Twisted Vows: A Collateral Damage Novel Read online

  TWISTED VOWS

  A COLLATERAL DAMAGE NOVEL

  CANDICE WRIGHT

  Don’t be ashamed to tell your story

  Be proud, because if you can tell it, it means you’re still here.

  And you survived.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Candice Wright

  About the Author

  Twisted Vows Copyright © 2022

  by Candice Wright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

  Cover design by Kirsty @ The Pretty Little Design Co.

  Editing by Tanya Oemig

  Created with Vellum

  CHAPTER ONE

  LAYLA

  He came in the night under the cover of darkness and stole me from my bed.

  Perhaps I should have been more afraid. But you see, this wasn’t the first time someone had pulled me from my bed in the dead of night. I doubt it will be my last.

  My husband likes to play his games. His favorite things to hear are my pain-filled whimpers and my pleas for mercy. He told me that one particular early morning as I lay bleeding on the kitchen floor. To him, my agony is the sweetest symphony, and as such, he would find new and inventive ways to make me scream.

  After a while, I learned to disassociate—how to shut off my mind to protect it when I couldn’t protect my body.

  I stopped screaming, stopped begging, stopped crying. As a result, I stopped being my husband’s favorite toy.

  If I thought I might get a reprieve from my hideous life now that I had lost favor with the devil, I would have been in for a rude awakening.

  Instead of casting me aside like I’d hoped, or better yet, killing me and finally bringing me peace, he tossed me to his men. They tore me apart like a pack of vicious dogs.

  Even then I was denied death.

  Time and time again, I was patched up and tossed aside while each night I prayed for death to come for me.

  The betrayal I felt each morning when I opened my eyes to find myself still trapped in a living breathing nightmare was enough to bring me to my knees.

  I guess when you lie with the devil, it becomes easier for God to turn a blind eye to your suffering.

  My husband wasn’t always this way, as cliché as it sounds. The man I met was a whole different person from the man I found myself with on our honeymoon.

  I worked in a library back then. I went to night school, taking classes that I hoped would help me on my way to becoming a teacher.

  Shy and nervous around people from an early age, I was an easy target for bullies and found it hard to make friends because of it. When I graduated, I’d hoped things would be better, but I still lacked the social skills other women my age were blessed with.

  I don’t know why I’m the way I am. When I’m nervous, I stutter and stumble over my words, which makes my anxiety kick in, anticipating people’s need to mock and jeer at me.

  Perhaps having a sibling would have helped me feel less alone, but my parents were older when they had me. When both of them died in a car crash within six months of my graduation, I was lost. It was the first of many debilitating blows I would receive over the years.

  When he walked into the library that fateful afternoon, I stuttered and stammered my way through, explaining where he could find the books he was looking for. He left with two of them under his arm that day and my phone number in his back pocket.

  I was shocked when he asked for it, handing it over in an almost trance-like state. Later, when I was home alone eating ice cream straight from the tub, I felt proud of myself. Ever wary of people and their motivations, I’d taken a risk and opened myself up to the possibility of a happily ever after I had only read about.

  God, if I could go back in time, I would scream at the love-starved version of myself to run. I’d yell until my voice gave out, if I thought for a single second she would listen.

  But I was blind to it all, caught up in the wonder of first love’s touch, not knowing a world-class monster was expertly playing me.

  Six months after the day we met, we were married at city hall, unable to go another second without binding ourselves to each other.

  Six hours after we said I do, he tore through my innocence while he choked me so hard I blacked out.

  Six months later, as I attempted to cover the bruises on my face—tricky with the cumbersome cast on my arm—I vowed the second I saw an opening I would run.

  Two broken legs took care of that. Now, six years later, I find myself praying to a god, who abandoned me long ago, just to let me fucking die already.

  Tied to a metal chair in a pitch-black room that is so cold I swear my bones have iced over, I make myself a promise that today would be the end.

  One of us would die here. Husband and wife pitted against each other in a macabre battle of till death do us part and I cared little which of us survived.

