Vengeance Duet: Truth Part 1

TRUTH.

Vengeance Duet.

A.C. Bextor.

Description.

This is book two of the Vengeance Duet and is also categorized as romantic suspense, which includes darker themes. Due to situations and content, this book should not be read by those under the age of 18.

TRUTH.

The players have been identified and the plan is in formation.

Connotation. Inference. Postulate.

To ensure Casey's safety and avenge his sister's death, Max Taylor continues his vow for vengeance against the men who threaten harm to those he loves.

Trueness. Verity. Honesty.

His life within the Creed MC compound is darkening as each day pa.s.ses. Until now, he's been left without word from those who swore their allegiance to his cause.

Veracity. Credibility. Authenticity.

As the bonds of brotherhood are further tested, Max is soon forced to accept what should ultimately set him free.

TRUTH.

Chapter One.

I've learned time can pa.s.s quickly when you haven't spent it in your room alone.

Things are changing, Casey thinks to herself as she stands quietly beside Cilas in the kitchen of the cement structure she calls home.

Cilas had been away from the club for some time and his return was a welcome surprise. She found herself missing the protection she always feels he offers, even if that protection has never been truly validated. Just his strong presence and the little care he's shown her while knowing him has been enough.

When she first saw him this morning, standing in her doorway, she forced herself to fight back a smile as he entered. However, she quickly sank back with fear as he motioned with his hand for her to stand to attention.

This was something new, something he'd never done when he was bringing in her food alone. If she ever left her room before, then it was Anna who would beckon her with Cilas at her side, merely standing guard.

With a thickening lump in her throat and the echoing beat of her racing heart, Casey had followed him down the long, dirty hallway and into the brightly lit kitchen. Cilas immediately started to pull food out from the industrial-sized refrigerator before he walked to the cabinet beside it and took out a few of the clean, mismatched dishes. She counted three as he lined them up on the counter and non-verbally called her attention to ensure she was watching what he was doing.

She had figured out that, without words, Cilas was showing her how to prepare meals for the women like her, those left in their rooms alone with nothing to do to pa.s.s their time.

She hasn't seen Max in what feels like weeks. However, Anna has remained a vital part of her day-to-day routine. She comes in daily to check on her, sometimes helping her shower and get ready for each day. Casey recognizes the change in her schedule. She's been better fed and kept cleaner the last couple of weeks. It's a small piece of her meager existence, but still something she's thankful for.

Viktor's visits have become more frequent, as well. However, he's been bringing with him a series of men who, without invitation, look too long at her hair, face, and limbs. She wonders the meaning of their visits to her room. No one has ever explained and she doesn't understand, but she doesn't dare ask for fear of the unknown consequence if she did.

As Casey stands next to Cilas now, she looks around the dirty kitchen, realizing she's been in here before, but truly never gave second notice to its degree of filth. The counters are littered with bits and pieces of trash, dishes, and old rags. The floor is thick with dust, similar to the hallway floors she's walked on while moving from place to place. The wall of windows framing the outside allows light to spill into the room. The brightness causes her to squint as she takes in the narrow patch of gra.s.s and the old brown, broken-down fence which surrounds it.

Cilas snaps his fingers to gain her focus so she looks up, giving him her undivided attention. His other hand holds out a red plastic cup and she accepts it. In his way, he's asking her to fill the gla.s.ses with the water jug already in place on the small table.

"Teaching her to do a job you hate, I see," Anna claims sweetly as she takes in the scene in front of her. Neither Casey nor Cilas had spotted the small, dark-haired, beautiful woman watching from the hallway door, which leads to the other buildings within the compound.

Cilas remains standing quietly with his usual hardened expression in place. Ever the dark giant, he doesn't allow Anna to sway his always-rough mood, especially in front of their small audience. But even at Casey's young age, she can't help but notice his eyes shine with a small smile once Anna has spoken. Their familiarity to each other is obviously present.

"Oh, Cilas. Lighten up a little. You're scaring her." Anna winks at Casey as she continues chastising him. "So, you've taken her out of her room and put her to work?" she asks, then tsks. "Has she eaten? Did you think to ask if she was hungry?"

Cilas's eyebrows furrow in thought, only slightly breaking his usually rigid and distant faade. He hadn't asked if she was hungry. He hadn't paid any careful attention to her at all.

"Casey," Anna addresses. "Let's go back to your room and get your bedding clean. Then we'll come make us lunch and eat together," she offers.

Grabbing the red cup from Casey's hand, Anna pushes it into Cilas's chest and holds her other hand in place against him. He frowns at her next statement. Anna expresses it in a low whisper, but Casey still hears the one-way exchange. "Don't treat her like she's nothing, Ci. She's someone to Viktor. And she's someone to me."

Someone to Viktor?

Casey plays with those words in her head, trying to make reason with them, but gives up when Anna places her arm around her shoulders and bends to smile into the top of her hair before kissing it gently.

After nodding his acknowledgement to Anna taking Casey, Cilas turns around and goes about his work.

"Come. Let's leave him to his duties. He needs to finish and can't do that if we're distracting him," Anna nearly giggles out.

Casey realizes Anna is making fun of Cilas, but she doesn't smile at the humor. Instead, she finds herself basking in its sound.

Chapter Two.

The air is dense, thickened with the stain of blood and urine. Casey squeezes my hand, releasing her anxiety and relaying her fear through the quiet gesture.

She shouldn't be here.

The echoes of torment down the hall in front of us increase with each step taken in their direction. Cries of pain, mixed with their voices begging to be set free, surround us in every direction.

