Dead Inside (Temporary Bliss #1)

  Dead Inside

  A Temporary Bliss Novel

  Alex Ward

  A.W. Publishing

  Copyright © 2020 Alex Ward

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior permission from the author. This is a work of fiction. All characters, events and the places mentioned in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Front Cover Image: Photo by Thiago Matos

  Cover elements Designed by macrovector_official

  Cover design by Alexander Ward

  ISBN 9781724001511

  Visit https://www.facebook.com/alexanderwardauthor/ for more information about upcoming books in the series.

  For Samael,

  Thank you for supporting and listening to my whining while I wrote this book. I wouldn’t have finished it without you.

  Note to readers

  This book contains explicit scenes of physical and sexual abuse, self-harm, suicidal ideation, torture, human trafficking and murder.

  Chapter 1

  Bucharest, Romania

  September 2017

  The wall behind me is cold on my bare skin. I keep my head down and stare at the floor, breathing steady, trying to calm down. Even if I do my best to ignore the muffled screams, they pierce through my ears, making me flinch, even though it’s not me who’s in pain.

  Stefan leans towards the man sprawled on the bed. Iordan and Anton are holding down his arms. Eyes bulging, he shakes his head, looking from one to the other, begging them to stop. But they don’t, and I think he’s aware of that as well.

  “Bad mistake, tsk, tsk. Very bad.”

  A muffled “I’m sorry” gets through the improvised gag they shoved down his mouth.

  “You don’t fuck up my hookers and simply get away with it.”

  I swallow hard, my fingers rising almost unconsciously to touch my sore lip. Hookers. Your hookers. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to ignore his comment, but it still bothers me. Somehow, I can’t help but think that’s the only thing I am for him, despite all his other claims.

  A grin flashes across his face before he points the tip of the knife against the man’s bare chest again. It leaves deep gashes and trails of blood in its wake, as the man squirms and weeps in distress. There’s something about his bloodlust that brings back a vague memory, like a dream barely remembered days later. That unsettles me, not so much the sensation as much as the recollection trickling from the recesses of my subconscious. The entirety of the dream returns, like a jolt of electricity, staring right at me, not so much a dream now, but something more vivid, more real. A monster.

  My gaze glides on the man’s naked body, trickled with sweat and blood. His knuckles are pure white, yet his face is red from all the pain and muffled screaming. In a sick, twisted way, I can’t contain the satisfaction that runs through me, nor the devious conclusion that comfortably settles into my mind. He deserves it. For laying hands on me. For staining me. If people like him didn’t exist, I wouldn’t have to do this every single night.

  “Please, let me go, I won’t tell anyone. My wife and kids… please…”

  I flinch at the slurred words, noticing Stefan removed the gag from his mouth. The grin on his face is wider, his eyes gleaming with something sinister in them.

  “I will do the same to them.”

  My breath shudders. I know he’s not joking. He’d do that and worse. Torturing a woman, maybe even having his way with her before strangling her during the act. That gets him off. He daydreams about it, speaks of it in detail, carving the images inside my head. No matter how hard I try, I can’t pry them out. They caught roots in there, deep down.

  “Look what you did to my lover’s face,” he points out, teeth grinding together. “You actually think I’ll let you walk away from here? Poor fool!”

  The man’s index finger snaps loudly and horrible screams accompany the sound.

  “You’re destroying my merch, you little fucker,” Stefan growls under his breath, his voice low, threatening. He squeezes the man’s chin between his fingers, until small wrinkles form around his mouth and nose. “Do you realize how much money you just made me lose?” Not like that would stop him from whoring me around. Now he’s just putting on a show, aggravating himself further.

  “I’m sorry! I’m begging you!” The man’s pleading voice turns into sobs. Something tells me he won’t get out of this room alive. “I’ll give you money! Everything… it’s… it’s in my wallet… please, just let me go!”

