Does It Hurt?: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

My head is splitting into fucking pieces, and something smells putrid. I groan, gritting my teeth as sharp pain pierces behind my eyes.

Mother… fucker.

I’m having trouble remembering where the fuck I am, and what the hell happened beyond the throbbing in my skull.

Slowly, fragments filter in. Finding the beacon and then the radio. Kacey appearing, her mouth sewn shut. Sylvester breaking in, and then leaving Sawyer and Kacey upstairs. I remember opening the bookshelf door with my shotgun readied but finding no one. The only difference was the cellar door was open again.

I remember approaching the cellar cautiously and then the creak of the front door right before a shot went off behind me. My recollection is choppy from there, but I recall the bullet hitting the barrel of my gun, forcing it out of my grip. Then Sylvester storming up behind me while I scrambled for the gun again, another shot going off by my hand and destroying the weapon completely. Finally, the butt of his shotgun aiming straight for my face. And then… nothing.

Cazzo.

The rise of fury is enough to force my eyes open and get my body moving. It’s nearly pitch black, hot, and it smells dank and like… like something is decomposing.

Glancing up, I can see tiny cracks of light between the floorboards and Sylvester’s shadow as he walks through the kitchen slowly, his leg rebounding through the wood, causing dust to fall over me.

There’s a string of unintelligible words from what sounds like Sylvester. I’ve no idea if Sawyer is with him or not, but it’s enough to inject another strong dose of adrenaline into my veins.

I pat my hands all around me, feeling fine dirt and what I think is a blanket beneath me. Sitting up further, I continue searching until my hand bumps into something solid. It’s cold and hard, and after a minute, I realize it’s a shovel. I grab onto it and resume, hoping there’s something down here that can provide a light source.

It takes a few more minutes, and coming across several items, I finally find a small gas lantern. It clicks on, barely illuminating more than a couple of inches out.

I’m in a dirt hole with a wooden ladder that leads straight up.

Getting to my feet, I look around, finding myself in a cemetery. There are mounds of dirt spanning across the space, with sticks fashioned into a cross before each one.

Fucking Christ.

It’s hard to breathe as I examine just how many people Sylvester has killed. Were they all hostages? They’ve all clearly fucking died, save for Kacey. Suicide? Or did he kill them when they refused to conform?

Aside from the graves, there’s a bucket in the corner with human waste inside, a small cot with a blanket and flat pillow, a knapsack doll, a first aid kit, water bottles, and several empty plastic bags.

Sylvester must’ve kept Kacey down here at times. Since we’ve arrived, she could be heard only up in the beacon during the day, presumably because she wouldn’t be able to make her presence known as easily and guide us directly to the hatch. Where a fucking cemetery resides.

He knew the ghost stories would lead us to believe that the footsteps from above or in the hall were nothing more than restless spirits.

I shake my head, different scenarios racing through my head on why she was in the hallway at night, each one more disturbing than the last. Aside from the restroom, the only other place she had to go was Sylvester’s bedroom, and there were many times when that’s exactly where she was going and coming from based on the sound of her chains.

I’m going to fucking murder him—slowly. I’d love to start by sewing his goddamn mouth shut just to make him scream. See if he can keep it closed or if he’ll rip those stitches wide open from the pain.

Using one hand, I climb up the ladder while holding on to the lantern with the other. As expected, the hatch door is locked, but I can hear the conversation more clearly.

“Stupid little bitch got me good, but yer old man got too much belly for her to hit somethin’ vital,” he grouses. “Hand me them scissors over there, sweetie.”

There’s a clatter of metal and another series of grunts and mutters. From the sounds of it, Sawyer injured him somehow, and he’s now stitching the wound shut.

That’s my girl.

“She ain’t gonna be happy at first, ya know, but you weren’t either, remember? She’ll adjust eventually, and soon enough, our little family will be happy.”

