Chapter 13: Bianca - Ruin - Change

Bianca
Ruin

* * *

“How are you doing?” Bryce had arrived earlier with Uncle Gregory, and once Damen, Titus and I pulled in, he barely left my side. Staying with me as the other three men carried on in low voices some feet away.

But instead of being annoyed, I was thankful for his presence. It’d been hard to concentrate on anything much since the first bend I’d recognized, and now that I stood outside of the building that had been my hell on earth for some years, I could barely breathe.

I wrapped my arms tighter around my stomach, but this time it brought me no measure of comfort.

The house might have been ruined, but the land was the same, as was the forest. And my ears buzzed with the howling echo of the hunt.

Bryce touched my arm. “Bianca?”

I shook my head, mentally grasping at the fraying edges of my composure. I couldn’t give in now; it would only prove to the others that I was weak.

And I couldn’t be weak anymore.

This wasn’t like the past, when I first escaped and stern-looking men in black suits questioned me in almost-empty rooms. Dr. Kohler had put a stop to that fairly quickly, but things were different now.

Back then, they said I needed to talk. They wanted details.

I couldn’t do that.

Just like I could never talk to Dr. Kohler.

I knew it’d be one of those sessions before she even said a word. It was during those times she looked especially tired, and she’d set her papers to the side before she kneeled on the floor in front of me.

I hated that sad face of hers. Though, looking back, I wasn’t certain if it was because she was pitying me or if I was afraid of the conversation.

I never considered myself to be a prideful person—but maybe it was a bit of both.

“Bianca.” She’d say my name before anything else. Her stress pressed in around me, making it hard to breathe. Because whether I trusted her or not, she’d come to be a source of solidity for me. “Can we talk about Mr. Richards today?”

The question always hit me like a ton of bricks, as did the follow-ups: “What did you do every day? Where did you sleep? Did anyone ever hurt you?”

I couldn’t answer—I could never do anything other than stare at her, unable to move under the weight of her doe-like eyes. Sometimes she’d offer me dolls to play with, but I couldn’t bring myself to touch them. It was the two of us, alone in her cluttered office, and there was no escape. And I suffocated, until she’d finally sigh. She’d reach for me then, only a quick pet on the arm, and the fear that’d left me tongue-tied would vanish.

By the time I felt normal again, we’d already moved on to other topics.

Talking—even thinking—about Eric Richards had been impossible.

But now things were different.

“I-I think I’m o-okay.” My face grew hot as I stuttered despite my conviction.

“Are you sure?” Bryce stepped closer to me, and his arm brushed over mine. “You don’t have to do this. I’ll take you out for ice-cream right now if—”

“Can we not?” I interrupted, focusing on the crumbling frame of the building some feet away.

My stomach cramped as my attention lingered on the right side of the house.

The kitchen. The refrigerator and oven still stood; I could glimpse them through the missing planks. However, they’d never be used again.

“Well, can I still take you anyway?” Bryce asked. “No pretenses, just so we can get to know each other?”

I gasped, the nightmare of my past momentarily forgotten. “What?”

My mouth was still open, and I remained unable to shut it, before, finally, I shoved my gloved hands in my pockets, and tore my gaze from his first. I’d let him win this time—I didn’t have the energy to rise to his challenge right now.

The silly thing, though, was that it didn’t feel like I’d lost.

“Okay,” I muttered, stepping toward the house. “I’m sorry, by the way.”

I’d forgotten to mention this during our last conversation.

“What?” Why did he have to sound so shocked? He fell into step beside me. “About—”

I hunched my shoulders against the cold breeze but did not bother to adjust my scarf. “You were right the whole time. I did have to see Dr. Kohler.”

Despite how it’d happened and the uncertainty of what I’d been told and what the future might bring, I did feel better after going to the hospital. Somewhat speaking to an actual medical professional about my concerns alleviated a lot of anxiety I’d been harboring since puberty.

Bryce grabbed my hand, pulling me to a stop. He stepped in front of me, but I refused to raise my eyes past his chest. “Is there something wrong?”

“It’ll be fine.” Eventually, right?

I looked back at the house, and the corners of my vision faltered. Wasn’t I making progress? I should be making progress.

It was just a building. I could keep things factual and without emotion. It’d been over ten years, and no one had lived here for quite some time. The past was in the past.

