Echo(83)

Her body is branded in self-inflicted abuse. She craves the moment that she can hurt herself. I know Elizabeth is a sick woman who needs help, and the dark part of my soul wants to be the one to offer it. It’s screwed up, because I also want to punish her.

When I told her to strip down last night, my plan was to humiliate her by having her perched on the ground as I had instructed. I left her to grab some rope because I had every intention of punishing her. I was walking around the house with a hard-on just thinking about it. My mind was consumed with visions of her tied up while I slapped her * and tits until they welted up red, picturing my cock shoved down her throat, gagging her, just so I could see tears fall down her rosy cheeks.

Even now that I know about all that she endured as a little girl at the hands of her foster dad, I still wanted to debase her like that. It’s wrong; I know it, which is why I didn’t return to her. I couldn’t allow myself the pleasure that would just solidify the savage I fear I am—the savage she groomed me to be. But I hurt her anyway, and when I went to her room and saw the mortified look on her face, I hated myself in that moment.

There’s no answer when I call, so I hang up and dial my home again.

Nothing.

She’s probably outside.

I pull up the security app on my phone to log into my home system. Once it’s connected, I tap on each camera to view the rooms in the house. From the kitchen to the library, atrium, bedrooms, dining room, office, roof . . . nothing. I then flip over to the outdoor cameras and check the grotto, backyard, and various cameras that overlook most of the grounds. No sign of anyone. When I tap to view the garage, I notice my Mercedes roadster is missing, which explains why she’s nowhere to be seen. Irritation scathes me, not knowing what she’s up to or where she is.

I hate not knowing details, especially when it comes to her. I know I’m controlling and overbearing, but it’s the only way I know how to function without losing my shit.

She no longer has her old cell phone, and I haven’t seen a new one, so I don’t have a way of contacting her.

I decide to call Lachlan. I told him to stop following her because I didn’t like how involved he was getting in her life, but I swallow my pride, and call him anyway.

“McKinnon, how did the meetings go?” he says when he answers.

“Good,” I snip. “Look, I’m trying to get ahold of Elizabeth, but she isn’t at home and I don’t have a cell number for her.”

As soon as I have her number, I hang up and dial it.





A SUBTLE VIBRATION is all it takes to rouse me from my restless exhaustion. My mouth tastes metallic from the blood I consumed when Richard punched my face. I shift off my side and onto my back. The arm I’ve been lying on tingles and aches painfully. Looking across the room, I see Richard slumped back in a chair with his eyes closed and a hand on his gun.

My body alerts when the vibrations return. My thoughts are hard to grab on to with the multiple strikes to my head and the emotional rollercoaster I’ve been on since Richard appeared in front of Declan’s home. I focus on the faint buzzing sound, and my stomach clenches when I remember my cell phone. My body went numb a while ago, so it’s hard to pinpoint, but I know I shoved the phone in the pocket of my pants.

I look back to Richard; his eyes are still closed. My heart begins to race as I shimmy to try and move my arms as quietly as I can. With my eyes locked on Richard, I make attempt after attempt, but it’s no use. I can’t get my hands to my pocket. I know it’s Lachlan calling me because he’s the only one I ever gave that number to.

“Richard,” I call out to wake him up when I get an idea. “Richard.”

“What the hell do you want?” he says on a groggy voice when he opens his eyes.

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Hold it,” he snaps and closes his eyes again.

“I can’t, but I have no issues peeing myself if you don’t have any issues smelling it,” I lash back.

He breathes out in frustration and walks over to me, grabbing my arm and picking me up off the floor. Walking me down one of the corridors, we stop in front of a door.

“Hurry,” he demands, and I look at him, reminding, “My wrists.”

With a long, distrusting glare, he then says, “Turn around,” and I do.

He takes his knife out, and when he slices through the tape, finally releasing my hands, the phone begins to vibrate, and fear crashes inside of me, locking my body up. When I turn to look at Richard, I can tell he hears the phone by the look on his face.