  Death held the promise of peace. Learning to live seemed like the scariest option, but I’d take it. I would take anything, even clawing my way out of hell with broken fingers if it meant I could finally be free.

  Bright lights turn on, forcing me to slam my eyes shut as flashing spots dance beneath my eyelids.

  When I feel brave enough to open them once more, I wish I hadn’t bothered.

  The chair I’m strapped to is bolted to the floor, which is just as well or it would have toppled over with how hard I’m shaking, but now it’
s because of more than the cold.

  The tiny room is little more than a cell with no windows and only the single locked door mocking me from across the room. There is no bed, no toilet facilities beyond the drain in the floor, and no little welcome notes telling me to enjoy my stay. What it does have that sets it apart from the other dank, dark basements around the world is a wall of torture implements and unmistakable red smears embedded deep into the cold concrete beneath my bare feet.

  The lights flicker off again, plunging me into darkness once more. This time the darkness is filled with images burned into my brain of all the tools hanging from the wall and how they might be used on me.

  Refusing to react in any way, knowing somehow the bastard is watching, I twist and turn my wrists, feeling the cold metal of the cuffs cut into my skin.

  I jump when loud operatic music pumps into the room, making me wince from the sheer volume.

  My wrist feels slick now, letting me know I’m bleeding, and not just a little. I don’t let it faze me. I try to use it as lubricant to slip my hands out of the too-tight metal bracelets, but it’s just not happening.

  Hanging my head in defeat, I do the only thing I can. I close my eyes and wait.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I’ve lost all sense of time. It could have been hours. It could have been days. Just when I think I have my bearings, the music pauses and the lights flash on, showcasing the wall of death before everything starts all over again.

  Sleep is impossible. Even disassociating myself from what’s happening has proven harder and harder as my body grows weaker.

  It’s a new and twisted form of punishment. Sleep deprivation, starvation, and the only thing I have for company is my fear of what is to come, but then I guess that’s his plan.

  My broken body on the floor is no longer enough to appease the monster. He wants to break my mind too.

  The foolish man doesn’t seem to understand that you can’t break what’s already broken.

  A flash of light illuminates the room, making me wince, but this time it’s not from the lights overhead but from the door opening.

  By the time I realize this, it closes again, plunging me back into darkness just as the music cuts out.

  My heart thumps painfully in my chest as adrenaline floods my veins.

  I cock my head and listen, but the ringing in my ears makes it hard to find a noise that’s out of place.

  After long minutes pass, my heartbeat slows and that’s when I feel it, the displacement in the air beside me.

  I turn my head and feel a warm breath against the side of my face before blinding pain rips a scream from my throat.

  I can’t fight, can’t even lift my arms to defend myself. As I sit there, trapped with the devil, a smile graces my face for the first time in years.

  It seems death has finally come for me.

  And that’s when he begins carving up my face.

  CHAPTER TWO

  CASH

  Six months later

  “I’m still not sure about this.” Viddy reiterates for the millionth time as we stare at the woman on the screen.

  “Yes, I’m well aware, but as this is my house and my life, I’ll do whatever the fuck I want,” I snap, knowing I’m pushing my luck. Viddy has given me a lot of leeway lately after what happened, hoping her friend will return to the man he once was.

  That will never happen. Taking a bullet to the chest and having your daughter kidnapped while you bleed out on the floor of the home you promised she’d be safe in, changes a man.

  She tears her eyes from the screen and glares at me.

  “Fuck you, Cash. I love Lily as if she were my own. Of course I’m fucking worried. She’s been through enough and now you want to leave her in the care of a woman who willingly made her home with a fucking monster.”

  I pull my eyes from the woman on the screen whose head is bowed as she fiddles with the hole in the knee of her pants and look up into Viddy’s angry eyes.

  “If you think for a second I’d leave my daughter unprotected, you’re out of your mind. This house is more secure than a maximum-security prison. I have cameras in every room of the house and guards that won’t take their eyes off Lily for a single moment.”

  “Then why risk it? What are you hoping to achieve?”

  “I have questions that need answering and she’s the only person who can answer them.”

