to know if you’re ready for what we might find in there.
I know your sister was kept in one of the smaller rooms downstairs. It has to
have been two days since …” His expression fell and it was obvious to Hope that
he was remembering what had occurred when they arrived.

She nodded her head, swallowing down the lump in her throat
that had formed from her fear. He kissed her on the forehead and placed an arm
around her shoulders, his chest glistening with sweat. “After you.”

She moved forward and after descending the stairs, she
stepped over the bodies of the guards that Aaron and Jason had killed when they’d
entered. Hope looked down at their faces, once again searching for one
particular man.

“Hope. Get in here!”

~
   
~
   
~

Xander moved behind Hope towards a small room to their
right. He recognized the room instantly as the one they’d led her sister out of
earlier. Aaron and Jason stood by the door and Hope ran inside, immediately
shouting her sister’s name when she found her on the floor.

“Honor?” Her voice fractured when she spoke her name.

Xander moved to kneel down beside her, helping Hope lift her
body and cradle her. He was still surprised at how identical the two women
were. It looked as if Hope held her own broken and spent body in her arms.

“Honor?” Tears ran in streams down her face. “Baby, wake up.
I’m here Honor, please wake up.” Hope’s body trembled over her sister and
Xander had to shake away how familiar the scene was that played out before him.
Images of Joseph on that stage and Emory taking his own sister from his mother’s
arms — a quick snap and the baby he’d only known for a few months, was
gone forever.

“Honor …” Hope smoothed her palm down her sister’s face, and
when Honor blinked her eyes open for a split second, Hope’s expression changed
from despair to a hesitant smile. “Hey, little sister, wake up, I’m here.”

The way Hope held Honor was tender and loving. Xander sat
back, ready to help them in any way, but also not wanting to get in the way of
them. He feared Honor’s reaction to the three men in the room when she regained
full consciousness. She smiled brighter when Honor stirred and moved.

“My angel …”

Xander flinched back at the reaction on Hope’s face to Honor’s
weak words. They were spoken out of confusion and it appeared Honor didn’t
understand what was going on around her. Hope shook her gently, attempting to
rouse her fully. Honor’s eyes closed, her body going limp in Hope’s arms, and
Hope immediately moved to check her pulse.

“She’s gone back to sleep. She’s breathing and her pulse is
strong.” Her shoulders dropped in relief and she continued to hug her sister to
her body.

“Do you want Jason to carry her upstairs for you?”

Hope turned to Aaron, distrust flickering across her
expression, but only for a brief moment. Aaron held up his hands in mock
surrender, “I only ask because Xander and you are injured, it will be difficult
to carry her yourself.”