A growl forms deep in my chest, and the rage burns hotter from the way he’s planning a fucking future with Sawyer. One that consists of her being imprisoned on this island with someone capable of murder and abusing his own daughter. He will hurt her, and most likely take advantage of her body. Those thoughts alone are enough to send me into a tailspin.

Just barely, do I refrain from sending my fist up into the door. It’ll accomplish nothing, but even if I did manage to get it open, Sylvester has a gun and can shoot me dead in a heartbeat.

“You know I’m gonna have’ta punish you for what you did,” Sylvester continues after a moment. “I only left ’cause my back was hurt, and I needed to get the upper hand. I was forced to camp out in this tiny cave at the opposite end o’the island. They been frequentin’ the one with glowworms. And you know my leg ain’t no good with climbin’ in those caves, but I was gonna take you to see ’em again. Don’t think you deserve that anymore, now do ya? I’ve taken good care of you yer whole life, and you repay me by showin’ them the radio.”

There’s a long pause.

“Come here, Kacey.”

I close my eyes, and tremors rack my body from the rage. It doesn’t matter if I yell and cause a scene, he’s either going to silence me permanently or continue because he knows damn well that I can’t do a thing to stop him.

There’s an ocean of violence in my bones, but I need to play this smart.

A sharp crack followed by a soft, garbled cry arises, and I silently make my way down the ladder as quickly as possible. There’s no fucking way I will let that girl suffer any more abuse. And there’s no fucking way I’m staying in this goddamn hole.

I’m taking a massive risk, but my only option is to burn my way out.

I rifle through the first aid kit first, finding a tiny bottle of rubbing alcohol inside, along with alcohol pads. Grabbing the blanket next, I tear off several sections, roll them into tight ropes, and drench them in the liquid. When I’m done, I snatch the gas lantern and pads too, and head toward the ladder. As I quietly climb, perspiration forms along my hairline while the sound of flesh hitting flesh continues.

 Once I reach the top, I pause, waiting for a sharp slap to crack open the glass lantern on the ladder, the sound swallowed by an undeserved punishment.

Then, I pause, waiting to ensure that Sylvester didn’t hear me. Another loud crack follows up the last hit a moment later, so I quickly unwrap the pads and shove them up between the wooden planks throughout the ceiling. My hope is that he won’t notice them until it’s too late, distracted by his sick punishment. Luckily, he doesn’t, and another crack fills the room. Sweating and nearly blind with rage, I stick one of the tattered pieces of the blanket into the open flame.

It ignites in a flash, singeing my fingers as I shove it up between the wooden planks, my eyes burning from the smoke. I repeat the same process with the rest, reaching out past the ladder to spread them out. The flame should catch onto the wet alcohol pads and spread faster. 

Then, I scramble back down and tuck myself into a corner, hearing the moment Sylvester either sees or smells the burning cloth.

“Motherfucker!” he bellows, stomping toward the quickly spreading fire. He unlocks the mechanism and throws the cellar door open, proceeding to fire off two shots from his gun, the bullets a loud boom in the small space.

But the fire is still growing, and Sylvester can’t afford to let the lighthouse burn down.

If he loses Raven Isle, he loses everything.

Curses spill from his mouth as he returns to frantically working to put out the fire.

I’m flying up the ladder within seconds, finding Sylvester stomping with his boot over the flames, while Kacey watches on, unmoving as she stares at the red glow with wide eyes.

I charge toward Sylvester just as he notices me, knocking him over and landing a single punch into his face, stunning him long enough to rip the gun from his hold and smash the butt of it into his nose.

He’s out cold, and I’m already heading toward the stairs.

Sawyer is either on the second floor or up by the beacon, and I don’t have the luxury of time to search both. 

With Sylvester knocked out, the fire will continue to spread, which could prevent me from getting to her.

I bolt up the steps, down the hallway, and into our shared room. But it’s empty.