And then… there was Titus and Damen, with Uncle Gregory in tow.

I wasn’t alone anymore.

Damen pushed past the others, elbowing Bryce out of the way. He hooked his finger under my chin, raising my face toward his. “Baby, before we start, I want you to know you’re not being pressured to do anything. Don’t say a word if you don’t want to.”

I nodded. “It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” he asked again. “You look worse than normal.”

I frowned at him. That was certainly not the way to a woman’s heart.

His eyes widened a fraction of an inch, and when he spoke next the confidence had fallen and his expression became sheepish. “Not that you don’t always look beautiful. It’s just that—”

“It’s fine,” I repeated once more, this time for Damen’s sake. I stepped back from him, lightly slapping at his hands. “Let’s just get this over with.”

My breath was heavy as I pushed past the others and approached the small concrete patio. It’d never been much of a patio. There’d never been an awning to shade us during the hot summer days, or the rain, as we’d waited here just to be let into the house.

“My God,” Bryce was hissing to Damen, but not low enough for me not to hear. “What is wrong with you? You’re getting worse. Don’t tell me that not being swooned over is affecting your vocabulary.”

Damen made a low sound—a retort ready—but I pointed to the stairs. “This is the only entrance we were allowed to use.” My nerves had vanished—only a strange, hollow numbness remaining. My voice was surprisingly steady. “Mr. Richards wouldn’t let us near the front door.”

The lightened mood dropped instantly. Damen stepped to my right, and Titus to my left. Somewhere behind me, I could feel Bryce and Uncle Gregory’s stares.

“We?” Damen asked.

I hugged myself as a familiar warning rang in the back of my head. Dr. Kohler had tried to have this conversation with me what felt like a million times. And with her, I froze. My thoughts would be lost in the horrors of my memories, and my imagination had been left to fill in the rest.

What exactly had the layout been? I could only remember bits and pieces—unsure of what was reality and what I might have dreamed. There were gaps in my memories, and a cloud covered my thoughts until I wasn’t certain of my own senses.

But here, with the remains of my old home in front of me, things were different. My fingers twitched, digging into the space between my waist and elbows. This had been real. The layout was there, and I could almost feel the splintering wood of a roughly assembled banister.

I might be able to do this.

“It was mostly boys.” I ascended the three short stairs, glancing to where the railing once stood. “At least, the ones treated like me. We were different. Most of the other girls had their own place.”

Vaguely, I knew I was managing to speak in complete sentences. Memory hadn’t rendered me comatose.

Would Dr. Kohler be upset if she knew what I was doing right now? This was what she’d been bugging me about for years.

“Different how?” Damen asked.

I shrugged, ducking into the kitchen. The black and white laminate tile had also mostly escaped the fire unchanged, but the years’ worth of weather and ruin had discolored it into an almost unrecognizable mud and yellow. The others trailed into the room, and I knew they were analyzing me, but I ignored them.

“Most of the girls were meant to be adopted,” I explained. “They lived in a different part of the house and got nice things and good food. They never were…” My words trailed off, but only for a second.

The ceiling light was missing a sconce. That might have been from the fire—or maybe before. Mr. Richards never cared much about repairs in places where clients wouldn’t see.

“They never were game.” My focus wandered to the mold-covered fridge. “He didn’t want them dying, I guess.”

“How often did a hunt end in someone dying?” Uncle Gregory was the one who spoke this time.

“Not a lot,” I answered. “Only if the dogs got out of control.”

Uncle Gregory was frowning, but not looking at me. It made talking to him tremendously easier. “How often were the hunts?” he asked.

I could almost feel the tension radiating from Titus and Damen, and Bryce loomed in the corner of my vision. “Only once or twice a month, per person.”

Uncle Gregory’s brows furrowed. “Did it ever end at the hunt, or were all the encounters sexual?”

The air rushed from my lungs—a momentary panic breaking through the comfort of emptiness that had cloaked over me. Damen moved closer, the warmth of his skin permeating through my coat. He wrapped his arm across my back, resting his hand on my hip.

“Don’t answer that,” he said.

Damen openly glared at Uncle Gregory. But—why would he be upset? This was how he normally acted—the intrusive questions. It was obviously a skill that he’d picked up from his mentor.

