With Visions of Red (Broken Bonds, #1)

by Trisha Wolfe

Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. When you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss gazes back into you. Friedrich Nietzsche

My pink tank top clings to my body, saturated with old and new sweat, dirt and filth. My legs remain bare—my boy-shorts the only guard against the elements…and him.

I nudge the plate of uneaten food aside with my knee, my shackles rattling from above. The chains tighten, and I wince at the sharp, pinching pain. A whimper escapes my mouth.

My arms stopped aching hours ago, my muscles numb. If I stand, the feeling will come alive with unbearable agony. My calves still burn from the stre...

Three days. Five. A week? With no windows, no light coming from outside, there’s no way to be sure. Time doesn’t pass down here; it stalled and the world quit spinning the moment he touched me. Invaded me. And I stopped existing.

Sometimes I’m left alone for so long, I fear he’s forgotten about me. Then I’m sickened by the realization that I actually fear he won’t return. Twisted.

At first, I screamed. I screamed for hours until my throat burned and my voice gave. He never covered my mouth. So the only thing I know for sure is that I’m somewhere far enough away he doesn’t worry about being heard.

No. He likes my screams. That’s the first thing I learned. Then I learned to hold them...

I made the mistake of demanding to know what it was used for…having spent hours staring at it, fearing it…and then he showed me. Not today. Please, not today.

A hot tear trickles down my cheek, and I wipe the side of my face against my arm. He can’t see me broken. Because when he knows I’m broken—when he’s mastered me—I’ll be of no more use. I pull at my memories as I try to find a sanctuary.

So stupid. So, so stupid. My lips tremble as I recount my actions that brought me here. That dumb fight with Brandon, the one where I slammed his car door and stormed ...

He was texting some other girl. That was it. Then it blew up from there. Accusations and claims that I’m crazy. Girls are always the crazy ones. We never...

Furious, I walked off on my own, desperate to be away from him and empowered by my right to be a strong, independent woman who didn’t need her cheating boyfriend to drive her home. Damn if I wouldn’t walk myself right there. Then— The night swallowed...

I now know what evil lurks where even the light is...

I’ve moved past that fight or flight adrenaline rush, though. I’ve moved on to acceptance. And I want his touch to kill me. I just want this to end.

As his footsteps travel down the steps, echoing against the cement walls, I decide I’m broken. Just let him see me break. That’s all he wants, then the torment will end.

And when I meet his intense gray eyes—no mask to protect his features—I know. This is my end. He’s no longer concerned about my escape, or someone finding me. I’ll n...

His tall, muscular form moves to the wall behind me and he cranks a lever. My chains jerk taut, and I’m forced to my feet. My arms and body stretch thin, fire-hot needles attacking my...

I shut my eyes against the pain and bite down on my lip to stifle the scream slithering up my throat. He hates this. He’ll punish me. He wants to see my fear through the windows of my soul. Smell my sweaty skin. Taste m...

“My dirty girl.” His guttural voice surrounds me, blanketing my body with malicious intent, and my vision tunnels until I detach, removed far away from myself. But he doesn’t allow me to stay there. He always brings me back.

Shocked into alertness, I fight back. Writhing against his iron-fisted hold, I force my legs closed. The same dance every time. I never win. He bites my earlobe and his feet move between mine to kick them apart before he wraps one large leg around my thigh, locking me in place. The struggle only urges him on—I have to stop fighting. And when I do, accepting my punishment, praying he’s quick…my fucking treacherous body deceives me.

I feel myself slick against his rough fingers. I cringe and squeeze my eyes closed tighter. “Yes,” he says against my ear. “There’s my fucking dirty girl. You can’t hide from me.” He pinches me hard, wrenching a cry from my mouth, then his hand is gone.

My whole body shivers, fright enveloping me. A cold, hard object lightly grazes my bare back. I shudder slightly, attempting to keep from flinching. I know what that object is; his favorite. He’s wasting no time getting to his good part. I keep my eyes sealed shut. Do not react.

I sense his presence before me, moving in, as he drags the cane along my stomach. “Look at me, Sadie.” My eyes fly open. He’s never used my name before. Never wanted me to feel like a person. I’m his pet. His possession. At this point, I almost inherently believe it.