“Sawyer!” I roar, nearly collapsing when I hear an indiscernible noise coming from Sylvester’s room. I skid across the floor as I run back into the hallway, up the steps, and into his bedroom.

She’s sitting on the floor by his bed, metal cuffs wrapped around her wrists, a chain dangling between them. The link is trapped around the leg of the bedframe, preventing her from escaping. Dried blood coats her left hand, trails of it leaking down her arm. A piece of duct tape is slapped over her mouth, tears streaming down her beautiful face and brightening her blue eyes to gleaming sapphires.

“That fucker,” I spit, grabbing the frame and lifting the entire bed, allowing her to slide the chain out from the leg. She must’ve been tugging at them, because her tiny wrists are irritated and starting to bleed.

“Baby, you can’t be hurting yourself like this,” I murmur, helping her up.

She rips off the tape in one go, gritting her teeth and hissing through them from the sharp pain.

“I was worried about you,” she admits.

“I’m fine, bella. Did he hurt you?’

“I accidentally cut my hand, and I think my wrist might be fractured, but I’m okay otherwise. He just said I needed to stay in timeout and think about what I did.”

There’s blackness licking at the edges of my vision as I gently grab her arm. After closer inspection, I see a thin cut on her hand, and a faint outline of fingerprints bruising around her wrist, a growl forms deep in my chest.

“Hey, hey,” she calls gently, bringing my attention to her. “It’s fine. I stabbed him, and this is the result. Totally worth it, if you ask me.”

Releasing her, I brush the pad of my thumb across her lip. “You look beautiful painted in his blood. È il colore che preferisco su di te.”

The smell of burning wood is drifting toward us, so I quickly spin around and search his nightstand for extra bullets, finding them in the top one amongst a watch, dentures, pictures, and a case of old quarters—typical old man.

“Is that smoke?” Sawyer asks, crinkling her nose as I load the bullets, pocketing extra in my shorts.

“Yeah. He had me in the cellar. I had to get creative to get out.” 

She wrinkles her nose. “Creative is one way to put it.”

“Let’s go. We need to get out of here before the fire traps us.”

Grabbing her hand, I quietly lead her back down the hallway and toward the stairs.

Thick plumes of black smoke begin to rise, stinging my eyes and burning my lungs.

“I’m going to need you to cover your mouth and take a really deep breath. Hold it in as long as you can and breathe in as little as possible.”

Without hesitation, she lifts the collar of her shirt, covering her nose and mouth, and nods at me, signaling that she’s ready to go.

I kiss her forehead, purely because I need to touch her, and then raise the shotgun, sucking in a deep breath before slowly making my way down the steps.

The smoke thickens as we descend, but the fire has been put out, which means either Sylvester is awake, or Kacey took care of it. I see a flash of movement cut across the kitchen and run toward the door, the sound of her chains unmistakable.

Another flash darts in my peripheral a second before Sylvester appears, a hammer in his hand and a battle cry on his lips as he goes to strike me.

“Enzo!” Sawyer screeches, grabbing my collar and yanking me back just as Sylvester swings the hammer right where my head had been.

He stumbles in front of me, and I use his momentum to push him all the way down with the barrel of the gun. He crashes into the floor, rolling onto his back with a grunt.

“Fucking bitch,” he spits on a cough, while I round him and grab the front of his shirt and drag him toward the middle of the kitchen. The cellar is still open, and Kacey isn’t visible through the density of the smoke.

The fury I kept simmering beneath the surface is now boiling over the edges. All I can think about is what he did to Sawyer—what he almost did to her. Attempting to kidnap her and then tying her up to his bed in hopes he’d keep her here forever. The image of Sawyer with her mouth sewn shut and sad, hollow eyes is charred into my brain as deeply as the burns in the wooden flooring.

I lower myself on top of him, inextinguishable fury polluting my chest and sinking deep into my bones. 

 His fists fly at me, but he’s nothing more than a weak, old man. He trades between sputtering colorful insults and hacking as soot fills his lungs.