  “Get his wallet!” he barks at me, his head shaking violently in the process.

  With an effort, I push myself away from the wall. I pick the man’s coat from the floor and search through the pockets. I open the wallet with shaky fingers and pull a couple hundred euros out of it.

  “How much is in there?”

  “Five… five hundred,” I reply, my voice hoarse and insecure. There’s moments like this when I fear for my life. That anger could turn in my direction any time, and he would make me pay for it. He’d probably blame me for this, anyway. I either provoked the man or didn’t perform up to standard. He’ll find something. He always does.

  “I’m afraid that won’t do it, pumpkin.”

  The words roll out of Stefan’s mouth, turning to face the man again, tapping the tip of the knife on his chin.

  “I… I have more. I swear,” the man whimpers.

  “I’m afraid it’s just not worth the hassle, you see. Now you’ve opened my appetite for blood,” his eyes gleam. A shiver runs down my spine. “Iordan? Take Alex home,” his voice is devoid of any emotion, cold and distant, as if already contemplating the outcome.

  “Yes, boss.”

  “I’ll meet you back at the house,” Stefan concludes, sparing me a look.

  I gather my stuff in a rush, then hurry after Iordan. Drips of cold sweat trickle down my spine. The knot in my throat and the weight on my chest only seem to increase. Guilt hits in waves, shaking my ground. I squeeze my eyes shut, attempting to forget. I have no doubt that guy will be dead by morning. I’ve just condemned a man to death. How can one live with that? How? If he’d only paid when I asked him to. If only.

  ✽✽✽

  “Wake up!”

  I flinch and open my eyes. Panic rushes in. For a moment, I don’t know where I am. With just the sound of that voice, my pulse races and I sweat. I’m waiting for the hit to come, preparing and scolding myself at the same time for my recklessness. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep. I let my guard down. Now I’ll pay for it.

  This time, though, the hit doesn’t come. Blinking the sleep away, I dare to look around. The sun is filtering in through the drapes, heating up the side of my bed, giving the room the colour and warmth it lacks. It’s morning. Stefan’s sitting on the bed next to me, caressing my face with his hand.

  “Hey,” I say, slowly getting up on my elbows and holding back a yawn. “What’s the time?”

  “It’s early.”

  I check his clothes, but there’s no trace of blood on them whatsoever. Thing is, I don’t remember what he was wearing last night. Even if I try hard, my mind refuses to comply. Anything related to him has been hard to take hold lately. Words and actions have been mixing up together, in a dream like haze, confusing and leaving me vulnerable. I might be dreaming most of the things he does or simply make them up. Discerning between reality and imagination is a challenging process.

  He presses my lip
and I flinch in pain. Last night comes into focus. That was real. At least I’m sure of that. It could’ve happened in an entirely different way from what I remember, but he was definitely there.

  “I’m sorry he hit you.” When he talks, his voice has no inflections. A wall would be more expressive than he is now. There’s no emotion in his voice. His apologies don’t sound like he means them. It’s more of an automatic response. A habit. The only thing he transmits with that is a chilling statement, one that is not meant to be comforting.

  “It’s alright, I’m…” I avoid his gaze and look the other way. I’m used to it. “It was my fault. I pushed too hard.”

  He presses his lips on mine, taking off his jacket. I go fully automatic. My lips move on his, but it’s not something I do out of pleasure anymore. It just happens. I retreat into one corner of my mind, knowing that if I protest right now, it won’t end well. All I can see is the crazy gaze he had last night and all I’m reminded of is the pleasure he seemed to be taking in torturing that guy. I know for sure he is the same when he does that to me too. I’ve seen his face turning from cold to insane in a split second. I can’t help but think of a dead, cold body laying somewhere beneath the ground at this point. What happened to him? What has Stefan done and when did it all become like this? I can’t place a finger on that either.

