CODENAME: GHOUL
This is an unfinished draft and not finalized.
This story is a dark military romance and contains adult content.
PLEASE READ THE TRIGGER WARNINGs before proceeding. Chapter one starts with triggers. You can find them here, Trigger Warnings
Artwork done by Diana Mooney
Chapter 1
Swiss Cheese is Nasty
Yasmine sits uncomfortably with a splitting headache and her muscles screaming in pain. She has no memory of how she got here. Wherever here is? All she sees around her is a filthy room, long abandoned, with refuse and shards of broken mirrors littering the concrete flooring. Her eyes land on an old stained ballerina slipper and a pair of tattered tights.
The only light source is the sun coming through the skylight overhead. The dusty clock on the wall in front of her is frozen in time, and she finds the likeness between the clock and herself disconcerting. She doesn’t know how long she’s been handcuffed to the pipe protruding from the wall behind her.
The last thing she remembers is Marshall walking her home to her apartment a few blocks from the university. She had finished her classes for the day and needed to get home to work on her final research paper before winter break. Which is why, when he had asked if she wanted to stop for coffee, she declined. Then there is nothing. Her memory turns black.
Once more, Yasmine takes in her surroundings, hoping to glean something useful, but the graffiti and mysterious stains on the walls keep their secrets. The only information she can extract is the kidnapper is holding her in some kind of storage room. She lays her head against the wall and closes her eyes, running through her memories again to try to put the puzzle pieces together. She has nothing better to do, and this distracts her momentarily from the physical discomfort.
The one missing piece to the puzzle is she doesn’t know why her father assigned her a bodyguard in the first place — a lot of good it did. Obviously, he knew she was in danger and suspected she’d be abducted if he sent Marshall to protect her. But the least that narcissistic asshole could have done is warn her!
She curses herself at the same time for not pressing her father about it, like a normal person would, and questioning why she needed a bodyguard. All she got from her father was a text a week ago stating she’d have a security detail until further notice, and she learned a long time ago you don’t question General Charles Pennington’s authority. Period.
When she had opened her door to leave for class the next morning, Marshall was leaning against the railing, waiting for her with a cup of coffee and a charming smile. At first, Yasmine only offered a cold shoulder, but Marshall’s easygoing personality quickly made her warm up to him. She found herself liking the guy by the time he had walked her home that evening.
The days Yasmine worked as a substitute teacher, Marshall drove her, dropping her off before school and picking her up afterward. When she had classes, he stayed close like a shadow. She didn’t know where he went after he returned her home, and she didn’t ask.
There was no physical attraction to him at first, but after a few days together, her feelings toward him began to shift. It felt like there was a spark between them and he possibly could be into her. But her father was paying him, and Marshall would leave once her father called him off.
Refocusing her thoughts to her current predicament, Yasmine shifts her weight, trying to ease some of the physical strain, and fails. There is no relief. The handcuffs make a metal-on-metal sound when she tries to take the pressure off her bruised wrists. She shivers from the cold concrete underneath her, which feels like a block of ice, prompting her to pull her legs closer to her chest to conserve what little warmth she has. Her grey woolen peacoat does nothing to protect her from the chill setting in.
Not wanting to dwell on her situation, she returns her thoughts to Marshall. She hopes he’s okay. She knows it’s an unhealthy coping mechanism to put others before her, but knowing it doesn’t stop the automatic defense from firing. A sharp pain runs through her hip, interrupting her thoughts. It radiates down the leg and into her back, and she tries once more to find the smallest amount of relief.
With nothing but time on her hands, she starts checking off more things she knows. She’s been kidnapped, and she’s being worn down physically and mentally. Which is probably what the kidnapper wants when he comes in with his threats and grabby hands.
She pulls against the pipe she’s handcuffed to, testing it once more for a weakness, but there is none. Her gaze takes in the room again, but she gives up. It’s not like she can escape or defend herself while handcuffed. Hopelessness smothers her until it’s hard to breathe.
The French asshole can try and break me, but if HE hasn’t broken my mind in twenty-eight years, then this French asshat won’t be able to either. If only I could get my hands free, I’d go full Rambo on him with that shard of mirror and kick him in the balls. She gives herself a little mental pep talk, but she’s not fooling anyone. She’s pathetic. And weak.
The drug he pumped her with still runs in her system and, mixed with the stress she’s under, her body wants to shut down and sleep. Maybe it can temporarily take her away from this real-life nightmare she can’t escape. Just before Yasmine loses consciousness, the last thought running through her mind is that for once in her life, she’s going to be a smart ass and talk back. She’s already in trouble, so how’s it gonna get any worse? If she’s going to die, she’s not staying silent.
