Bound

  Lost Soul | Book One

  B Livingstone

  Copyright © 2022 B. Livingstone

  Published by B. Livingstone

  In USA

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced/transmitted/distributed in any form. No part of this publication shall be shared by any means including photocopying, recording, or any electronic/mechanical method, or the Internet, without prior written consent of the author. Cases of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law are the exception. The unauthorized reproduction/transmitting of this work is illegal. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Cover Art by: Kismet New Moon Graphics and Design

  Edited by: CB Editing Services

  Contents

  Introduction

  Please, Heed the Warnings

  Emergency Contact Information

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  A Special Note

  About the Author

  Also by B Livingstone

  Stalk Me

  Introduction

  Every story has a beginning.

  Some just start off bloodier than others.

  My story begins with the devil sporting a crooked halo over his horns, heralding pain and punishment in the name of unjust penance.

  Nurturing words turned into sour admonishments.

  Loving touches morphed into colorful bruises.

  I became his sacrificial lamb.

  Offered to his right hand man.

  Trained and conditioned.

  Bound.

  Or so they thought …

  When a chance to escape presents itself, I take it, consequences be damned.

  With it, a new beginning is forged, one where freedom isn’t a commodity given out sparingly.

  What could go wrong?

  Everything.

  A single choice brings about dire consequences.

  So what happens when everything around me crumbles … again?

  Bound is book one in the Lost Soul Trilogy, and not intended to be read as a standalone. This is a slow burn novel that features three possessive, territorial, and psychotic men that will stop at nothing to keep the woman they claimed as their own safe … even if it means protecting her from herself.

  Please, Heed the Warnings

  This book is rife with triggering content, and is not for the faint of heart. Eden’s story is pitch black with sparing beams of sunlight cast throughout. If you are sensitive to the following subject matters, this may not be the book for you : Substance abuse, sexual assault, physical and verbal abuse, swearing, self-harm, PTSD, and withdrawal.

  Suitable for +18 audience.

  Emergency Contact Information

  National Eating Disorder Helpline : 1-800-931-2237

  National Suicide Prevention Lifeline : 1-800-273-8255

  National Domestic Violence Helpline : 1-800-799-7233

  National Substance Abuse & Mental Health Helpline :

  1-800-662-4357

  I don’t believe in Heaven, but I know Hell is real. I’m living in it. I’ve been here for twenty-two years, six months, and thirteen and half days. Today is no exception.

  The cool water rushes into my ears, over my eyes, and burns its way up my nose. Cutting off any chance for life preserving air.

  Don’t struggle. Struggling only makes the air run out faster. Don’t struggle. Don’t struggle. Don’t struggle .... His fist balls around my hair, wrenching my head out of the water and only allowing me a moment to suck in more of the sweet, precious oxygen before he forces me back under again.

  My fingers wrap tightly around the wrist of the hand pressing into my chest. He’s so much stronger than me, it’s useless to fight, but it helps to have something to ground you when your body is suspended in water, completely out of your control. I’ve been here before—many times—and I’ve conditioned myself not to panic.

  This is my punishment—my correction, as he sometimes calls it—for the sin he believes I’ve committed. A deluded way of thinking that he really cares about my soul.

  Head above water. Now, deep breath. Steady, don’t gasp. Inhale and hold.

  I’ve never understood how he could hate me so much. Why does he find the sight of me so vile that he feels the need to drown and beat me? The only thing I ever did in my life deserving of punishment was loving this man who now holds my head underwater.

  “Do you understand me, girl?” That voice holds so much contempt and hatred for someone he is supposed to love and protect. Understand? Why can’t he understand I was looking at the boy’s car not his face? I can’t even drive. He made sure of that—Momma never did have the backbone to go against him. And doesn’t he know that I can’t answer him if he continues to shove me back under the water after he screams his questions into my ear?

  I tap his arm in hopes he’ll read the answer in my gesture. Of course, considering his brain is the size of a pea and as slow as a sloth’s, he doesn’t understand and continues to yell his insults and questions at me while I can’t answer them.

  I’m not entirely sure which is worse though, the drowning or the Bible beatings. He loves to use the thick tome as a weapon against me. “It says it in here, girl. For every sin you commit, there is a punishment. I am to use The Word as your correction, to cleanse you of your sinful thoughts and ways.” I swear he rewrote the damn thing to fit his sick and twisted way of thinking. I am fairly sure the original Bible was not this thick.

  I’m forced under the water again, my eyes staying trained on the peaked cathedral ceiling as the rush of water stings and blurs the bright sunlight filtering in from the high stained-glass windows. Rather ironic, being subjected to something so hideously ugly, so vile and cruel, in a place that’s so stunningly beautiful.

  My muscles jerk and I squeeze my eyes shut, cutting off the distracting view as my lungs constrict and tremors travel through my body. A last-ditch attempt at pulling sweet oxygen from my system.