Although… While he was a boundary stomper, he didn’t seem to like it when other people encroached into his territory.

I’d regained control of my breath, and the panic ebbed away. Despite my annoyance, I leaned into Damen’s side. “It wasn’t the same for everyone. It wasn’t s-sexual. The boys were usually left alone.” The spicy scent of Damen’s cologne overpowered the musky smell of ruin. “But there were two other girls, but they were older. They weren’t h-hunted but…”

Then Uncle Gregory asked the question I’d already suspected was coming, “What happened to them?”

I closed my eyes, twisting my fingers in Damen’s shirt.

What happened?

I could almost visualize them, but their faces—and names—remained stubbornly out of reach. When was the last time I’d seen them?

There’d been kindness and words of advice, extra pieces of food snuck into my bowl, and a warm body of protection.

But…

I’d never thought of it before now. I never had a reason to.

I never tried.

I was missing something.

My chest swelled in frustration as my grip tightened. There was no escape from this nagging feeling.

“I…” I opened my eyes, and the floor blurred at my feet. “I don’t know.”

“Were they sent away?” he asked.

“No.” Why was he focusing on this? “They didn’t go anywhere.”

“Oh.” Uncle Gregory sounded put out. “That makes sense. Abigail didn’t see them on her visit, but they could have been hiding. If they were still here when you left, Eric Richards might have taken them—and the others—to a new location when he fled.”

“No.” I might have been broken, but I did know this: they were not living here by the time I left. I’d been the only one for those last few weeks, which was one reason I’d run away. “They’re here.”

There was a quick silence, and I didn’t have to look up to know that there was some sort of communication taking place out of my sight. Damen’s rising heartbeat and stiffening frame was proof enough of that.

“Bianca, there’s no one here,” Bryce declared.

I shook my head. “They never left.”

“Even if they died, they’re not here.” Bryce raised his eyebrow and crossed his arms, watching me with a rebellious expression. “Do you feel the presence of a spirit?”

Well…

I shrank back. When he put it that way, he was right.

I shook my head; there were no ghosts present.

“They were looking for them the whole time?” It was hard to catch my breath. Were they, perhaps, the reason why my adopted mother was investigating this house to begin with?

So, inadvertently, they still saved me. “Who were they?”

“Twins—Ciara and Nessa. They’re distant relatives of the Unseelie Queen,” Uncle Gregory replied, stroking his chin. “She funded a large part of the investigation.”

Their names echoed through my thoughts, and the flickering of a memory stirred. Honey hair, striking eyes, and darkness swallowing around a scream.

They… were related to the Queen? But that would mean she’d died never knowing what had happened to them—all because I wouldn’t talk.

Guilt clawed at my throat, threatening to make me sick. But… what had happened?

Titus moved closer, and his touch brushed against my left hip. Meanwhile, Damen squeezed me more tightly against him. “Baby, it’s fine if you can’t tell anyone what happened. They’ll find other leads. You don’t need to worry about it.”

For an instant, I basked in the feeling of being protected—sheltered—but then realization struck.

It was so easy to give in—to let the others take care of me. But I couldn’t go back to the way things were before. It would only give the others reason to continue to treat me like I was fragile.

And I hated that more than anything.

“N-no!” I jerked away, turning to face them. Why I was feeling braver now, I didn’t know. I’d never been able to answer these questions before. “There are no other leads!” I could feel myself shaking, but it didn’t stop the flurry of my admission. I glared at Bryce, daring him to tell me I was wrong. “They were here. They are h-here.”

“But…” He was holding his hands up in the air, placating, as he spoke more cautiously, gaze wandering briefly to Titus. “Okay. If you say so. They’re dead?”

His question rang through me, and my annoyance disappeared as my shoulders slumped.

Were they dead?

I stared at the floor. My skin felt clammy and cold, and I wanted the tiles to open and swallow me into the ground. “I-I don’t know.”

Damen followed me, pressing his palms against my cheek as he turned my face up toward his. His touch was hot, and his eyes burned as his thick brows drew inward and his fierce gaze bore into mine. “Repressed memories?”

Was he asking me? But it was Uncle Gregory who responded. “It’s not an uncommon symptom. In fact, the repressed memories themselves can be a trigger of PTSD. The body will still feel the lingering effects of the stress, even if the mind doesn’t remember.”

