Firethorne

Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Maya

H e’d dropped one hell of a bombshell or two on me and left me to wallow in my pit of despair. He’d left me questioning everything.

Was he telling the truth?

Was he really working against his father?

Or was this another trick, a ploy to ensnare me even deeper into their web of deceit?

I couldn’t even think straight. I couldn’t fathom any of it.

And then there was all the stuff he’d said about my father.

My father had sold me.

How could I ever come to terms with that?

How could I believe something so wicked and heinous?

As bombshells went, it was pretty atomic. A nuclear ball of what-the-fuck aimed right at my heart, intent on shattering my whole life.

Even thinking about it made my nerves spike and my heart race. I felt sick, and I didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t. There had to be another explanation. My heart didn’t want to grieve what my mind refused to believe, so I buried the hurt deep inside. Until I saw my father again, and he could tell me himself what had happened, I would wait. I wouldn’t judge him. I’d hold my tears as best I could and try to get through all this. Take a step forward, even if it meant I took two steps back every day. I had to focus on the future, because I still had one, and I refused to contemplate what could’ve been.

I would survive this.

Regardless of whether Damien was on my side or not, the fact remained, they were a fucked-up family. And I had no doubt that what he’d said, about them trafficking girls, was all true. There were people out there who’d suffered something unimaginable at their hands, and I couldn’t bear thinking about it

But at night, when I was fighting the demons trying to chip away at my brain and battle the sins of my father that clawed away at my heart, I thought about those girls. I thought about where they were now.

What they’d endured.

What they might continue to endure.

And what I could still endure in the days to come.

Damien claimed he was doing all he could to eradicate the evil in this world. The evil that’d invaded their lives. But clearly, he hadn’t done enough, and there was a very large possibility that I was still in danger.

I didn’t trust anyone, not really.

I was all alone.

And yet, Damien visited me every day. Checking up on me. Guarding me. Claiming he was keeping me here for my own safety.

At first, I’d resented him. I rued the day I’d ever met Damien Firethorne. I didn’t want him here, invading my life, keeping me prisoner, haunting my every waking moment. But as the days went on, and his was the only face I saw, I began to feel a little less agitated. Less hateful. He was my only link to the outside world, and I never wanted to give that dream up, the dream that I’d eventually get out of here.

After he dropped the mother of all bombshells, Damien showed up at the apartment with a large cardboard box that he set down on the coffee table in the middle of the living room.

“Don’t expect the VIP treatment every day,” he said with his usual sarcasm. “But I thought you might like these.”

I sat on the sofa and stared at the box as I replied, “Is there such a thing as VIP treatment when you’re being held captive?”

“I can take these back if they’re not wanted,” he snapped, reaching for the box.

“Do whatever the fuck you want. I don’t care.” I sat back into the cushions of the sofa, avoiding his gaze as I huffed and folded my arms over my chest.

“Aren’t you even a little bit curious about what’s in here?” he asked.

“No.”

“Fine.” He tried to act like he didn’t care, but within a few seconds he was sitting forward, ripping the parcel tape off the box he’d brought, with contents he already knew about. “I guess I’ll open this fucking box myself then.”

He opened the box, stared up at me, and when I didn’t make any effort to look inside, he huffed, then pushed the box across the table towards me.

“At least take a look. It won’t fucking bite.”

“Are you sure about that?” I shot back. “You do have a history of giving me fucked up shit.”

“That isn’t all I’ve done for you,” he lowered his head, and I could feel the heat of his stare burning into me, willing me to look his way. “But this might help.”

“I can do without your kind of help,” I hissed, but I made the mistake of turning my head and glaring back at him, and as I did, the contents of the box caught my eye. I stilled and then instinctively leaned forward. I couldn’t help it. He’d found my Achilles heel.

Books.

He’d brought me books.

Despite how awful everything was, I couldn’t deny that seeing them made me feel something. A flicker in my fractured, damaged heart. A glimmer of hope, maybe?

I held in my gasp as I saw copies of Jane Austen, The Brontes, Maya Angelou, Sylvia Plath, Margaret Atwood; the list went on and on.

I picked up a copy of Jane Eyre and quirked my brow.

“Are you trying to give me another subliminal message? Is there a mysterious wife hidden in your attic?”

He stood up and grinned back at me as his six-foot frame towered over me.

“No. There’s no message.”

But I knew there was. There had to be. There was always a message. He’d said so himself.

He’d given me books that were all written by women. Strong, powerful women telling strong, powerful stories. These were books to make a woman feel empowered. I couldn’t lie. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever given me.

But I still hated him.

“Thank you,” I said begrudgingly.

He shrugged, acting like it was nothing.

