Thy Kingdom Come (Deliver Us From Evil Trilogy Book One) Page 10

  Luckily, however, I don’t believe in fairy tales.

  “Get up!”

  My groggy brain takes a moment to come to, but when it does, I wish I could slip into a coma and never wake.

  “I said, get up!”

  Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I quickly pull back the scratchy blanket on my single bed and get into position—on my knees. This is what’s expected of me, and if I don’t obey, I get punished. And so does everyone I love.

  Which is the only reason I submit. It’s the reason I do the despicable things that I do.

  “Where is it?”

  “Where’s what?”

  It’s too late by the time I realize what I’ve said. I pay for my error with a slap to my cheek. My head snaps to the left with a sharp crack.

  “What did ya say?”

  “Where’s wh-what…m-master?” I repeat, my eyes downcast.

  “Aye, that’s better,” he says happily. My humiliation gives him great pleasure. “The brooch.”

  Keeping my nerves under control, I lick my dry lips. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen it. The last time—”

  “Shut yer bake,” he interrupts, not appreciating my lies. “Yer full of shite. Where is thon brooch?”

  I prepared myself for this situation as I knew it was coming. By giving the brooch back to Punky, I knew what it would mean for me. But I’ll deal with the repercussions because I did the right thing—for once.

  “I don’t know.”

  The silence is heavy. I brace for what comes next.

  “Ya need reminding of yer place?” I don’t know why he phrased it as a question because there are no choices. That privilege was stripped from me when I agreed to sell my soul to the devil.

  My silence usually pleases him, but not today.

  He slaps my other cheek, hollering when I grunt under the force. Yet I still don’t snitch. This earns me a punch to my stomach. Groaning, I fold in half, attempting to catch my breath.

  “I’ll ask ye again, where is it?”

  Gasping for air, I measure my breathing until eventually, I come back into an upright position. This just enrages him further. He wants me to surrender, but I can’t. He wants me to break, but it’s going to take a lot more than him beating me black and blue to break my spirit.

  I will withstand everything he delivers because it brings me one step closer to why I’m here. There is only one person who matters; they’re the reason for all of this.

  “I-I don’t know.”

  “Fine, have it yer way then.”

  I hear the familiar sound which no longer scares me—his belt unfastening and slipping through the beltloops.

  “Take it off,” he orders, and I don’t resist. What would be the point? It just delays the inevitable.

  Slipping the thin nightgown over my head, I cover my modesty as best I can, but it doesn’t matter. He’s seen it all. He’s humiliated me in every possible way that there is.

  “Look at the bleedin’ state of ya. Yer disgusting.”

  The belt cracks across my back, a fresh lash added to the ones he delivered three days ago. Flinching, I bite down on my tongue so hard, I taste blood. But I don’t cry out for help because who would help me? I’m alone.

  Again, he whips me, this time across my arse. The pain is excruciating, but still, I don’t scream. I know if I just submit the torture will stop, but if I do that, he wins. Therefore, I will endure every punch, slap, bite, and whip he inflicts because each one proves that I’m stronger than him.

  I’ll never admit defeat.

  He whips me again and again, screaming that I’m to surrender.

  In response, I don’t make a sound. I don’t move.

  The belt drops to the hard floor and I close my eyes as I know what comes next. He kicks me in the ribs, before stomping on my calf. But he never punches me in the face because he doesn’t want anyone to see what a monster he truly is.

  My injuries are easily covered because he’s a coward; a coward who will pay for everything he’s done.

  With one final blow to my ribs, he exhales, tipping his face to the ceiling, elated by the violence he’s caused. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough. He comes to stand in front of me, roughly gripping my chin and arching my neck back so I can look up at him.

  I don’t cry.

  I don’t scream.

  I simply exist for the day he’ll suffer at my hands.

  He rubs his thumb over my bottom lip, a feral look reflected in his cold blue eyes. “There’s more than one way to make ye talk.”