* * *
“Keep looking at me with those defiant eyes of yours,” the kidnapper hisses, sinking his grip deeper into her cheeks and painfully forcing their faces together. “The next time I come in here, I will have no other choice than to break you, Ms. Pennington.”
During the first encounter with him, she learned to hold her breath against his Swiss cheese and stale cigarette exhale. She had almost gagged when he shoved his face into hers.
Some would consider him handsome with his European physique, strong jawline, and French accent. But the guy is a predator, and everything about him is foul. His pale green eyes are dead like the cold steel blue eyes she grew up with. The menacing smile on his face sends a shiver of fear coursing through her body, triggering that sixth sense of warning women get when they know a man is dangerous.
He leans distressingly close to her, inhaling her scent. Her skin prickles, but she can’t recoil. The handcuffs and pipe hold her in place. Even though she’s wearing clothing, she might as well be naked with how vulnerable he makes her feel. Yasmine’s eyes close — the only means she has of distancing herself. Her plan to talk back is forgotten.
He pulls away with a sinister sneer on his lips. Seeing her trembling makes his dick strain against his pants. She’s not weak enough yet for him, but soon she will be and then he’ll take her.
He releases his hold by shoving her hard into the wall. Yasmine sees a flash of light across her vision, and a new throbbing pain is in the back of her skull. She feels the welt forming with each throb. Her entire being is in pain, and she swallows the cry that’s desperate to escape, refusing to give this asshole the satisfaction.
As he turns at the door, his eyes creepily devour her, planning how he’ll take her body during his next visit. He licks his lips, looking her over once more before leaving. He closes the door behind him but doesn’t bother locking her in. She’s not escaping.
His footsteps fade in the distance, and Yasmine lets out the breath she was holding before silently cursing herself for not showing any real defiance. In the stillness of the room, she breathes through the pain in her head and tries to calm the festering fear. She wishes she could be like the strong female characters from the books she reads. But real life is different than fiction. Fear is a natural reaction, and it keeps most humans alive because they can’t override the lizard part of their brain. And right now, the lizard part of her brain is making it hard to keep breathing.
The nausea festering in her core makes her stomach clench. She turns, daring to gaze at her reflection in the half-broken mirror leaning against the far wall. Since regaining consciousness, she’s ignored her reflection, afraid of what she’ll see.
A ghost of herself is staring back at her. Her normally bright hazel eyes are glazed over and red. The dark circles make her look like a raccoon. Her brown hair is tangled and matted where it sticks out of her braid. Her naturally tan complexion has a zombie-like shade of green to it, and her face is etched with worry lines. Just a few visits from the asshole and his threats have made her look older than she is.
Everything about her screams weak and pathetic. Just what the asshole wants.
No matter how much she’s been telling herself how strong-willed and strong-minded she is, she’s not. She’s been weak her entire life — never speaking her mind or having the courage to stand up for herself — because he made sure of that. And now Yasmine is painfully aware she’s a woman who’s going to get assaulted in the worst possible way. So she shuts down, succumbing to the emotional numbness like she always does.
She tries to find a comfortable position again, but every time she moves, the pain worsens. Stray tears escape, and she quickly buries her face into the space where her aching shoulder and sleeping arm meet to muffle the sob.
No one is coming to save her. That thought alone renews the terror clawing at her chest.
* * *
The light streaming in above takes on a rust orange hue as the sun begins to make its descent for the horizon. The door bursts open in a flurry, startling Yasmine awake. She blinks to clear the fog from her vision, and once it’s gone, she sees Frenchie sauntering toward her. He’s leering like she’s nothing more than a piece of meat to be consumed, and to him, she is.
She forces herself to yawn at the same time she chokes on her apprehension. She can see it on his face. He’s here for her and his own selfish gratification. If she’s going to be assaulted, she’s going to be defiant, not just with her eyes but her words too.
“These accommodations are five-star.” She keeps her tone unimpressed and laden with heavy sarcasm. “Are you here to take my order for room service? I’ll have a cheeseburger, extra pickles, hold the tomatoes, and a side of fries.”
Frenchie’s sneer turns into a smooth grin as he unbuckles his expensive leather belt, which is out of place with the rest of his attire of unkempt faded jeans, a sweat-stained white T-shirt, and a dark blue hoodie. He holds her gaze while he opens his fly.
Her mind goes blank, and her fight, flight, freeze, or fawn response surges, paralyzing her. She expected this, but it doesn’t make it any less terrifying. This guy’s been planning to use her for his own sick pleasure, even copping a feel on one of his previous visits.
His eyes rove over her body as he pulls himself free of his pants. He’s already hard, but he strokes himself while walking slowly toward her for further intimidation. He stops in front of her.