The lights above where we're standing flicker on and off as we near the first door. Once we turn our heads to look inside, we find the scene bone-chillingly graphic.

The body of a woman I've never seen before hangs lifeless from the end of a twisted rope. Her arms are bound to her front, held together by a thin wire. The silver strap cuts into the skin surrounding the makeshift knot. Judging by the severity of how she's bound, it's excruciatingly obvious she couldn't have done this to herself. Someone did this to her.

Casey shouldn't be here.

The sour stench of blood, rotting flesh, and ripened vomit starts to envelop the s.p.a.ce around us, making it impossible to find a clean breath of air.

She shouldn't be witness to this.

A man I've never seen before stands ahead of us, obstructing our path. He appears reflective but remains unmoving. His skin is pale and his arms are covered with angry marks, which appear to be left by claws, along his forearms and neck.

"She's in here," he utters, his deep baritone voice vibrating through my chest. It's as if he's talking from inside of me. "You'll want to see her," he advises next.

Looking down at Casey, standing so close and with her body visibly shaking, I feel helpless. I'm left to only fear what happens next.

Why is she still here?

"Who's in there?" I inquire, hearing my voice drop to an involuntary whisper.

When he doesn't answer, I pull Casey along, hoping I can keep her safe at my side. The corridor walls start to move and shift in place and once they stop, a wooden door appears. At first, the rotted wood of its frame looks too thick and heavy for it to open, but then on its own volition, it does.

The sight before us now is more graphic than the one before. Casey's small whimper as she takes in the room causes me to pause and turn around, looking for the man. I want to question where we are. But he's gone.

On a metal table, covered in a thin white sheet, in a room filled with skulls tapered with decaying flesh lying haphazardly on tables and shelves, is a single body.

A woman.

Her hair is long, dark brown, and appears to be matted with blood and dirt. The blood that oozed from her body clings to the sheet in several places. Her feet hang over the table's end. From here, I note a white tag lying against the bottom of her foot, being held by a small piece of yarn around her first b.l.o.o.d.y toe.

"Go to her, Max," the man, back from where he'd been, tells me. He knows my name.

I'm hesitant, so I stop inside the door's entrance without walking through it. A light as bright as the sun, but with rays not strong enough to blind, flips on and outlines the woman's small body under the thin veil of cloth.

"Max?" Casey calls to me, her voice sounding as scared as I would've expected it to be.

Looking down, I grab one of her hands in both of mine and pull it to my chest. I smile only slightly in hopes to ease her worry. "It's okay, monkey."

"I want to go home," she tells me, her words resonating pain with each spoken syllable.

This h.e.l.l is her home. How does she not remember?

No longer able to impart words of encouragement, I release her small, warm hand and move my gaze to the lifeless body on the table.

The door behind us closes, and I hear the lock click into place. Casey jumps with its sound, lets go of my hand, and races for the door. But like all her unanswered prayers for escape, this effort is as hopeless.

Casey's being put back into a cage, but this time she's not alone.

As I walk forward, I continue to listen to her pleas for freedom. They remain as a constant echo in the stillness behind me, but her small voice crying out will fall on deaf ears.

Without hesitation, my hand touches the top of the sheet. My finger brushes against the person's skin, grazing the forehead briefly.

"Max! No!" Casey cries from behind me.

But it's too late.

My hand drops the cloth and I'm forced to take a step back. Chills of panic shoot through my body, into each limb with a vibrant snap, before releasing to flood every fiber inside.

"Marie?" I ask with a lost breath. The panic in my voice is stricken with both grief and frustration. My remembrance of the day she died rushes through the recesses of my memory, bringing to the forefront every emotion I'd felt in losing her.

The pain.

The sadness.

The anger.

The regret.

I feel Casey at my side, dragging my arm and trying to pull back. She's using all her strength, but it's not enough.

"It's not her, Max. It's not Marie. Please!" she cries loudly. "I want to go home."

This is your home, Casey.

Finally able to turn my glance away from the dead body, I start to move toward Casey just as she releases a gut-wrenching wail as if she's in agonizing pain. She falls to her knees, still tugging at my hand.

"Please, Max, help her! Help her!" she shrieks, the pitch of her voice stinging my ears.

As I look back to the table, I'm forced to take a gasping breath. The room spins quickly as Casey and I watch Marie sit up in place. The sheet falls, displaying her mutilated torso. Knife wounds, bite marks, and scratches all laid out in front of us. It's the evidence of her brutal ending.

Her head twists in our direction. My sister's eyes, once so young and beautiful but now so cold in death, are locked on mine.

Her battered and bruised eyebrows furrow as she speaks. "You should have helped me, Max," she accuses.

My hand reaches toward her as anger envelops her young face.

"I couldn't stop him," she cries out loudly, shattering the windows around us. The remnants of gla.s.s fall to the floor, blanketing Casey's soft sobs.

"Marie," I state to calm her, hoping to connect with her in a way I did when she was living. But I don't feel my sister's presence at all.

Her voice is soft now, dropping to a whisper. "You never loved me."

It's coming from Marie's mouth, though it's no longer Marie's voice I hear.

It's Dee Dee's.

Gasping for breath, I sit up in bed with a jolt. My hand rushes to my chest, seeking my own heartbeat. It's there, but its rhythm is wild.

What the f.u.c.k was that?

Marie's face clouds my vision as a bead of sweat falls from my temple. Lying on that cold table with the light beaming down on her from above, I felt a familiar being. I just didn't know whose it was.