  He forces his thumb into my mouth, slipping it in and out, a clear innuendo for what he wants. His erection presses against the front of his trousers. My stomach roils in disgust.

  He removes his thumb, which he replaces with two fingers. He forces them down my throat and when I gag, he hums in approval. He awkwardly tugs down his trousers, freeing his revolting cock and forcing me to gag for another reason.

  As he strokes over his swollen shaft, he continues to work his fingers in and out of my mouth, grunting as the tempo gets faster and faster.

  It takes all my willpower not to bite down, not to gnaw off this motherfucker’s fingers and reveal why I’m really here. But not yet. It’s not time. I refuse to let all of this be for nothing. I’m their only hope.

  This is only a shell; one he can break time and time again. But he’ll never take my will to survive. And survive, I will.

  So, I watch uninterested as the corded veins in his neck pop, him grunting and jerking himself off with that poor excuse of a cock. We never break eye contact as he wants me to yield.

  In response, I smirk around his fingers, a clear fuck you.

  He roars, angered, forcing my mouth open as he yanks down on my bottom jaw. My mouth is hinged ajar, his fingers down my throat. I gag violently, which is what he wanted. With three quick pumps, he removes his fingers and comes inside my mouth, grunting fervently.

  Just as I’m about to spit, he cups my chin, pressing my mouth shut. He then pinches my nose, knowing sooner or later, I’ll need to breathe.

  My cheeks grow hot as my lungs demand air, and just when I’m about to fight him, he lets my nose go. On instinct, I open my mouth, gasping for air as he releases me. This results in most of his seed spilling down my throat, while some dribbles out of the corner of my mouth.

  Spitting hysterically, I attempt to rid his foul taste from my mouth, but it’s too late. He’s a part of me now.

  “One day, it won’t be my fingers down yer throat.” He wipes away the trickle from my chin, smirking victoriously as he pulls up his trousers.

  I don’t cower. I am expressionless as he waits for me to do something, anything. But it’ll be a cold day in hell when I show defeat.

  Angered, he spits in my face before turning and slamming the door shut behind him.

  Only when I hear his irritated footsteps grow softer and softer, do I crumple. Wiping the spittle from my cheek, I reach for my nightgown with trembling fingers. Once dressed, I come to a shaky stand and stagger into the bathroom where I lift the toilet seat and crouch. This time, I force my own fingers down my throat.

  Gagging a few times, I persevere until I throw up nothing but bile, but that’s okay because I know I’m expelling the vile bastard from my system. When I’ve got nothing left to bring up, I cradle the porcelain bowl, slamming my fist against the side of it as tears of anger stream down my face.

  No matter what it takes, no matter how long, I’m going to kill every last…Doyle and burn their motherfucking kingdom to the ground.

  “The black? Or the green?”

  Flinching, as it hurts to breathe, I look over my shoulder to see Darcy holding up two dresses. She wiggles each coat hanger, hinting she’s waiting for me to reply.

  Honestly, both look like they’re missing about eight inches off the hemline, but good luck to her if she wants to catch pneumonia.

  “The green,” I say, trying my best to sound interested.

  Darcy
looks at the green dress, pursing her lips. “The black it is.”

  She turns on her heel and leaves me to scrubbing her toilet while she gets ready for wherever the hell she’s going.

  Turning back around, I curse under my breath, reminding myself why I’m here. It’s the only reason I haven’t told these narcissistic arseholes to sod off. I can’t believe how unbelievably obscene and cruel these people are.

  To the outside world, they are respected, admired for their hard work and determination, but I’ve seen who they really are behind closed doors. Once their masks are removed, I see the ugliness which truly lurks beneath the surface.

  All but one.

  Punky.

  I don’t know what it is about him, but he’s unlike the others. Something about him makes him stand out from the rest. Yes, he is a Kelly, therefore, he is the enemy, but not by choice. He was born into this; as was I.

  What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

  Shakespeare said it best, but Punky and I are no Romeo and Juliet. We aren’t star-crossed lovers. We never can be. I know that. So why can’t I stop thinking about him?