“I know you have the TV, but you’re a reader, like me. I wanted to give you something to help you escape, just for a little while.” He cleared his throat and added, “I wasn’t sure what you’d already read. If there’s anything specific you’d like, I can bring that with me tomorrow.”

“These are perfect,” I replied. “Even the ones I have read, I’ll happily read again. It’s so... thoughtful.” I managed to give him a tight smile, despite everything. “Thank you.”

We sat for a moment with an emotionally charged silence hanging between us. And then, my stomach dropped and my heart splintered in fear when I heard a knock at the front door.

Someone was here.

What the fuck was about to happen?

Was this Firethorne?

My head shot up, desperate eyes finding Damien to gauge his reaction.

He was chilled, and he gave me a wry smile as he stood up and strode over to the door, a door that only he could open.

When he greeted whoever was on the other side with a “Nice to see you. Couldn’t this have waited till later?” my pounding chest eased up a little and I tried to get myself under control and stop shaking as I glanced at the door and ran my sweaty palms down my thighs. He’d never greet Firethorne that way.

Damien stood back to let whoever it was into the apartment, and they said, “I figured you’d want this sooner rather than later.”

I twisted in my seat, craning my neck to see who it was, this man entering my safe space dressed all in black, with his suit and tie, and a manilla envelope in his hand. Then, as he turned to face me, my nerves spiked again. It was the man from the train. The one who’d dropped the first message into my lap.

“Maya, this is Trent,” Damien said, introducing his colleague.

I swallowed, not sure how to act or what to say.

And then something inside took over.

“You could’ve helped us, that night. You could have done more to stop us on that train.”

“Maya,” Damien snapped back, admonishing me. “I’ve already told you; we couldn’t do that. We’re playing the long game here. We needed my father to believe he could trust me. And besides, we had to tread carefully around your father, too. It wasn’t as simple as that.”

“It seems pretty simple to me,” I barked back.

“I’m sorry,” Trent said, dipping his head with guilt.

“Don’t apologise,” Damien replied. “It’s not black and white.”

“It’s not black and white, it’s dark and fucked up,” I spat venomously.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Damien said, turning his back on me, and then ushering Trent back through the door.

“It’s all in there,” I heard Trent say to Damien as he handed him the envelope and stepped back into the hallway. “There’s also contact details, a burner phone, everything she’ll?—”

“Thanks,” Damien snapped, interrupting him. “I’ll look over it all later.”

Trent frowned as he stared back at Damien for a beat, not saying a word. Then he glanced over Damien’s shoulder at me, before focusing back on Damien again, a bewildered, puzzled look on his face. He shook his head, nodded to himself, then announced, “Okay. I get it. I’ll talk to you later. Call me.” And then a little louder, he shouted, “It was nice to meet you, Maya,” just as Damien slammed the door in his face.

Damien stood facing the door for a moment, composing himself. Then he turned and walked back over to the sofas to sit down.

I needed to know more about this Trent character. So, I started to quiz him.

“How long have you known Trent?”

Damien sat back, stretching his legs out as he answered, “I’ve known him for years. We met at boarding school.”

“Is he married?”

Damien narrowed his eyes questioningly at me.

“What does that matter? No. He isn’t. He lives alone.”

“And lives where, exactly?”

He sat forward, his gaze full of suspicion.

“Not far from Firethorne. Why all the questions, Maya? You know you can trust us, right?”

“I don’t trust anyone!”

I thought I saw something in his eyes when I said that. Disappointment, perhaps. But it disappeared as soon as it came, and he nodded. “I think that’s wise, considering what’s happened to you.”

I sighed at the realisation that I might always have this neurotic, suspicion looming over me like a dark cloud.

“Does anyone else live here, in this building?” I went on, desperate for more information. Knowledge was power, after all.

“Not at the moment. There are other apartments here. Ones we use for the people we save, but you’re the only one here right now. Sometimes Isaiah comes to the office we have set up in the basement to work, but he can’t access this floor. You don’t have to worry. You’re completely safe here.” And then, as if to distract me from my racing thoughts, Damien gestured to the box on the table between us and asked, “Which one are you going to read first?”

I didn’t have to think, I knew my answer right away.

“Emma. Jane Austen. It’s another one of my favourites.” I smiled as the shadows of my former life flickered in my mind. “I always wanted to write a book.” I found myself saying, speaking before I could engage my brain, and inwardly cursing that I’d shared a private dream with him.

“You still can,” Damien replied.

“Maybe.” I shrugged, peering down at the books because I couldn’t look at him right now.

We were quiet for a while, then Damien asked me, “If you wrote our story, what would you call it?”

“A disaster,” I stated, and then I glanced up at him, watching me with what appeared to be quiet admiration. “A fucking disaster.”

“Sounds like my kind of book.” He nodded to himself. “Make sure you include me in the dedication. And it’s Firethorne with an ‘e’.”