  He removes my t-shirt and bites into my shoulder, one hand clutching on my bare skin, unbuckling his belt with the other. He takes off his boxers and reveals his already swollen manhood. He grabs my nape and pushes me towards it.

  “There you go. Suck it.”

  He thrusts fast and aggressive into my mouth, making me gag, then pushes me on the bed, face down, holding my head in the pillows. I hear him spitting and then his wet fingers slide between my ass cheeks. He slides in without warning, sending jolts of pain through my body. I muffle my screams, squeezing the sheets between my fingers, but I can’t contain the tears. He groans and moans as he fucks me faster, his grip biting down hard in my flesh. He pulls my hair and lifts me on my knees, frantically still pounding my ass. His right hand squeezed around my neck, leaving me breathless. He bites my shoulder, my neck. His fingers slide in my mouth and he forces me to suck on them.

  Strands of his disheveled blond hair rhythmically move in front of me, as his face is pressed against mine. I remember a time when I enjoyed that sight, but now it’s all lost on me.

  “I want you to come,” he orders, his other hand moving between my legs. My trousers are still on my hips. He glides his hand up and down my limp member. Not sure that will help much. None of it will.

  I whimper when he bites my shoulder again. He enjoys inflicting pain on me, leaving marks and bruises behind. It’s only okay when he does it, though. It’s a sign I’m his. No one else can do that. He forbids it, even though most of the time, clients don’t follow that rule and I end up lying about how I tripped and fell or hit something, afraid of awakening his rage. He slams harder inside me and I let out a shuddering breath.

  This isn’t happening. I can’t think about it. I can see the ceiling. The ceiling. White. Plain. Just a couple of black spots here and there. Nothing of importance. Something to keep me distracted, to keep my mind focused. To take away the edge and numb me out. Nothing matters anymore. It will all end soon.

  The warm liquid drips down my thighs, but he doesn’t stop. His fingers squeeze my face now, loud groans leaving his lips, cursing between the pounds. He shoves me down forcefully, twisting my arm and fucks me even harder, his foot pressed down on my face.

  Cold. Composed. Staring into the void. The rays of sunlight finding their way between the curtains. Specks of dust float around the room, filling the air. The peeling wood on that old desk. The years I’ve spent at it, working, reading, crying, huddled on the chair, trying to get some sleep away from him. No. The view. The dust dancing in the sun’s spotlight. Calming. Stunning. I allow myself to get lost in it.

  “Moan for me.” He turns me around, hand in my throat. “Look at me,” he orders. He’s got that expression again, the one that demands blood. The one that tells me he’s on the verge of losing it. The one that reeks of violence. And I just can’t deal with it right now. I don’t want him to hit me.

  “Kiss me,” the words leave my lips without thinking. He complies, shoving his tongue down my throat, wet, possessing, controlling. He grabs both my shoulders and slams harder inside me. Intermittent moans come out of my mouth.

  “That’s my boy,” he groans, lifting himself, squeezing my thighs. “Play with yourself.”

  I do as he asks. A refusal would only set him off. Even though there’s no pleasure to be had from it. It’s only mechanical to me. Even if I’d come, which I know I won’t at this point, I wouldn’t feel a damn thing.

  Movements become hectic. His features contort and muscles tense as he finds his release again. He leans on me, his fingers raking through my hair, his breath haggard. After a while, he lifts himself up and slides out, a fine layer of sweat coating his skin.

  “You didn’t finish,” he comments as if he’d care. But I’ve learnt to discern his voices over the years. Mimicking is not his thing, still he’s convinced he’s good at it, thinks I buy it every single time. I nod complacently.

  “It’s too early,” the lie comes naturally, as I stare into his brown eyes. It’s never been easier to lie to him. It’s never been easier to maintain my composure, my disgust, even though I feel like screaming on the inside. I can’t let him know he gets to me. I can’t let him know how much contempt I’ve bottled inside of me. I must carry on, play the game. It’s the only chance to stay alive. I don’t know when this turned into a fight for survival. I don’t.