  These are dangerous waters I tread because so much relies on getting what I want, but to hurt someone like Punky to achieve this doesn’t seem right. He’s as much a victim as I am.

  With a sigh, I continue scrubbing Darcy’s toilet as I have a day filled with chores ahead of me. Once I’m done cleaning the bathroom, I enter her bedroom and try my best not to cry out in pain with each step I take.

  She looks incredibly dolled up, so I’m guessing she’s going on a date. I wonder who the unlucky fella is.

  Darcy is pretty if you like that perfect kind of look, which is what every guy likes, bar Punky it seems. He didn’t hide his distaste of her at dinner. She could have cartwheeled in the nude in front of him, and it wouldn’t have mattered.

  That probing stare of his penetrated my very core as I tried my best to remain unmoved by his presence. But he makes me nervous, and he knows it. Simple tasks such as breathing are a chore with him close by. I’ve never felt this before.

  I’m twenty years old, and although I’ve had a couple of casual boyfriends, none of them were able to elicit these feelings in me. Being near Punky excites me, and I think he feels the same way about me.

  I can see it.

  I can feel it.

  And that’s what worries me the most.

  I need him to be strong because my resolve is slipping. If he doesn’t deny me, then I sure as hell can’t deny him. I’m playing with fire…especially if he finds out who I really am.

  “I have a guest arriving soon. Please don’t interrupt us.” She pauses from applying her red lipstick, and her mirror image smirks at me. “If ye know what I mean.”

  “Of course, Miss Duffy,” I reply, nodding quickly. That won’t be a problem. I don’t want to be anywhere near her PDA.

  “Grand.” She goes back to finishing her makeup, puckering once she’s done. “I’ve been trying for years to get his attention, and it’s finally worked. When he called me, I was so surprised. But I knew he’d give in sooner or later. I always get what I want,” she adds, turning around to face me.

  I don’t know if this is supposed to be a two-way conversation, so I keep quiet, focusing on making Queen Darcy’s bed. She asked I change her sheets to the pink silk set. No guessing why that is.

  “But I suppose someone like you wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  Biting the inside of my cheek, I don’t take the bait.

  “Did you always want to be a—” She pauses, appearing to search for the right word. “A maid.”

  Maid is a polite way of saying fucking servant because what twenty-year-old woman can’t make her own bed? Darcy can do it, but why would she when she has me to do it for her? This is how the rich work. They use and abuse those “beneath” them because that’s what we’re here for—to serve them.

  She doesn’t give me a chance to reply because she doesn’t want me to. This isn’t two friends gossiping about boys. It’s two distinct classes co-existing because they have to. Darcy isn’t sharing this as a friend; she’s bragging about everything I’ll never have.

  Thankfully, the doorbell rings.

  Darcy takes two deep breaths, before squealing and primping her appearance one last time. “How do I look?”

  “Lovely,” I reply half-heartedly, rolling my eyes as I turn my back to tuck in her sheet.

  She seems satisfied with my response and is out the door, primed on greeting the poor chap downstairs.

  I quickly finish making her bed as I don’t want to be anywhere near here if she’s planning on giving her guest the grand tour of her bedroom.

  Once everything is in order, I go about cleaning the rest of the house. Mr. and Mrs. Duffy are away for the weekend, which is why I jumped at the chance to do some extra chores around the house when Mrs. Duffy asked.

  Without them here, I can put my plan of attack into motion.

  Faint voices drift up the stairs, and when I hear the side door open, I sigh in relief. Darcy has taken her guest into the gardens, which gives me an opportunity to snoop around. Using the feather duster as a decoy, I pretend to be dusting the invisible cobwebs as I pass by Mr. Duffy’s office door.

  Peering from left to right and seeing the coast is clear, I try the door handle. No surprise, it’s locked. But that’s not a dead end—it’s merely a speedhump.

  Removing my hairpin, I carefully insert it into the lock and wiggle it. To the left. To the right. Up and down. I continue working it because I know with experience, eventually, you’ll find the sweet spot…like right now.

