Chapter Twenty-Four

Nila

Jacob had made me scream in ecstasy and I didn’t know how to feel. Every moment spent with Jacob left me more torn than before. I wanted to get to know him, what made him tick, what made him who he was. I wanted to dig deeper into the mystery of Jacob and sink my darkness into his skin. I wanted to make him mine. But at the same time, I wanted to make him scream.

I was so damn confused.

To make matters worse, I was now confined to my house. Once a sanctuary, now a prison. Jacob molded me into his perfect housewife—the pretty princess I should’ve been had my life not gone astray.

Instead of pure nakedness, I was now allowed to flaunt around the house in heels and an apron, like a demented 1950s housewife in stripper form.

Jacob was determined to make us a family, to make me his wife. I still didn’t think he knew what his emotions truly were. He was lost, confused, and I became his anchor. It was comical, really. The fucked-up doctor and the man who should’ve been a patient.

But Jacob didn’t know how to love. Didn’t even know where to begin. He took me prisoner, kept me in a cage knowing full well what it would do to me, tortured me, and now he had me playing a game of dress-up and pretend.

I was being blackmailed by him.

His words echoed in my head.

“You obviously don’t understand, Alana, so let me make it clearer to you. I have evidence of your crimes. You think I cleaned your workstation to make you happy? I did it so I would have evidence. Top to bottom, I inspected every inch of that warehouse, collected every piece of evidence I could, so I would have it to use if you ever thought of leaving me. You are mine. And if you think otherwise, you will be left rotting in a cage the rest of your life.”

“What is wrong with you? You know you can go down with me?”

He smirked at me, standing tall and beautiful.

“I’m taking care of loose ends, don’t worry. Don’t think you need to worry about kitty kitty anymore.”

“What the fuck did you do to my cat?”

“Got rid of him. You didn’t need him.”

“You killed my cat?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not an animal. I took him on a bit of a drive. He won’t find his way back. Case solved. You’ve got much bigger things on your plate.

What else could I do but bend to his demands? I wasn’t strong enough to fight him physically, but mentally I could come out on top when the time was right. For now, I would play the submissive housewife.

For eight years I had been meticulous in my life. Nothing out of place. Nothing changing. Work, home, kill. Then Jacob shook up my world and left me a weak-willed prisoner in my own home.

For fuck’s sake, I was dusting my own damn bookshelves in a skimpy apron and six-inch heels. This get-up was atrocious. But the way Jacob’s stare lingered, the way his eyes caressed every inch of my body and his hand palmed his erection, I knew he liked what he saw.

“You missed a spot.”

Fighting the urge to roll my eyes, I turned back to him. “Where?”

“Over there,” he directed, pointing at the left side of the shelf. Moving my feather duster back that way, I made sure it was spotless so Jacob had no other complaints. Suddenly, not having more meaningful relationships in my life was a mistake. If I’d cultivated more with Emma and Milly, maybe I’d be looking forward to them coming to check up on me or call. I’d unwittingly helped Jacob isolate me.

His attention fell to the book in his lap. Glancing at the cover, it was The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien, a book I’d read more than once. There was a quote among the pages, “I survived, but it’s not a happy ending,” that was my life. That was Jacob’s life. We’d survived, but it was no happy ending, especially not this sham of a fake family. After everything we’d seen and done, Jacob and I were not meant for a life of happily ever after. Jacob was deluded to think we could settle down and live a life together. The thirst for blood would always hang over our heads, forever taunting us and teasing us back into the darkness. We could never be happy. We could never be free.

Jacob’s father had made sure of it, the bastard.

Looking up from his book, Jacob’s eyes caught mine.

“I want you to make us dinner tonight.”

“Dinner?”

“Yes. The meal that comes after lunch.” Sarcasm dripped from his words.

“What would you like to eat?” I asked in my best submissive voice, averting my eyes.

“Steak. Rare. Some sort of potato.”

“Yes, Jacob.”

“Now you get it. You’re finally cooperating.”

So you think. Really, I want to gouge your eyes out with my nails and carve my name into your neck.

Back to cleaning, I made plans on how to escape. But each time I thought I’d cemented a plan, something held me back. Something was keeping me here. The part of me that wanted Jacob … I wanted to cut it out of me and mutilate it. Chop it into hundreds of tiny pieces and scatter it into the wind.

“Yes, Jacob. I don’t want to be punished again.” Classic good-girl smile in place, I didn’t stop when Jacob’s eyes narrowed. I could play this game.

He relaxed with a sigh. “I’m so happy to hear that. I hate punishing you, Alana.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t been as understanding as you need me to be.”

Step one: Show remorse. Make him think I’m starting to come around and understand.

“You need to learn to trust me, to love me. But you will. You will.”

“Of course, Jacob.”

Step two: Be agreeable. Earn his trust.

“Shall I go prepare dinner?”

With a glance at the clock—five thirty—Jacob looked back up at me. “Yes. Go get dinner ready.”

Strutting into the kitchen as if my so-called outfit no longer bothered me, I took out the steaks I’d left in the fridge a few days ago. Hard to believe it had only been a few days. Time passed funny with Jacob.