  I straddle him, placing my hands on his chest, while he stares at me through heavy lids.

  “Did you finish the job?” I ask coldly, not letting a hint of warmth, guilt, or remorse show.

  “I did,” he smirks, tracing the length of my arm with the tip of his fingers. I swallow the knot in my throat and grab his chin violently, leaning over, close to his face.

  “Did you… kill him?” I whisper, looking from his eyes to his lips, faking want and pleasure with so much ease. It’s something he taught me. Something I’ve mastered along the years. Years and years of having to sleep with people like him. Years and years of having to share the same bed with him. I bite my lip tauntingly, then calmly touch his cheek with the tip of my tongue. A grin forms on his face and his strong hands grab my waist.

  “I didn’t know you had a fetish for that, Lexie.”

  “Did you kill him, or not?” I repeat, harsher this time, maybe even letting a bit of the desperation show in my jerking movements. He quickly grabs my neck and slams me back on the bed, his weight pressing down on me.

  “Why do you care?” Caution slips into his voice, frantic bronze eyes growing alarmed. He’s losing it. He is. The craziness is taking a hold of him, insanity’s fist gripping around him.

  “Because he fuckin’ hit me,” I spit through gritted teeth; my contempt unmasked this time.

  “You’re a fuckin’ psycho,” he grins, shifting his weight on top of me.

  “Look who’s talking,” my retort bites acidly, intently.

  “Don’t stretch it, Lex,” he warns.

  “Or what, Stef? You’ll hit me too?”

  Calm down. I have to calm down. I must calm down. I can’t be this angry around him, I’ll just dig my own grave faster. But the thoughts shift too quickly through my racing mind, the adrenaline sears through my veins, my frenzied breath paining my chest. Some dark side of me wants that. It just wants to be done with it all.

  “I don’t have a reason to. Yet.” The warning in his voice is not so hidden. Terror, fear, those are the only things he’s always loved in me. Yelling random threats my way, only to see how I’d react; it’s a sport to him, a form of entertainment, a nice show. He gets off on it.

  “That’s never stopped you before.”

  His fingers squeeze on my throat, maki
ng me catch my breath and slowly arch my neck. His eyes narrow, while he leans even more, his face only inches away from mine.

  “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Adrenaline. Maybe next time you should let me watch.”

  I refuse to break eye contact. I refuse to let despair control me. I refuse to yield in front of him and turn into his slave completely. I don’t remember when we got like this. I don’t remember when he started hitting me. I don’t remember when soft whispers and declarations of love voiced late into the shadows of night turned into threats of violence and pain. It might’ve been when he first sold me. When he turned me into a piece of meat. It might’ve been way after that, maybe when I first confronted him. I don’t remember the first slap. So many others followed, it’s kinda hard to keep count.

  “You’re growing cockier.”

  “Am I?”

  “I appreciate how that silver tongue of yours does wonders for wool headed idiots, but don’t mistake me for one of them, Alex, otherwise my finger might crush your windpipe.”

  “Do it,” I hiss. “You know very well that’s what you love about me. You turned me into this. I’m your little creation, am I not?”

  “You are. You are mine,” he whispers, his lips caressing my cheek, his finger pressing down on my windpipe. “Got it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Chapter 2

  “He hit you again!?”

  “No,” I groan, minding my cigarette.

  “So, he did.”

  “He didn’t, Denis,” I snap, because he won’t let go of the subject. He kept pestering me about it. “Not this time,” a mumbled afterthought, looking down at the cigarette and having another drag from it.

  “What happened, then?” Incredulity radiates from him like a steady stream. It’s not like I was expecting him to actually buy it. I showed up at his door one too many times with wounds and bruises on me, bleeding and crying because Stefan roughed me up. He might be sixteen, but Denis ain’t stupid. I hate to admit it, but he sees through me sometimes. This time, he’s wrong though.