  The lock clicks, permitting me entry. I don’t waste a minute and quickly enter, softly closing the door behind me.

  Patrick Duffy’s office is meticulous, not that I expected anything less, so I have to ensure I leave everything as I found it. Opening the filing cabinet, I reach for my phone and flick through the alphabetically organized files.

  There is no such thing as too much information, so I take an abundant number of photos of files which I think will be of use. I stop when I reach the letter N. I don’t want to push my luck as I assume Darcy will want to show her guest her bedroom soon.

  Quietly closing the filing cabinet, I take a look around, backtracking to a painting which hangs over the fireplace. Tilting my neck to the side, I examine the way the watercolor painting of a horse is sitting a couple of inches away from the wall.

  To the untrained eye, it would go undetected, but not to me. It’s my “job” to notice these things. It’s what helped me survive all these years. Lifting the corner with my pointer, I see the reason it’s not flush with the wall is because there is a safe mounted behind the painting.

  Taking a quick photo of the safe, I ensure the painting is hanging the way I found it and decide to look for the code another time because I can hear Darcy’s laughter from downstairs.

  Doing a quick sweep and ensuring everything is in order, I softly open the door and peek my head out into the long hallway. It’s clear.

  Locking the door, I continue my ruse of dusting, a rush of adrenaline thrumming through me at not being caught. If only the Duffys knew the real reason I’m here. But they will. Soon enough.

  Once I’m done dusting, I collect the supplies I need to clean the main bedroom. I’ll take a quick look around as I haven’t been able to do so with Mrs. Duffy around. I’m feeling good about this because it’s only a matter of time until I can leave this hellhole for good and go home.

  I miss them. So much.

  My mind is so lost to a place I yearn to return, that I’m not aware of my surroundings until it’s too late. I turn the corner and bump into a delectable smelling wall. However, that doesn’t make a lick of sense because I’m in the hallway.

  I peer up and up and see the wall is actually the muscled chest of the last person I expected to see here.

  “Punky?” I can’t hide my su
rprise because what in the ever-living hell is he doing here?

  However, it doesn’t take me long to catch up to speed when I see he’s wearing a pressed white shirt and black ripped jeans. His long fringe is flicked to the left, styled this way to accent his bad-boy look.

  He looks incredible.

  But no matter how incredible he looks, him being here leaves the most bitter taste in my mouth because he is Darcy’s guest. I’m going to be sick.

  “Babydoll?” he says, his surprise clear. “I didn’t think ya were workin’ today.”

  Needing to get my head back in the game, a game where Punky does not exist, I pull back my shoulders and ensure my mask is firmly in place. “Well, I am. If you’ll excuse me.”

  I attempt to push past him, but he doesn’t let me move an inch.

  Gripping my wrist, he looks at me closely. He examines my face, down my chest, and then ends with my feet. I’m covered, so there is no way he can see the atrocities which remain hidden beneath my uniform. But I nervously lick my lips, nonetheless.

  “What happened to yer face?” he asks, his eyes narrowing.

  Shit.

  I slathered on the makeup, and no one has noticed thus far. But Punky isn’t no one. I should know that by now.

  “That’s none of your concern.” I use his own response as ammo back at him because when I asked the same question, he had no intention of sharing. And neither do I.

  Yanking out of his hold, I shove past him, but again, he stops me, and this time, he ensures I’m not going anywhere as he pushes me and pins me to the wall. He places his hands either side of my head, caging me in. I shove against his chest.

  He doesn’t speak, but in this case, actions speak a lot louder than words. He examines every inch of me, those blue eyes looking for any clues.

  “I’m sure your date will be looking for you,” I sarcastically bite, still unbelieving he is here of his own accord.

  But he ignores the jab.

  He keeps one hand fixed to the wall, but with the other, he gently runs his thumb over my chin. I flinch as I’m not used to such a tender touch. It surprises me. As do the trail of goose bumps which coat my skin.