Page 13 of Balthazar's Fire
This was what she’d been reduced to then—an object that Oliver’s filthy men could come down and mock in their spare time—she shook her head sadly as the sound of the door slamming reverberated overhead, followed soon after by the noise of the key turning in the lock.
Locked in.
Her fate resounded loudly in her head, expanding out into the room as though it had become a living, breathing thing of its own. Time protracted as it circled her, deriding and demeaning any chance she had of escape. Of hope…
You’re locked in and fucked.
Cherie swore she could hear the cruel, taunting tone whipping past her as she stared frantically around the space again.
“Why am I bothering?” she whispered darkly. “Nothing’s changed, and nothing is going to change. I’m trapped.”
She swore she could hear the noise of the invented creature laughing scornfully at her admission. She knew it was only happening in her head, and yet, just like the exchange that she thought she’d enjoyed with Balthazar, it seemed so real.
“Look at me.” Exhaling, she rounded her shoulders. “So full of self-pity. This is what he wants,” she determined, hoping fleetingly that the odious man had been right and there was a camera down there somewhere, able to see the moment she grappled the beast of self-doubt away. “But he won’t beat me. He won’t win.”
A noise from upstairs drew her focus and for a second, her heart stopped beating altogether. The lock! Oh, God, who was it this time? Was Oliver back so soon, or had he sent another group of vermin down to belittle her?
She blinked her tears away as she heard the door thrust open. Whoever it was, she was ready for them. Whoever it was, they wouldn’t break her.
“We’re in.” A man’s voice floated down the steps from above and Cherie’s pulse accelerated at its timbre.
Who’s that?
She knew its owner, she was sure she did, but for the life of her, she couldn’t place it.
“Whatever you’re going to do, you won’t get away with it!”
Cherie frowned at the new voice. That one she did recognize, and she was certain that it belonged to one of the morons who’d just come down to insult her. “This place is covered in C.C.T.V. We’re being watched right now.”
“Then we’d better make this fast.” The first voice came again, its smooth tone comforting, although it had no right to be. “Good night, asshole.”
“Wait, what?” The cretin’s voice called out seconds before a loud, sickening thud resonated through the air. Even from her place in the basement it wasn’t difficult to work out that whoever it was had been knocked unconscious; the loud thump that followed reinforcing the idea that a body had just unceremoniously hit the ground.
“This way,” called the suave voice she thought she knew. “She’s down here.”
Cherie glanced at the doorway, half terrified at what was about to transpire and yet, acknowledging that the other half of her was intrigued. She did know whose voice it was, and as illogical as it sounded, excitement swirled in her tummy as the noise of his footsteps grew louder.
“You’d better be right,” answered another unknown man. “We’re running out of time.”
“I am right.” There was such certainty in his tone that by the time he towered in the doorway, his identity was no surprise at all.
Balthazar.
His name was right there on the tip of her tongue, but still she didn’t have the courage to say it aloud, as if she worried saying it would frighten her savior away.
“Cherie?”
In the end, she needn’t have worried. It was Balthazar who spoke first, and Balthazar who ran to her, falling to his haunches in front of her.
“Are you okay?”
“Oh, God!” Heaving in a relieved breath, she half smiled as the tears began to fall again. “You’re here!”
“Of course.” Leaning closer, his hand rose to her face and gently cradled her damp cheek. “I told you I was coming and I don’t say things that I don’t mean.”
“Thank you.” She whispered the word, mesmerized by the sheer sight of him. After hours of Oliver’s grim face and unwanted touch, Balthazar was like an angelic being sent to save her.
“I hate to break up this moment of intimacy.”