Yasmine turns away, but he lashes out, slamming her head against the wall. She can’t stifle the yelp because her head hits the same spot as the last time, causing stars to explode across her vision. When she can refocus, his nasty dick is inches from her face. He pins her head back and rubs the tip over her lips, and she reflexively clamps them shut. Using his thumb, he pries them apart, forcing her mouth open.
“You have such a disrespectful mouth on you. I will show you what happens when you speak that way to me. I was told not to touch you.”
As one hand pins her forehead to the wall, his other pries her jaw open. He leans in close to her ear; his hot, cigarette-cheese breath makes her body shake.
“Do not blame me for this. You brought this on yourself with that mouth of yours.”
Her legs are numb from the cold, and her muscles refuse to work, so she can’t even try to kick him. And biting his dick off isn’t possible with his hand clamped onto her chin to force her mouth open.
“Is that what you tell your mommy?” Her words are distorted because she can’t move her jaw well enough to form them clearly, but he understands.
He releases her and follows up with a backhand across the face.
The blow does more than just sting. It sends her back to all the times her father hit her. She learned to slip away from those unpleasant experiences by allowing her mind to drift free of her body, and this is the first time she’s thankful for that protective ability. Is it healthy? No. But if she goes to the place in her mind where no one can harm her, it doesn’t matter what happens to her body because her mind will be safe.
Yasmine finds herself at a cabin covered with moss and vines. The tall aspen and oak grove around it provides shelter and safety. The beautifully overgrown herb garden she so carefully nurtured has all kinds of flying insects; many of them buzz around as they move from flower to flower. A small brook bubbles next to the front porch, where she lazily lies in a hammock nestled between the support beams. Her favorite romance author’s new book is in hand. A bowl of homemade kettle corn drizzled in dark chocolate rests at her side. The tumbler covered in dragons, which she paid way too much for, is tucked against her other side. The raspberry iced tea inside is perfect for the warm day.
Here, in this serene place she created long ago, nothing can touch her. She’s peacefully detached from anything unpleasant. Yasmine settles herself deeper within her mind because, with everything she’s survived, she’ll survive this.
The tiny stream loses its trickling sound and becomes gasps of choking gurgles. That’s not how her peaceful brook sounds … And something is tugging on her arms. The pain in her shoulder breaks through into her safe place as something or, rather, someone is invading, forcing her mind back into her body.
Her eyes snap open as she comes back to the horrors of reality. But she doesn’t expect to see the man who was about to rape her lying on the floor and bleeding out from his throat. His head is bent at a grotesque angle where it pulls away from the neck. She stares at him, blinking in confusion until the gurgling stops and his body stills. With great effort, she scoots her legs away from the pool of blood spreading toward her.
It takes a moment to comprehend what’s happening. She doesn’t understand how Frenchie is dead on the floor. The clanking sounds of handcuffs bring her attention back to the rest of her body, and she realizes her arms are free. Sharp pain radiates from her shoulders now that the muscles can finally move into a different position. She can’t hold back the groan of pain.
Her gaze shifts to something large and black blocking her view. Hands in black fingerless gloves wrap around her wrist with the handcuff still attached to it, freeing her from the restraint.
“Come on,” a low, deep male voice says. He holds his hand out to her.
She remains frozen, keeping her butt planted firmly on the concrete, and she also doesn’t take the offered hand because all she sees is the fresh blood on the outstretched fingers. She stares at it in horror. The hand quickly wipes the blood on a pant leg and is back in front of her.
“Get up,” the man barks.
Blinking, she gazes up, searching for a face, but there isn’t one. Only a black mask with a skeletal jawline. The white of the skull is faded and frayed with stains; the newest one is Frenchie’s blood splatter when this mystery man sliced open his throat. Yasmine recoils, but there’s no place for her to go.
The masked figure squats, bringing his dark gaze level with hers.
“I’m not going to hurt you, but get your ass moving.” His tone is commanding.
He pulls his hood up, casting his limited features into further shadow and making his presence more intimidating. He claims he’s not going to hurt her, but the wicked-looking knife handle sheathed into the tactical vest under his coat says otherwise.
So much has happened in the span of a few moments Yasmine is struggling to catch up, and she’s still dazed from the backhand to the face. She was about to be raped, and now she’s being saved?
“If you don’t move, then I’ll pick you up and carry you out. Your choice. Move your ass, or I will move it for you.” His tone becomes more urgent, but there’s something else she can’t quite place … Concern maybe?
The light is fading, and the only visible feature is his eyes since the rest of his face is hidden under the mask. He looks like that one guy in the popular video game, Call of … something. She knows a guy like this will make good on his threat to move her ass, so she nods in agreement. As fast as her protesting muscles can allow, she takes his hand.
