Monster Of Ruin: A Dark Serial Killer Romance (The Dark Angels Book 4)

My biggest fear has come true.

Because of him.

My father.

The man biologically responsible for me.

And now I’m being held captive. Because of my father, I’m going to suffer. Because of my father, I’m going to die.

A part of me always kind of knew this day was coming.

The worst part, the thing that makes it impossible to get up off the floor by the door that would lead me to freedom, is that I don’t know what is going to happen. Is my abductor going to just leave me locked up here forever? Is he going to open this door and kill me? Is he going to torture me? Is he going to do all the things to me that he says the men my father set free have done?

I know my father won’t come running when he hears I’ve been taken, but maybe if the media catches wind, my father will have no choice.

He can’t play the doting father if he has no daughter to dote on.

I feel sick.

I’m going to vomit all over these perfect wooden floors. I need to find a way out.

My abductor is gone again, and the silence is terrifying.

I don’t know if what he said about my father is true, but I wouldn’t doubt it. The huge amounts of money would prove it. I knew he was corrupt, but I didn’t realize he had no soul. I should’ve known the way he treated me my entire life.

And now I’ll be the one paying for his sins.

Although, the faceless man behind the door wants to know what my sins are. If I tell him I have sins I’m scared I’ll pay for it. If I tell him I have none, I fear the same.

I’m in a situation that has no happy ending. I won’t make it out of here.

I feel the acid rising in my throat.

I squeeze my eyes tightly and swallow several times to prevent my stomach from winning the battle. When it begins to settle, I wipe my tears and slowly stand.

As terrified as I am, sitting here isn’t going to help me.

No one is going to help me—except for myself.

If I want to get out of here, I’m going to need to find a way.

I rush down the hallway to the little boy’s room. I pull open drawers, checking to see if there is anything that could help me. I don’t even know what I’m looking for. I’m just hoping when I see it I’ll know.

The drawers are empty, there’s nothing under the bed, and the only thing under the mattress is a Playboy magazine.

I spin around and look at the windows. The first bit of excitement rushes through me. I’ll just open the window and throw all the mattresses out of it and jump onto them. I try pushing the window up and my stomach turns when I can’t budge it. I keep trying, using all my strength and nothing.

“Ugh!”

That’s when I notice not only are they painted shut, but there are screws in them, ensuring they can’t be opened.

I rush into the little girl’s bedroom and check the windows first. It’s the same.

Panic sets in as I look around for something to break the window with. I run from room to room looking for something strong enough to break it, but I keep coming up empty. There’s nothing in any of the bedrooms, except for the bedding on the beds. That’s sure as hell not going to break a window.

The kitchen has a chair, I go to lift it and rush back to the room with a large window. I chuck the chair at the window, and it bonus off.

Fuck.

I rush back out into the hallway, my heart pounding in my ears. My hands are shaking from lack of food, but that’s not something I even care about right now.

I’ll eat when I get out of here.

I rummage through drawers, cabinets, even the fucking trash can looking for something I can use to get out of here.

There’s nothing.

I scrub my face as I scream out in frustration, but I quickly stop and look at the door.

“The kitchen,” I whisper to myself.

There may be no way for me to escape, but I’ll be damned if I’m not going to arm myself. A knife or fork. Anything I can use against him, possibly cut him with.

I’m going to fight for my freedom.

As I enter the kitchen, I don’t waste any time. I have no idea when he’ll be back, and I need to be prepared. I pull open the first drawer again and I find plastic spoons. I already know the rest of the drawers are empty.

The cabinets are next and the only thing I find in there are red disposable Solo cups.

This son of a bitch has made sure there are no weapons of any kind. No knives, nothing breakable, nothing at all.

This mother fucker has been planning this a long time.

That thought terrifies me. What kind of person plans this shit?

I glance at the microwave and rush over trying to pull it off the counter and it won’t budge. It’s screwed or glued or something.

Tears fill my eyes as I grab ahold of my hair and walk back into the hallway, once again sinking to the floor.

I’m well and truly fucked.

I have no idea how long I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out if I can make a weapon out of a plastic spoon when laughter catches my attention and I scramble to my knees and look out the small window in the hallway. While the large windows in the bedroom face the front of the house, this window is a view of the back. Just like the front, it’s nothing but woods. Trees as far as the eye can see, but I also notice two men.