Setting the gun down, I grab his wrists, quickly forcing them down and trapping them between my thighs. I squeeze hard as he wiggles beneath me like a worm on a hook, and deliver a succession of punches into his face. I feel the skin over my knuckles tearing and my bones colliding with his over and over.

Through my haze, I vaguely hear an odd, gurgled scream before I’m knocked to the side, and what feels like arms and legs being wrapped around my torso.

I’m disoriented long enough for Sylvester to get on his knees and grab the gun. Right as he lifts it, Sawyer appears behind him, the chain link between her cuffed wrists looping across his throat and pulling tight.

A war cry leaves her throat as she heaves him back with all her strength, a pained expression on her face as they fall backward together. The shotgun falls from his grip and slides a foot away from them.

“Kacey!” I growl, working on getting her off me. I don’t want to hurt her. She’s conflicted and has been brainwashed for years to protect her father above herself—and in the most brutal of ways. But I won’t let her stop me from killing the man who has inflicted pain and torture on innocent people for years. And especially not after touching my girl.

That will never go unpunished.

I manage to remove myself from Kacey’s grip and am horrified when I see her mouth is splitting open, the stitches ripping the flesh around her lips away. Blood is trailing down her chin, and broken screams are coming from her throat as her mouth widens, revealing blackened teeth and a severed tongue. 

I grab her jaw, attempting to keep her from hurting herself any further.

“You don’t have to hurt for him,” I tell her vehemently, my stomach turning from the grotesque feel of her rotting flesh and bodily fluids that I don’t even want to think about, along with the pungent stench from it. “Not anymore.”

She’s both fighting for him and against him.

Love is funny that way. It persists even when you’ve done everything in your power to banish it. It demands its own voice and refuses to be a slave to anyone but its own desires. And despite the power of it, those selfish desires are what make love so weak.

It’s accepting the apologies of a cheating lover.

It’s returning to a raised hand, over and over, until that hand becomes lethal, and home is in the afterlife.

It’s clinging to a mother who never wanted you and hoping she will one day show up on those church steps.

It’s grabbing ahold of a hand that belongs to both a father and an abuser, wailing as they slowly slip away.

It’s falling in love with a liar, a thief, and praying they never hurt you again.

Kacey shakes her head, a pained, sorrowful cry spearing past her stitches and directly into my chest. Sawyer and Sylvester are still struggling, and as much as Kacey needs comfort, I don’t have the fucking time.

Pinning her with one last look—something I pray she interprets as help us help you—I turn to the struggling duo. Sawyer is on the floor with Sylvester on top of her, his back to her front, as she attempts to strangle him with the chain.

Both of their faces are cherry red, and exhaustion is etched into the lines of Sawyer’s face. Her strength is waning, and Sylvester is beginning to free himself from her hold.

Just as I take a step toward them, Sylvester breaks free and lunges for the gun, grabbing it and pointing it directly at me. But my only focus is Sawyer, and if the fucker wants to stop me from getting to her, he better pull that trigger now.

“No!” Sawyer screeches, jumping on his back and causing the gun to swing. He fires off a shot, the sound booming and hitting the ceiling, causing debris to fall over our heads.

“Sawyer,” I snap, and urgency has me rushing toward them. Sylvester bashes his elbow in her face, causing her head to kick back and blood to sprout from her mouth.

My vision goes red, and I feel rather than see something pushing me to the side. I stumble right as another shot goes off, and I wait for the pain to register.

To feel the violent press of a bullet ripping through my body and taking my soul along with it.

Yet, I feel nothing as the scene slowly filters in, and I straighten. Sawyer and Sylvester are staring at me with wide eyes, horror on both of their faces.

But they’re not staring at me at all. What they’re focused on is beside me. It feels like slow motion as I turn my head, finding Kacey standing where I once was, her chin tilted down. My gaze follows hers, discovering the blood gushing from her chest, pooling on the floor beneath her feet.