“What do you remember?” Damen asked, peering down at me once more.

I looked at the counter—the taste of burnt rice and cheap cheese still on my tongue—and swallowed. “This was the kitchen,” I almost whispered.

Obviously, it was the kitchen, and it felt stupid to say, but it was easier to keep the torment of my emotions at bay when we were focusing on facts.

But whether the men thought I was stupid or not, no one said a word. I moved back, stepping across the room. The wooden door was broken in two, the bottom holding tentatively to the frame on rusty hinges. I moved to it, touching the frame before stepping into the hallway.

Faint streaks of light punctured through the holes in the ceiling, illuminating the area enough to make out the weathered striped wallpaper that adorned the upper halves of the walls. Beige chair-railing outlined the bottom, and I trailed my fingers along the trim.

“If we were allowed to eat, we usually had to get our own food and take it back to our rooms, but sometimes we were allowed to go outside.” I paused, glancing to my left through a double-wide opening in the wall. “These doors were usually locked—only the adults were to use them. Mr. Richards would talk to clients and parents in that part of the house. But there’s a shortcut to our rooms through there, and I don’t like going the other way.”

“Why?” Damen asked, fingers brushing across my elbow. “What’s the other way?”

My focus drifted down the long hallway at his question, the answer on my lips, but froze.

My ears buzzed as the innocent-looking door loomed large in my vision.

The rest of the house was in stages of ruin, so how was it still in one piece?

“Where does that door go?” Damen’s question rang through my ears.

“The basement.”

“Downstairs.”

Titus answered with me—it was the first time he’d interrupted since this ordeal had begun—and the shock of it was enough to capture my attention.

He seemed tense, on edge, and his jaw tightened as he looked past me. “The door is the only one in the house still standing, probably because it was reinforced with steel. It took some time to open it, but it only led to a cellar. There was nothing in there except rotten food.”

Food. I barely suppressed my shudder. “It’s not the basement. There’s other rooms.” I dug my fingernails into my arms. “It leads downstairs.”

“What’s downstairs?” Damen asked.

I swallowed back my rising nausea and pointed to another empty doorway perpendicular to the first. I couldn’t stop my finger from shaking, but my voice remained surprisingly calm. “You can also get to my room that way—there’s a long hallway that bypasses the rest of the house—but I don’t like going over there.”

I wasn’t going to either.

“You don’t need to go anywhere,” Titus reminded me. “This isn’t your home anymore.”

“And you have a room,” Damen chimed in. “At our house.”

Their reassurances helped, but only slightly. Technically, I was living at his house. But, still, their words were enough to pull me back from the edge, to keep the panic back so I could focus on my mission.

“This way.” I pushed past the men—though the double-doorway and into the forbidden part of the house. My skin still tingled, and my fingers were numb. I wasn’t about to go near that door, even with their support. There was a ringing in my ears as I stepped through hallways and rooms—barely aware of the distant way I described the places. And we were just about finished with the downstairs when, “Oh.”

The monologue died from my lips, and I froze, blinking into the lobby.

How had we made it this far already? The house had seemed bigger in my memories.

“Bianca?” Damen squeezed my hand, and the pressure snapped me out of my reverie.

“Oh…” I said again, raising my free arm and wiping the back of my wrist over my eyes. “T-this is where Mot… I saw Jonathon and Abigail for the first time. They were meeting Mr. Richards there.” I pointed to a door near the front of the lobby. “I was trying to sneak back in when J-J-Jason caught me here. He was a-angry at me again. W-we were fighting, and they c-came out to see what was going on.”

“Who’s Jason?” I jumped as Titus moved closer to me, crossing his arms as he narrowed his eyes at the door. “Don’t look surprised,” he continued. “You started shaking when you said his name.”

I… did?

I dropped Damen’s hand and pressed my hands to my cheeks. My skin was wet… but from what? Even now, it didn’t feel like I was crying. And why was it so cold?

“Who is he?” Damen repeated, voice deathly calm. “You’re not even this frightened of Eric Richards. But it sounds like you’ve interacted with him often—comfortable enough to fight him—was he one of the boys?”