They have their backs to me and much like when I was trying to see the faceless man earlier who was on the phone, they just aren’t close enough.

They are both tall and very muscular, that much I can see. One has on a black baseball hat, black T-shirt, and jeans. He’s the same build as the man on the phone earlier. The other has on all black, including his boots, but no hat.

The man in the hat looks up toward the house and my stomach drops.

“That’s him,” I whisper.

I can’t see the details of his face, especially with the hat sitting so low, but I know that’s the man who belongs to the voice on the other side of the door.

He nods and they disappear down a trail.

I sigh and slide back down onto the floor. I wonder if that other man is in on this or knows I’m here. If I was to bang on the window when they come back maybe, just maybe it could be my way out.

I refuse to go down without a fight. I’ve never fought for myself before. I accepted the loveless life I’ve had. Maybe if I fought more, things could’ve been different.

That’s a regret I don’t want to have. I want to know I did everything I could to save myself. Even if I pay the price.

I stand up and stare out the window, waiting for them to come back. If I stay on the floor I might miss my only opportunity, so if I need to stand here for hours, so be it.

My dry throat hurts as I swallow down my fear. I haven’t drunk anything because I don’t trust it. Who knows what could be in the water that he left in the kitchen? I don’t want to be unable to fight, or to not know what the hell is going on.

The thought of sipping from the bathroom sink is sounding like a better idea with each passing moment.

It feels like hours that I’ve been standing at this window but with no clock or my phone, I have no idea how long it’s actually been. I do know that the sun has moved so it has been a while.

My body is shaking with fear, or hunger, hoping that my decision doesn’t cost me, but the longer I stand here the more I’m willing to try.

Finally, I see them walking out of the trail and my heart pounds in my chest. I wait until they are closer, and I take the risk.

I bang on the window and when they both look up, I begin screaming. I can’t make out exactly what they look like as they’re both too far away, but I can tell they’re scary.

“Help! Please help me!”

Tears roll down my face as I plead for help and they fall faster when both of them laugh and walk away.

“Fuck!” I scream, burying my face in my hands.

He’s not in this alone—unlike me.

I lose the battle and run to the bathroom. The acid I’ve been trying to keep down finally comes up as the fear of this situation is too much to handle.

When I’m finished, I sit on the cold tile floor. I’m shivering as more tears soak my cheeks. I take a few deep breaths and pull myself up. Refusing to look at myself in the mirror, I turn the sink on and open the cabinet beneath the sink. Thankfully there’s a washcloth and I grab it. I wet it and wipe my face before resting it on the back of my neck.

Too scared to even sip water right now, I make my way back toward the hallway window. My legs shake, making it difficult to walk, but I make it. I lean against the wall and look outside.

Both men are still there and once again the one in the hat glances up. This time he shakes his head just a smidgen. If I wasn’t looking right at him, I would have missed it. I’m not sure if he’s doing it because he’s pissed at what I’ve done or if he’s warning me not to do it again. But he doesn’t look away, he continues to stare at me and he grins.

I squint my eyes to try and get a better look at his face but can’t make out the color of his eyes or anything.

I think back on last night, trying my best to remember him.

Nothing.

“Clara.”

I snap my eyes open and realize I passed out. I’m still in the hallway and his voice is so close. That’s when I notice I’m leaning against the door.

“What?” I ask, trying to clear my dry throat.

“Christ, have you had anything to drink?” he asks.

I can hear the annoyance in his voice, and I hate that I am comforted by the fact he asked that question.

“No,” I reply, deciding it’s best to be truthful.

“You are a reckless girl. You drink too much alcohol and then you refuse to take care of yourself. Go into the kitchen and drink some water,” he hisses.

He’s keeping me locked away, he won’t care what my fears are. But I suddenly feel like I just need to be honest.

“The water could have something in it. I’m not going to drink something that could cause me to pass out or worse be awake and unable to move,” I whisper.

He curses before I hear him sigh.

“The goddamn water bottles are unopened. How would I have slipped something in them?” he asks.

“How the hell should I know? You have me trapped in your house so forgive me for not trusting you,” I say, shaking my head.

I cough and softly moan because now my head is killing me. My heart slams against my ribcage, and my eyes grow heavy.