  Viddy shakes her head. “She might not have the answers you’re after.”

  “Then she’ll no longer be useful and I’ll get rid of her. You go run your empire, Viddy, and leave me to take care of my own division.”

  With a growl, she bends and kisses my cheek.

  “I love you, Cash, but rein in the fucking attitude or I’ll cut off your dick.” She struts out of the room in her fuck-me heels without looking back.

  I shake my head and turn back to the screen.

  Viddy would lose her mind if she truly knew what I was up to. They all would.

  I observe the woman for a few more minutes, watching her squirm as time ticks by.

  Climbing to my feet, I take the elevator down to the ground floor and make my way to the sunroom at the back of the house where my guest was asked to wait.

  Standing in the doorway, I watch as she wrings her hands together, her white-blonde hair covering her face.

  I cough to catch her attention, which is when she whips her head up so fast I’m surprised she doesn’t hurt herself.

  Her skin is almost as white as her hair. It’s so pale, it’s as if she’s never seen a day of sunshine in her life. Teamed with icy blue eyes that are a touch too wide for her face and full lashes that I know most women would covet, I’m struck with how much she reminds me of an anime character. She’s tiny too. I’m pretty sure her head would barely reach my chest and the way she wraps her arms protectively around herself tugs something inside me, something I immediately shut down.

  This woman is a master manipulator and I won’t be one of her victims.

  My eyes travel over the raised scar that starts at the corner of her mouth and stretches over her cheek, narrowly missing her eye before disappearing into her hairline.

  She flushes and turns her head a little until her hair falls over her face, covering it.

  “If you’re ready Mrs.—” I wait for her to fill in the blanks, even though I know exactly who she is.

  “It’s Miss. Miss Dalton. Or, well, Layla.”

  “Right. Well, Miss Dalton, if you’ll follow me please.”

  I turn and walk back toward the elevator, slowing my pace until I hear her footsteps beside me.

  I wait for her to pass me with a gesture before stepping in beside her and hitting the button for my office.

  She tenses from my proximity and my complete disregard of general social norms regarding elevators.

  Her breathing picks up a little as she tries to take a desperate step away from me but the doors slide open, making her pause.

  “Take a seat,” I order, not waiting for her as I step out of the elevator and walk toward my desk.

  I sit in my chair and watch her approach, looking like she’s two seconds away from passing out.

  Oh, she has the meek and mild act down to a fine art. I’ll give her that. She might think she’s the smartest person in this room, but she’s never met a man like me.

  “So, Miss Dalton, tell me why I should give you this job over all the others who applied.”

  It’s bullshit, of course. I created this opportunity just for her. I’ve baited the trap. I just need her to walk into it.

  “I’m a hard worker, Mr. Walker,” she stumbles over her words, tugging at the frayed thread of her knee once more, her eyes fixed on my jaw.

  Hard worker, my ass. She’s a trophy wife, or she was until her husband was killed.

  “Do you have any qualifications? Anything that will make you stand out from the rest of the applicants?”

  Her shoulders drop for a minute, but then she blows out a br
eath and straightens her spine before her gaze locks on mine.

  There is something ethereal about this woman, otherworldly, almost as if she stepped off the pages of some fantasy novel, but I refuse to let her beguile me. That’s not to say my dick’s not hard as a fucking rock beneath my desk, but with this woman, I’m smart enough to make sure I think with my big head.

  “No, Mr. Walker, I don’t have formal qualifications. I’ve spent a lot of time volunteering at schools, children’s centers, and shelters, so I’m used to being around young children. I was studying to become a teacher before life got in the way.” She gives me a tight smile.

  I resist the urge to reach across the desk and throw her out the window. The thought of her having access to so many children makes me sick to my stomach. I make a mental note to have someone look into open missing children cases that she could have been involved in.

  “Life?” I question, my tone full of scorn, which I don’t try to hide.

  “I got married. My life went in a different direction to the one I had planned.”

  Oh, I bet it fucking did. Poor baby has nowhere to go now, her husband is gone and her credit cards are useless.