Submitting To The Devil - The Devil's Snare - Book 2

Chapter Fifty Four

Bianca

I find myself grappling with an instinctive urge to keep Niko at arm's length, even though deep down, I know I shouldn't. It's a reflexive response to the very question he poses—one I once asked myself the moment Franko insisted I be tracked.

The memories of that time are shrouded in a dense fog, a haze that has always engulfed me. I've never truly wished to revisit the details of those tumultuous days—just a year and a half ago, yet they feel like a lifetime away.

Ignorant bliss had once wrapped itself around me like a warm blanket, providing comfort until this very moment. But now, an unsettling curiosity gnaws at me: what truly transpired in those lost hours? Why has everything slipped through the cracks of my memory, leaving only shadows in its wake?

"How are they tracking you?" His words hang like a prison glass divider between us.

"I don't know. Maybe they're bluffing," I shrug defensively. How am I to tell him I remember the rape and nothing else? As if that was the most definitive detail my mind needed to hold onto.

But even that never came back to me fully until only a few days ago when Alexandra was taunting the very edges of my long-lost memories.

"What, what is it, Bee?"

"I—" I shake his hold off my hand and walk away to put distance between us. I can't look at him, and I can't watch his quiet love turn to disgust.

"Bee, I need to know. Whatever it is, it is information that could be the key we didn't know we needed," he encourages.

"I—. Fuck, Niko. I don't have memories of the day's post...when he took... It's all gone; I just woke up sore and covered in marks I couldn't heal for weeks and in my own bed when the night or nights before, I was in his. Below him. We never spoke about it after that. I was forbidden to bring it up, and my father never had me seen to. The scars still mark my body like a daring reminder of who I belong to."

No, those marks scabbed and turned infectious, and I had to treat them with anything my mother could gather without my father's knowledge. I think that's why the scar along my pubic bone is so raised. A mark of 'Densels' melted into my flesh that I use unwanted hair to hide because I'm ashamed of the choices made to give me to a family that has no regard for any woman's safety.

I'm sure my life won't last long once I return home to them, and I'm finally acknowledging that and accepting of it.

"Bee."

"Don't, I don't need your pity, Niko. Of all people, I don't want your pity." I spit angrily. I can hear the difference in how he sees me, which hurts more than anything I've ever endured.

Why can't we remain blissfully untainted by my past?

"That shouldn't have happened to you; your father shouldn't have put you in that position."

"It wasn't the first time he used one of us in his games to climb to the top, and even though he's dead, I'm sure it won't be the last."

"A father is—."

"A father to a daughter is vastly different from that of a son. We are used as bargaining chips, Niko, mere tools in their grand schemes. While boys are placed on pedestals, showered with valuable life lessons on navigating the harsh realities that no one dares to confront, we're often left to fend for ourselves, unprotected and overlooked."

"Don't push me away," he demands, a fierce intensity behind his eyes, ignoring my little spill of why it's hard to be a daughter in this life. That only brings me to his life, and I realise he wasn't treated in the same manner as, say, Luca was. And for a moment, I realise how pigheaded I'm being. Niko does know what it's like to be used; he's been used by everyone around him his whole life.

"Then stop. Please," I plead, my voice trembling as the weight of my words hangs heavily in the air.

It's honestly not Niko I'm begging; it's myself because of all times, my mind chooses now to allow images to run unbidden in my mind of that night when my father delivered me, signed and sealed my fate before me and then had the audacity to watch my rape as if it were a sitcom as his youngest child was being mutilated.

The sound of my voice begging for a choice in a shitty situation has me recoiling from myself in disgust. I should have remained silent, taken what he did and held onto it for the future; instead, I incriminated myself alongside him for making my own demands regarding who had me first when the time came. And yet the images jump from that shitshow to the pain of the burning metal that marred my flesh, and I feel repulsed and sick to my stomach that I chose to stoop so low.

As I stumble along the dimly lit corridor, my palm grazes the rough, cold wall, and I can feel the sting of pain shoot through my hand. Yet, I push the discomfort aside, driven by an urgent need to avoid meeting Niko's gaze. His profile remains rigidly turned away from me, a silent barrier that radiates disapproval. I can almost sense the waves of repulsion emanating from him, a reflection of my own wretched choices that haunt me like shadows. The air is tense, and each step feels heavier as I navigate this emotional minefield.

"This isn't on you, Bee. It's not your burden to bear. And Christ, I love you, so stop looking as if I'm going to disown you at a moment's notice."

"Niko," I gasp.

"It's true, Bee."

"I—."

"Don't feel the need to say anything until you're ready," he warns gently, stepping closer to me as we finally catch up with Sven at the mouth of the tunnel. I steal a quick glance at him, and our eyes meet; his gaze is filled with that familiar warmth and adoration that always makes my heart skip a beat. His hand hovers between us, an unspoken invitation, and surprisingly, I find myself reaching out to entwine our fingers, the warmth of his touch igniting a comforting spark within me.

"You're lucky I brought this bag," Sven calls out from the dim opening of the tunnel, his voice echoing slightly off the stone walls. "Otherwise, we might have been stuck in here for eternity."

As we move closer, the tunnel reveals its secret: it leads down to the beach, but the entrance is barricaded by a series of cold metal bars, effectively imprisoning us in this dim, damp space.

"What do you have in that bag to get us out of here?" Niko asks, disbelief etched on his face. His brows knit together in a mix of concern and urgency as we draw closer to Sven, peering through the rusted bars that confine us. Beyond the prison of metal, the ocean glistens under the afternoon sun, waves crashing in a rhythmic dance against the golden shore, none the wiser to the turmoil the three of us have just endured. The salty breeze sweeps past us, invigorating my senses while amplifying the palpable tension between us.

The tide is creeping ever closer, a relentless force that threatens to engulf us, and I can't shake the feeling that time is slipping away. Despite no forward planning, we're fortunate that Sven at least came equipped for this dire situation.

With a flourish, he pulls a pair of bolt cutters from his bag—imposing in both size and promise. The metallic clank reverberates in the stillness as he positions the cutters against the first bar, determination etched on his features. I can't tear my gaze away from the relentless waves beyond, each crest and trough a reminder of the freedom that awaits just a few cuts away.