“Clara, if I wanted to cause you harm it wouldn’t be with fucking water. There is a case in the fridge that is unopened. I took it out of my own fridge. I sure as shit didn’t try to slip myself something,” he says.

I stare at the door and imagine him standing there with his black hat on. “You’re the one in the black hat, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

My stomach swims with butterflies and I squeeze my eyes closed. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Your friend knows I’m here?” I ask.

“He does.”

“So, I need to worry about both of you now?” I ask.

“Clara, you have questions and I’ll answer them if you go drink the water,” he says.

My head falls back against the door, and I groan.

“You’ll answer anything I ask?”

“Within reason,” he replies.

Unable to handle the pounding in my head, I give in. I go into the kitchen and take a bottle of water out of the case. I squeeze it to make sure nothing leaks out and make sure the top is on tightly. When both prove to be good, I open it and take a small sip. It soothes my throat, and I can’t help but drink down over half of it.

I carry the bottle of water with me and go sit back down by the door in the hallway.

“I drank some water. Now let’s see if you actually do what you said you would.”

“Well ask me something,” he replies.

“Are you going to kill me?” I ask, squeezing the water bottle in my hand. Not really sure if I want to know the answer, but I need to know if he is, in fact, going to kill me.

“Is there a reason I should?”

I grin at his question. He told me earlier not to answer a question with a question, yet he just did the same.

“Not unless you want to punish me for what my father has done,” I answer him.

“I want your father, Clara.”

“Good luck, I’ve wanted his attention since my mother died and I’ve never received it.”

“Next question,” he pushes.

He doesn’t want to discuss my relationship with my father, which seems strange since that’s why I’m trapped here.

“Are you going to kill my father?”

“Yes, with a fucking smile on my face,” he instantly replies.

I swallow nervously because I believe him. And I’m not sure how I feel about that.

“Will you let me go?” I ask, my bones shivering. I’m not cold, but there’s an icy chill in the air that frightens me.

“We’ll get to that. What else?” he replies.

I close my eyes letting his deep voice wash over me. It’s sick and twisted. He just told me he’s going to kill my father and yet I find comfort in his voice.

I must have something wrong with me.

What do they call it? Stockholm Syndrome? Is that happening to me?

No, I want to kill this man on the other side of the door. And I will if he ever opens it.

“How many people have you held hostage?” I ask.

He chuckles and it brings a smile to my face. Yep, there’s definitely something wrong with me.

“If you mean how many people have I talked to through this door, the answer is only you.”

“Oh,” I whisper.

“That surprises you?” he asks.

I shake my head and stare at the door. “You’re kidding, right? Of course, it surprises me. This entire floor is built for keeping a hostage.”

He clears his throat but doesn’t say anything right away. I shouldn’t be curious as to what he’s doing but I am.

“This floor was set up for my grandmother before she died. It made her last months better,” he says.

He’s telling the truth. I don’t know how I know that, but I just do. Maybe it wasn’t built to keep women against their will, but that’s what it is now. I can’t let my guard down even a little.

“Can you tell me your name?” I ask.

“Elliott.”

I don’t know what I expected his name to be, but it wasn’t that.

Elliott is a refined name. Not a man who kidnaps drunk girls and brings them back to his place. Even if I am his first kidnapping, he’s still not a good person. How can he be?

Right?

“How old are you? What do you do for a living?”

“I’m twenty-six and that’s all you get,” he says with a chuckle.

He seems so normal when he’s talking like this. I’m well aware I’m being held against my will and the talking is being done through a door. But there’s something happening here. He’s trusting me with personal information.

It could be good or bad, but right now I’m just enjoying the normalcy of the conversation.

“Elliott?”

“What Clara?”

“I think something is wrong with me,” I confess.

“What do you mean?”

I bite my lip and close my eyes. He can’t see me, but I still feel like I need to hide. My cheeks redden with embarrassment.

“I like talking to you,” I confess.

“So, that means there’s something wrong with you?”

“Considering you’re holding me against my will, yeah,” I say.

“Clara, go take a shower, or a bath. Look in the fourth drawer of the dresser in the little girl’s bedroom and get the pajamas that are in there. Drink more water and eat something. You have my word nothing will happen,” he says. “But don’t try doing something dumb.”

With that, I hear him walk down the stairs.

Damn, why do I believe him?