“NO!” Sylvester shouts fiercely, the veins in his forehead protruding as he struggles to get up and rush toward Kacey.

I catch her as she falls, softening her impact as her body slumps. Sylvester is crawling toward us, the weapon forgotten on the floor. My head is full of static as I try to process that this poor girl has taken a bullet for me.

“Get away!” I bark. I think he’s too shocked to register anything outside of his daughter dying on the floor before him, and from his own doing, no less. So, he stops, his widened eyes staring at her in disbelief.

“Hey, look at me,” I murmur, turning her cheek toward me. It takes a few beats before her glazed eyes slide toward me. I clench my teeth, seeing nothing but peace radiating from her.

“Sei così dolce. Sei un angelo,” I whisper, swiping my thumb across her bloodied cheek as a tear falls from her eye.

“No, no, no, no,” Sylvester chants, his voice growing tighter and strained with each repetition.

She stares up at me, and though she can’t smile, I see it in her eyes as her small hand cups my jaw. She’s dying, yet she’s comforting me.

Her gaze focuses on her fingers as they softly brush across my beard, as if entranced by the feel of the coarse hair. Then, her eyes go unfocused, and just like that, she’s gone. A life that took years to cultivate into the woman lying in my arms, and only seconds to take it away.

“NO!” he shouts again, banging his fist on the floor. “This is your fault!” he spits at me. Sawyer kneels behind him, tears streaming down her cheeks as she stares at Kacey with sorrow.

I’m numb as I gently set her on the ground and stand. Grabbing the shotgun from the floor, I walk over to the gas stove and turn one of the nozzles on high, flames emitting from one of the burners.

Then I hold the tip of the barrel in them. Guns are built for heat, so it takes several minutes for the metal to turn a bright, searing red. During that time, I allow Sylvester to suffer from the pain of his loss. I allow him to face what he’s done.

Satisfied, I stalk toward the blubbering old caretaker. My thoughts are reduced to white noise, and my body moves on pure instinct as I kick him in the stomach, peering at him with nothing less than revulsion as he flips onto his back. He coughs profusely and attempts to sit up, but I’m pushing him back down with the white-hot barrel in his chest, pulling a pained shout from his throat.

Sawyer crawls toward him, wheezing and coughing, her red, watery eyes pinned to what I’m doing. I move the barrel from his chest to the hollow of his throat, the smell of burnt flesh immediate.

“Do you think I have what it takes to kill a man now?”

Sylvester’s eyes bug, and I grit my teeth, snarling as I dig the searing metal into his throat, delighting in his pained wails.

He fists the barrel with both hands, attempting to dislodge it, so I lean heavily against the butt of the shotgun, putting all my weight into it as it slowly but surely begins to sink into his throat. Blood bubbles from beneath it, and his wails turn into gasps, baring his teeth as he continues to struggle.

The barrel sinks further and further until he’s convulsing, and I hit his spine. Only then, do I stop and step away, ripping out the gun as I do.

Sylvester chokes on his own blood, seizing as he stares at the ceiling. Is he looking for God between the cracks of the wood, hoping he’ll see a glimpse? One tiny look into what he could’ve had before committing his heinous crimes.

I can assure him, if there is a God, He isn’t staring back down at him. I imagine His eyes are turned toward Kacey instead while the Reaper’s hands reach for Sylvester, dragging him to a place lonelier than Raven Isle.

Exhausted, I slide my gaze to Sawyer and find her already peering back at me. The whites of her eyes are red, making her blue irises even brighter. And those sad little fucking sapphires are exactly why love is so weak. One look from them, and I’m crumbling.

“Hello? Is anyone there? I repeat, is anyone there?”

The disembodied voice takes a moment to register. It’s far away, distorted, and just barely penetrates through my scattered thoughts.

“Hello? We received a transmission calling for help. I repeat, is anyone still there? We’re here to help.”