Brutal Prince Bonus Scene (Brutal Birthright, #1.5)(78)

Oliver goes back to his tool bag and pulls out a coiled rope.

I don’t think that’s a tool bag, not really. Because why the fuck does he have rope in it?

I think Oliver’s been planning much more than a home repair for quite a while now.

I try to run, but I can barely stand. It’s easy for Oliver to truss me up like a chicken, and stuff a rag in my mouth.

He crouches down in front of me, his face inches from mine.

“Here’s what you have to understand, Aida,” he says, his voice low and crooning. “I can’t make you be mine. But I can stop you from belonging to anyone else.”

I mutter something around the gag.

“What?” Oliver says.

I say it again, no louder than before.

Oliver leans in even closer.

I rear my head back and smash my forehead into his nose, as hard as I can.

“Oww, FUCK!” Oliver howls, cupping his hand over his nose as blood pours through his fingers. “Fuck, Aida, you BITCH!”

Oliver hits me again. This time when I topple over, I sink right through the floor into thick, quiet, darkness.





28





Callum





I don’t have the exact address for the Castles’ cabin, but I know it’s outside of Chesterton, and I know its rough position to the lake. So, I’m thinking I’ll be able to spot it, based off the color and general location.

Unfortunately, there are a fuck ton of little blue beach houses along this stretch of the lake. Plus, it’s getting dark and there aren’t that many streetlights along this route. I can barely tell which houses are blue, and which are gray or green.

I’m looking for Oliver’s Maserati, but I can’t count on that since he might have been driving something else.

I can at least bypass the places that are lit up with noise and laughter and partygoers—wherever Aida is, the house will quiet and relatively secluded, I’m sure of it.

I roll down the window to try to get a better look at some of the cabins that are set back from the road, half-hidden in trees.

Some of the driveways are so faint I can barely see them. In fact, I almost pass one by, failing to see the faint tracks through the grass. Until I smell a hint of smoke.

It’s so mild that I hardly know what scent I caught. Then I feel the automatic reaction—the hair on the back of my neck standing up and my heart starting to race. It’s a primal, terrifying smell. A warning of danger.

I slam on the brakes, whipping the wheel to the left. I follow the long, winding path toward a double stand of trees. Between those trees sits a small blue beach house that I’ve seen once before in a battered photograph.

Sure enough, Oliver’s silver Maserati is parked alongside the house. The trunk stands open.

I fucking knew it.

I stop my car, hoping Oliver hasn’t already heard the engine or seen me driving up the road. I slip out of the driver’s side and crouch down behind the car, trying to peer around at the house.

I send a quick text to Aida’s brothers. I’m an hour outside Chicago. They won’t be getting here anytime soon.

I can smell smoke for certain now. In fact, over the sound of the wind in the trees, I think I hear the crackling wood burning. All the lights are off, but an alarming orange glow emanates from the back of the house.

Fuck it, I can’t wait. If Aida’s in there, I have to get her out now.

I run toward the house, trying to stay low. I’ve got my Beretta with me and I draw it. I’m leery of actually using it in the dark, without knowing where Aida is. Even a stray bullet through a wall could accidentally hit her.

I go around the back of the house, trying to peer in the windows. I can’t see shit. So, I try the back door, finding it unlocked. The moment I open it, a cloud of thick, black smoke comes rolling out, and I have to drop even lower, stifling my cough in the crook of my arm.

The infusion of fresh air invigorates the fire. I hear it sucking up the oxygen, expanding in heat and size. The kitchen is ablaze, the cabinets, countertops, floor, and ceiling all burning.

As I try to skirt the fire, I trip over something on the floor. It’s relatively soft. For a second, I hope that it’s Aida, but then I realize it’s just an old mattress.

I want to call out for her, but I can’t risk alerting Oliver, wherever he might be. I try to search the main level as best I can in the smoke and darkness. I can’t go anywhere near the kitchen, or the hallway beyond.

She’s got to be upstairs. She’s got to be, because otherwise this whole place is going to burn down before I find her, and I can’t think about that.

So I pull my shirt partly over my face and run up the stairs, thinking only of Aida.

I let my guard down. I’m not holding my gun up.

As soon as I reach the head of the stairs, Oliver charges me from the side, with all the speed and technique of the athlete he once was. He barrels into me so hard that we slam into the opposite wall, smashing into the drywall. My gun goes spinning off down the hallway, hitting the doorjamb and disappearing into one of the rooms.

Oliver is hitting me with both fists, throwing wild haymakers and body shots. By bad luck, one of his blows lands directly on my amateur appendectomy, ripping open the stitches and making me roar with pain.

He’s an inch shorter than me, but probably thirty pounds heavier. Plus, he’s been in plenty of frat-boy brawls.