His face is not how I pictured it behind his mask. He’s younger than my parents. Thirtyish, maybe. Dark strands of hair layer a handsome face. It’s all wrong. He should be vile. Inhuman. Not blessed with… I almost think beauty. But I cannot even utter...

“You’re not like the others,” he whispers. “They didn’t enjoy their punishment.”

“You’re sick. I’m nothing like you.”

My head is yanked back as he digs his fingers into my hair and grips at my scalp. His gray eyes widen. Face right before mine. “Remember, Sadie. Every time you suck a dick, every time you fucking come, see these eyes watching you. I know where you live.” His tongue snakes out to lick my chin. “Now, let’s have some fun before we’re interrupted.”

The confusion at his words pushes my eyebrows together, but I’m not lost for long. In the moment he raises the cane to strike, a bang reverberates through the room, followed by stomps against the ceiling. My captor releases my ha...

He moves behind me and clutches me against his chest, the blade pressed to my throat. “God, what I could’ve done with you, what I could have accomplished, if I’d had more time. Never forget your lessons.”

The blade drags along my collarbone, a searing fire splitting my skin and bone, and a shrill scream scrapes my throat as it claws free. As the blood flows, he nuzzles my hair. “You were truly special, my filthy Sadie.”

Blackness threatens the corners of my vision. I’m detaching again…fading. My defense against the pain and terror. But my tormentor won’t let me fall....

Blood calls to me. There’s a story in every drop. A song in the spray pattern.

If you look beyond the violence, past the gruesome, a kind of poetry unfolds. Its rhyme and rhythm is what reaches out to me, and its what I use to find you.

Unlikely, but I step around the victim and blood-soaked carpet, my clompy sneakers wrapped in shoe covers, to meet him. I don’t like being disturbed when I’m putting myself in the scene, and he knows it.

I stopped taking offense to how the detectives—the real case solvers—view behavioral analysts. Or profilers, though that term is likely to garner even more mockery. It doesn’t bother me because, as much as Quinn has given me a hard time over the years, he depends on my insight. And he knows it.

There are other factors, too, in why he’s such a dick, but his profile is actually pretty boring. Right. Boring. Nothing like the passionate scene here displayed in red and domination. Which has me seriously doubting Quinn’s judgment call on the boyfriend.

Blood is pooled around the vic’s head and torso. The fatal wound a deep laceration to her throat. Inadvertently, my hand goes to my own chest, my fingers applying a slight pressure to my collarbone.

She’s been positioned on her stomach. Dress ruched up past her hips. Ankles bound together with rope, knees spread, placing her in a prime, demeaning position for the offender. One can only assume she was raped until the ME examines her fully, but everything about the way the perpetrator posed her indicates this was a sex crime.

No discernible stab wounds. No angry, sloppy slashes or strikes signifying she knew the offender personally. And no castoff bloodstains from the weapon indicates he killed her slowly, precisely. He wasn’t enraged; he took his time.

And he knew how to kill. Her carotid is perfectly severed. The arterial spray reached the ceiling. There is no transfer stains or castoff, suggesting he wasn’t surprised by the amount of blood. Rather, I presume he enjoyed it, and he worked to get this desired effect.

The torture he inflicted—battered face and body; hours of restraint; burns to the thighs—signifies measured and controlled. Intended to heigh...

The possibility of this being a revenge-motivated kill decre...

I walk toward the open closet and peer inside. Then glance around the room. No shoes have been removed. No heels kicked off anywhere. She wasn’t planning a night out.

Standing, I shake my head. What method of coercion did the assailant use to force her into changing into a dress? What’s more, why?

Could’ve been opportunity, or he may have been stalking her, or maybe he did know her. I tilt my head, imagining myself laying in wait. Watching her. There were no signs of forced entry.

It’s not my job to put myself in her place; I’m here to identify with her killer. Get inside his head and break him down. That’s the only thing I can do to help her now.

Ligature marks wrap her wrist in red, puffy welts. But unlike her ankles, the binding device has been removed. Time of death was determined to be just a couple of hours ago. No rigor, and her skin is dry.

How many hours did he play? How long did he torture her? The dress, with all my speculations, doesn’t really point to a clear time of entry. I look over her exposed skin, studying the shades of bruising, trying to determine a better timeline based on the facts.

Recognition smacks me hard and fast. But I push past the similarity, noting the high unlikeliness of a connection. During my training, I spent far too many years investigating my own obsessions.