Chapter 10: Out of the Night
AN: Leaving a note here, again, though I don't usually. Maybe just so you all get a fair warning. If you're thinking to yourself the hard part is over, it's not. Believe me, I got into this fic thinking I would only write a couple chapters and I've got over two hundred pages now. There's a plot shaping, and yes, an ending in sight. I won't leave you stranded, I promise. But it's going to get worse before it gets better. For the upcoming chapters, you really want to keep in mind all the warnings about noncon, physical violence and sadism.
Plainly put (because for some reason, I do feel I have to explain myself for creating such a dark and strange story), this fanfiction is about rape. Its impact on a whole family, on the victim and on the predator. But it's also about how far we will go for the people we love. About grief, and healing, and never giving up.
That said, if I haven't scared all readers away with this long-ass note, please share your feedback in the comment section. It's the story I'm most eager to see reviews on when I check my notifications. Maybe because I can't make sense of it and seeing other people's comments helps me shed light on the whole thing.
Anyways, that's plenty too long already. 'Happy' reading!
…
The fire has died out. Through the window, the sunrise bleeds through, orange and bright.
Dawn is breaking outside.
Kellerman feels a strange quiet, the kind of quiet that can only exist at war after a long bloodshed, when you don't know how many you've killed, if they were foes or friends, whether you'll be decorated or hanged.
Sara slips one foot into her black tights. Sitting on the very couch where he had her, multiple times. The red velvet looks wet in places, and maybe there's blood, and maybe it's just sweat. She's got her shirt back on, her skirt back on. He takes the ring, cold now, that lies on the desk, and makes a fist. Realizes he's looking for fragments of her melted flesh.
Thud, as her heel clicks into place.
If he doesn't say anything, she'll leave, just like that, and disappear without a trace. "I can call you a cab."
It's the first thing that crosses his mind.
"No."
Her eyes fixed on the carpet as she puts on her other shoe.
"It's still dark," he says. "And this isn't the safest street." He has no idea if this is true, has never thought of streets in terms of safe, but he's got to say something.
She looks up. The crossroads of her eyes spears into the pit of his soul. He feels rooted to the ground. Absently, it strikes him this look is going to stay with him, at least as long as the scar he just burned into her.
"Worried I'll get raped?" she says.
Kellerman swallows.
She grabs her purse and gets to her feet. It's only when she shoves her phone back into her purse that he remembers Lincoln, handcuffed to a chair in the kitchen. "Wait."
He's barely grazed her wrist but she bristles like a cat about to draw claws. The skin is red, raw from the tie that's now hooked around his neck. It'll still smell like her for a few hours and he knows, when she's left this building, that he'll clamp it to his face.
Has he gotten her out of his system?
Or has he melted her a bit deeper into his flesh?
"Don't touch me," she says. "We're done."
"I know."
Shit.
She breaks toward the door.
"Lincoln's downstairs."
The look of surprise on her face would have counted as a victory before tonight. But the war's been fought, blood has swamped the battlefield and every strike is gratuitous now.
"He came back, after the plane took off. Caused a bit of a problem. I had to restrain him."
She shakes her head.
"I'll take you downstairs."
"No. No," she says.
There's no need for her to explain. If Lincoln sees him right now, he'll get unmanageable. Throw punches about. The cops might have to get involved, and that's not what she wants.
He can read her just fine.
She wants to be out of this city, now. Yesterday.
"I'll have security take you." Dayshift won't start for a few hours, but there's always someone on call.
She stands still as a statue while he makes the call to his agent. Eyes on the door. Purse clutched to her chest.
Words creep to his throat—an apology?—but they keep bouncing back against the ice of her demeanor, of her voice.
Worried I'll get raped?
They wait, so silent the ding of the elevator at the end of the corridor fills the room.
Only a few seconds before she disappears from his life. Shouldn't he have thought of a few satisfying last words? If he gets them wrong, will it start a whole new cycle of frustration? Will he be back at his computer tomorrow, scrolling through old pictures of Sara? With every passing second, his silence reeks of failure.
"It's—"
"Not personal," she finishes.
"Right."
Her gaze never wavers from the door. The night-shift agent arrives and she slips through the door.
"Goodbye, Sara."
Their eyes lock, and it's like all the power he's used against her tonight tightropes from his hands to hers.
No.
This is supposed to be over. An eye for an eye. She's got more than a taste of her own medicine, that mixture of pain and humiliation, and still these old chains shackle themselves to his wrists and ankles. An urge to throw himself at the hem of her dress, like a dog to his mistress.
He's been a bad dog.
And she untethers from him without effort.
She says, "Go to hell, Paul."
…
Sara thought dignity would matter in the end. Walking straight when she leaves his office. Not begging for it to end—did she beg out loud or only in her head?
But there is no room for dignity in all this.
Only varying degrees of shame.
The agent does not make small talk with her as he takes her to the kitchen. Her heels click on the tiles, and break into a run as she spots Lincoln.
"Jesus." She tries to prop the chair back into a sitting position, but it's no use. Caked blood around Lincoln's lashes makes it difficult for him to open his eyes, but he tries, comes to life at the sight of her.
She turns to the agent, who is already untying Lincoln before he can suffer the hate in her voice as well as her eyes.
"Whereishe," Lincoln lets out, rough lumps of speech. "Where is he that I can kill him—"
Sara presses her hand to his mouth. "Shh."
"Where—"
"Shut up."
She helps steady him once he gets to his feet, but his eyes dart about all over the room. If he wants to break from her grip, she's got no means to overpower him.
"Kellerman!" he says. "Come show your face you coward!"
"Lincoln, stop."
Her tone must be cutting enough to give him pause.
"I am not spending the day trying to bail you out of jail."
"But—"
"Your brother's alive. You really want to be stuck in a cell to welcome him?" That shuts him up, at least momentarily. "We'll talk outside. I promise. Let's just get out of here."
He comes with her, but not before he gives Kellerman's agent an I'll kill you look and spits on the ground, a glob murky with blood and bile.
The morning air hits them, freezing, and Sara is vividly aware she left her coat in Kellerman's office. "Come on," she grabs Lincoln's hand, to drag him toward the car. "We've got a four-hour ride ahead of us. I'll take the first round."
Surely that will snap him back to his senses. Lincoln hates riding shotgun, but he'll have to endure it a couple hours, until she can make sure he didn't suffer a concussion.
What is her driving going to look like, when the last thing she ate was Lincoln's Mars bar over forty-eight hours ago, and after a night like this one?
They're about to find out.
But Lincoln refuses to budge an inch from the sidewalk before Kellerman's building. He's not wearing a coat himself, and if this drags on they'll both catch their deaths.
"What happened in there?"
His eyes are steel, uncompromising.
"It doesn't matter. Michael's alive, Lincoln. We don't have time—"
"No, no, no, no. Did he touch you? Because I promised that son of a bitch a three-course meal made out of his balls, and I'm not going back on my word."
Sara's skull glows red. The urge to shove her fist in her mouth and bite down on it just so she won't scream, so she won't slap Lincoln. So she won't break.
"Listen to me," she says. "Michael is waiting for us, in New York, in God knows what state. I am not going to waste a second more in this place. You want to stay? Be my guest. You'll find yourself another ride. And you're doing this for yourself. Not for me. Are we clear on that?"
Lincoln's cheeks tremble, like a hurricane is taking form under his skin. Without a word, they head toward the car.
This time, she drives.