Once he has her hand grasped in his own, he helps her stand.
“Take it slow,” he tells her, pulling her up.
She whimpers the whole way to her feet, and he doesn’t release his hold. Rather, he hooks his arm around hers for support. She tests her legs to make sure they can carry her. The moment she puts weight on one of them, a sharp pain runs from her hip to her knee, causing it to buckle. If he wasn’t there supporting her, she’d fall straight back on her ass to the concrete. His body heat soaks into her, making her want to curl up into his side.
“Move slowly and shake it out. Try bearing your weight again.” He instructs, and she listens.
It still hurts, but the pain begins to ease as her stiff muscles start to wake up. She’s going to be sore for a long time after this … if she doesn’t end up dead.
“Take a few steps.” He keeps hold of her.
Yasmine moves tentatively with his assistance. She chances a glance at him as he hovers over her like a concerned parent watching their child walk for the first time. She hopes to get a glimpse of who this guy is, but he’s like a mysterious shadow. He’s wearing a black coat, which resembles a thickly lined hoodie, and black cargo pants with combat boots. Her eyes dart quickly to the knife once more like it’s about to jump from his vest to attack her.
When she’s steady on her feet, the masked man grabs her hand in his, pulling her behind. He leads her out of the back room and down a narrow hallway. Her legs move awkwardly as feeling comes back to them. From her right hip down to her toes, the icy sting of needles is prickling as blood circulation returns. She grits her teeth against the painful sensation because this guy doesn’t seem like the type who would allow her to stop and let it pass.
They reach the main room, which is an abandoned dance studio. It’s just as messy, filthy, and covered in gang graffiti as the storage area. With the last remaining bits of twilight casting shadows from the skylights, her eyes land on another corpse lying on the floor next to a toppled metal folding chair. The man’s throat is slit open, and he’s lying in a pool of stagnant blood.
She gasps when she recognizes the cheap grey suit and blond hair. The once handsome “boy next door” face that smiled at her so easily every morning is now devoid of life. She digs her heels in, trying to rip her hand free of the stranger’s grasp, but his only response is to hold on tighter. She’s staring at the vacant blue eyes of Marshall.
“Oh my god. You killed him!” She yells her accusation, still trying to pull herself free of his hold, but he has a death grip on her.
Alarm bells sound in her head, and she tries more forcefully to jerk away. Her plan is to make a run for it. It’s one thing to kill the would-be rapist, but this was Marshall. He was her bodyguard, and this masked asshat killed him!
The man’s eyes flare, and he jerks her hard toward him, not letting her go until both of his hands are roughly holding each side of her face. He understands her shock, but there is no time to go into a detailed explanation.
“Yasmine,” he barks, getting her attention. “He was in on the kidnapping and was never there to protect you.”
His words hit her like a punch to the gut. She stops struggling and turns her gaze to Marshall’s body. He was? How could she not have seen it? She was even starting to have feelings for him! If this is true, he was going to let her be assaulted.
Suddenly, the stranger flings her over his shoulder, fireman-style, like she weighs nothing. Yasmine tries to struggle free, but his grip is too strong, and she’s too exhausted to put up any kind of real fight. Her eyes are locked on her supposed bodyguard as the masked man carries her from the building through a side door and out into the cold night.
Taking the stranger at his word because of his authoritative demeanor, Yasmine directs her anger at herself for not suspecting Marshall. Then it dawns on her … how does this guy know her name?
Her head hurts from the swirling thoughts. She spent so much time with Marshall, and he was working with the kidnappers? How? Why? Did her father know? Did he make a mistake when he vetted Marshall? She runs through countless questions, but no answers come. She’s trying to make sense of everything that’s happening but then is jostled when the man breaks into a jog despite her added weight, which interrupts her confused thoughts. He takes her to a white van parked on the side of the building away from any prying eyes on the street.
He squats and slides her off his shoulder, setting her gently on her feet.
She doesn’t know why, but something tells her to trust the masked stranger, which is why, when he opens the door and shoves her inside the van, she doesn’t put up any resistance.
Running around to the driver’s seat, he pulls out a set of keys from his pockets. There’s blood on them — Marshall’s. He made sure to take the keys after he sliced his throat.
The engine roars to life; at the same time, the masked man buckles himself in.
“Seat belt,” he commands, adjusting the mirrors.
She complies as he pulls out onto the darkened street into traffic. Yasmine breathes a sigh of relief that she’s leaving the horrors of the dance studio behind her. She also realizes, for the first time in her life, she’s been saved. Even though it does feel like she’s being kidnapped again.
At least, this time, she’s awake for it.
Mavis Kemo 