“J-Jason?” My voice squeaked. “He’s…” Uncle Gregory and Bryce were watching with barely restrained looks of curiosity, but both seemed content to let Titus and Damen lead the questions. Somehow, instead of making me self-conscious, it felt supportive, and when I spoke next my voice was no longer unsteady. “He’s Mr. Richard’s son.”

Titus’s left eyebrow lifted and the temperature seemed to drop further. “He has a son?”

I pressed my fingertips to my lips. “Mr. Richards was teaching him to run the… business. They wanted to expand. He spent a lot of time with m-me for t-training…” My words trailed off at the darkening expressions around the room. “W-what?”

“Jason Richards?” Titus stepped forward, grabbing my hand. “How old was he?”

“N-no…” I looked between the two of them. “His last name was different. I don’t remember…” Why couldn’t I remember? It was right there, tickling along the edges of my recollection. “He’s probably your age?”

If anything, their expressions grew even more grim.

“W-what?” I asked again.

At first, they seemed hesitant to answer. Even Bryce and Uncle Gregory were exchanging uncomfortable, dark looks. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and, for a moment, I was worried they’d fall back into their old routine. Damen would swoop in with some cryptic statement meant to help with—but failing at—keeping my curiosity at bay.

But this time, it was Damen who surprised me. He took Titus’s place as the dragon gave my hand one last squeeze and wrapped his fingers around my wrists. “Titus has been investigating a new human trafficking train in the area since last year,” he said, his voice somber. “He was brought in as a consultant when they ran low on leads, and I’ve been helping outside of my tasks with Gregory. But we haven’t had much luck. The leader of this ring is younger than others in the business—only twenty-three—and somehow manages to get away every time we get close. His name is Jason Patterson.”

The air was knocked from me, and I couldn’t hold back my lurching stomach. I barely had time to turn from the others, falling on my knees as I fell against a doorway on my right and threw up into what used to be the formal dining room.

Darkness cloaked my vision, and nothing existed outside of the all-encompassing need to purge this feeling.

My throat felt raw, a heavy sense of exhaustion had fallen over my limbs. Distantly, I heard talking. The boys were discussing something in heated voices over my head, but the ringing in my ears was too loud for me to make anything out.

Something pulled at my hair, and cold air rushed down the back of my neck as the suffocating heat of my scarf disappeared.

More voices, and then a warm hand brushed across my shoulder.

The world froze, and my heartbeat pounded in my ears as I jerked back, pulling away from the ones who had invaded my space.

“Bianca?” an unfamiliar voice called, and I stared—unseeing—at the blurry shapes in front of me. One moved closer, kneeling down, despite the protests of the others, and my pulse soared as I pressed further against the surface at my back.

There was something hard blocking the way on my left, and they were on the right.

I was trapped.

“Get away from her.” The figures became more familiar, but my thoughts remained fuzzy. The sound of screaming winds echoed in my ears. “She’s having a panic attack.”

“I can help! I’ve done it before.” The man’s features were clearing slightly, and bright green eyes peered at me through the shadows. A long, loose curl fell from behind his ear, and he cautiously leaned forward, posture unthreatening. “Princess, focus on me.”

My heartbeat began to slow, and the suffocating weight lifted slightly.

But could I relax? This was another predator—someone who could hurt me; I could sense his strength just in the way he held himself. My instincts screamed, warning me away, but there was an illogical side that nagged at me, telling me to trust him.

I couldn’t tear my eyes from his. He hadn’t moved again. If he was going to hurt me, wouldn’t it have already happened?

“Good girl.” He sounded relieved as he slowly raised his hand in my direction. “Come here. You did well.”

My gaze travelled down the line of his arms, to his hand. Those fingers could cause a lot of pain. In fact, in a distant sort of way, they almost seemed like claws.

“You can stop. We’ll take you home now.” His voice was deceptively smooth despite his appearance.

It was close—too close—and I almost let him trick me. He would have won, except, at the very last second, I glanced back to his face.

The warm, calmness in his eyes had vanished. It was replaced by a furious crimson.

I sucked in a breath, he stopped moving as panic and doubt flashed across his expression.

“No,” he breathed, reaching for me. “Bianca, wait—”

But I didn’t hear any more of his lies, because, for the first time in my life, I was able to get away.