Preparing a marinade, I soaked the steaks in it. Turning on the stove, I waited for it to preheat while I began chopping up vegetables and potatoes to make a grilled vegetable stir-fry to go with our dinner. I’d always loved cooking, before and after my kidnapping. Cooking was like a skill of its own. Everything had to be perfectly measured and timed. Without that strictness, you would burn your food to ruin. Being in the kitchen helped give me the control I had lost.

And made me wicked-skilled with a knife.

I wanted everything perfect for Jacob, and my reasoning for it was so fucked up. Of course, I wanted to follow through with my plan to escape, but a small part of me whispered, I wonder if Jacob’s ever had a home cooked meal?

I may not be able to give Jacob the love he so desperately sought from me, but I could give him a good meal. I could provide him with something his father never had. I wished it was good enough for him.

No. He was getting to my head. That was the only reason this knife wasn’t buried in his gut.

But as he’d pointed out before, I left him to take the fall after he helped me escape and kill his father. I owed him something. I owed him everything. But what he wanted from me was much more than I could give. I couldn’t even remember how to love my own parents or brother anymore. I was twisted. I was broken. I played the role of Nila—put together, bright, beautiful, and perfect. I pretended otherwise when, emotionally, I was a robot. I had no soul left.

Jacob wanted me to love him, but I couldn’t. I had no heart to love with. Broken, shattered, and left in the past, I was now Nila. Unbreakable, unshakable. Alana could love. That was her downfall. I was stronger now. Jacob would see that soon enough.

As the timer dinged, I plated everything to a chef’s perfection.

“Jacob, dinner is finished!”

He strolled into the kitchen with his head held high, only to wrap an arm around my waist and inspect our dinner plates. “This looks incredible, baby.”

“Thank you.”

His praise warmed something inside of me in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Shaking it off, I took our plates to the table. Jacob wanted a housewife, I would give him one.

“I hope you enjoy it.”

“I’m sure I will.”

He cut into his steak and took a bite, and I wondered what was going on in that mind of his.

“This is delicious.”

“Thank you. I’ve always enjoyed cooking.”

Step three: Give him something personal.

“Really?”

“Yes. During the trial, I cooked or baked something almost daily to keep my mind off of things. My mom thought I should’ve gone to culinary school.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I wanted to know why men like your father did things like what happened to me. I wanted to get in his mind. Find out what made him tick. Find out how to help myself. I didn’t want to be dark. I tried fighting it for a long time, but then I couldn’t any longer. I wanted to know why.”

“Did you ever find out?”

“No. By then I had already grown to love the darkness in me. It’s funny, really. Did you know I used to be a cheerleader? A dancer?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yeah. I used to be a normal teenager. And then one day I wasn’t. I was lost.”

“I should’ve been there.”

“You were going through your own problems, Jacob. He may have been my kidnapper, my rapist, but he was your father. You lost your family.”

“What about you? Did you lose your family?”

“I lost myself and, in turn, lost them. We used to be close. I loved my parents, we had a great relationship. The week I was taken, Dad and I were supposed to be going to the father-daughter dance. I was thrilled. And even though my brother got on my nerves a lot, I loved him.”

“So why did things change?”

“I did. I wasn’t happy anymore. I went through the motions of life, but I wasn’t really living, and when I saw how torn apart they were, I slipped into Nila’s personality. I gave them a well-adjusted girl. I played a role. And while it made them happy for a while, it was an act. They wanted their little girl back and I couldn’t give them that. They tried to help me deal with what had happened to me, but I was still stuck back in that cage, and I couldn’t be Alana again.”

“I understand.”

“I thought you would. What about you, Jacob? What happened to you?”

“Life. Foster homes. You’re a therapist. You know what happens to kids like me.”

Patting his hand, I apologized to him, even though I knew he didn’t want it. He was right, though, I did know what happened to kids like him in the system. If I had to take a guess, I would say there were fists involved for sure. Possibly even rape. Foster homes weren’t good to anyone. Especially if you were a serial killer’s son.

“We’re more alike than I thought, Jacob.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Eight years later, we’re still broken and living in the past. Do we ever really get over it?”

“I’m not sure. I think that’s why I’m here.”

“To get over it?”

“To reclaim my life. To reclaim what was stolen from me.”

To him, I would always be the girl his father had stolen from him. Sometimes, I wondered what would have happened if his father would have allowed him to keep me. Would I have ended up resenting Jacob? Hating him? Would I have developed Stockholm Syndrome and fallen for him? And if we would have run, what would his father have done to us? Kill us, most likely. No matter what would’ve happened, Jacob and I would have come out of our situation twisted and broken. And that was if we lived to tell the tale.

Knowing his father, we would’ve been forced to dig our own graves and die at each other’s hands so he could get his jollies off on our pain. That was who the sick son of a bitch was. I was so glad to be rid of that bastard, but oftentimes I found myself wishing I could kill him all over again. He took pleasure in my pain, and I took pleasure in his death.

I had a new problem on my hands. I was finding myself even more attracted to Jacob and wanting to know more, even though I planned to escape him. Problem was, I wasn’t positive I did want to escape him any longer.

I think I may just want Jacob.