  God, no … I’m out of air … don’t panic … don’t panic … he’ll lift me soon … don’t panic.

  Water burns its way into my lungs, instinctively causing me to struggle. This is what he wants. As long as I remained calm, I held the power. That’s not how the game is played though. He needs powers, control, and he’ll do whatever it takes to break me. Pushing me until my willpower shatters and he is in control; reminding me that he holds my life literally in his hands.

  My grip around his wrist tightens, my nails pierce his flesh and panic fully sets in. With each forced inhale, my lungs burn with the icy cold water filling them. My heart thunders a rapid and uneven rhythm. Black spots invade my vision and shocks of pain race from my temples through my eyes and down my spine. My legs kick out into the empty space around me, trying to push away from the demon holding me just under the water’s surface, teasing me with the oxygen so close, but just out of reach.

  Panic morphs into complete, turbulent terror, my thoughts muddling into incoherent rambling without oxygen. Adrenaline dumps into my system, fueling every action without deliberate consideration. My hands tighten into iron fists, and swing violently. I need to be free, to be safe.

  I hit home, connecting with flesh. The hands holding me under release their grip and I sink deeper into the pool. A deafening roar meets my muffled hearing and I’m roughly lifted and thrown unbidden into the side of the baptism pool. My right temple slams into the edge of the fiberglass viewing window, and pain stabs like razors, sharp and cutting.

  It takes every ounce of strength I have to keep my mind in the present, to keep from giving into the darkness that creeps around the edges of my consciousness. Getting my feet under me, I fumble around to find purchase at the edge of the pool and shuffle my way to the stairs. The crawl up is slow and painful, every lift of my arms and legs taking a tremendous amount of energy I don’t have. Reaching the top, I collapse on my side in a shaky heap. My body convulsing in helpless spasms as it attempts to expel the inconceivable amount of pool water I not only swallowed but inhaled as well.

  Lungs burn, ears ring, and my stomach aches. I try to take deep breaths, to fill my body with much-needed oxygen, but the level of pain is unspeakable, all I manage are quick, shallow breaths.

  Black steel-toe leather boots fill my foggy vision. I know what’s coming, and as much as I prepare myself for it, I know it’s going to hurt. I curl in on myself, readying for the inevitable blow. His right foot leaves my dim sight only to return a moment later, connecting with my side. A groan of pain escapes
me as I squeeze myself into a tighter ball, trying to protect my abdomen. Another blow to my left side. How he doesn’t break a bone with the force of it, I’ll never know. I won’t scream. I won’t cry out. I won’t give him that. I know his ultimate end goal here. To break me.

  “Did you think there’d be no penance for striking me?” He clicks his tongue to tsk me for my behavior and crouches down next to me, gripping my chin roughly. My sluggish gaze meets his wrathful one, and I can’t help but feel a small amount of satisfaction at the blood leaking from his nose. His fingertips dig into my jawline as my lip ticks up in the corner. I school my expression, trying not to anger him further.

  “Did you learn a lesson here today?” I blink at him for a moment, not wanting to answer, but he just tightens his hold on me before repeating his question with more venom. “Did. You. Learn. A. Lesson?”

  “Yes, Daddy,” I reply.

  His fist connecting with my left temple turns off the lights.

  I attempt to open my heavy and unyielding eyelids, but they protest any form of movement. I force my eyes to open and glance around, everything is a blur of muted color. Where am I? Pushing myself up causes pain to shoot through my left side, stealing my breath and igniting a coughing fit. I wince and my hand flies to my side in an attempt to stabilize whatever injuries I have. A rough sound comes from my sore, ragged throat when I try to speak my pain out loud.

  My vision gradually clears but an obscenest buzzing in my head takes root. Tan walls and ugly red curtains I recognize give me a small feeling of peace. My room. My space. I try to recall the events proceeding waking up but all I find is static in my memory. I place my hand to my temple, quickly pulling away when I find a lump there. What the heck happened to me?

  Slowly rising from my bed, I carefully make my way to my en suite bathroom. One agonizing step after another, I progress across the short stretch of room until I’m standing in front of the small oval mirror hanging above my sink. Even standing still is making me dizzy. I brace myself on the wall and for once I’m glad the bathroom is nothing more than a hole in the wall, so small you can hardly spin around in it.

  I breathe through the dizziness threatening to send me to the floor, finding my center, before really taking in my reflection. Blue and purple ring my eyes, stark against the pale translucency of my skin. Unzipping my dress on the side, I tenderly work the garment down my body with trembling fingers stopping at my waist. A whimper escapes me. My battered ribs are mottled with deep blackish-blue and purple bruises. That’s when it all sinks back in. The baptism pool, the near-drowning, Father’s boot connecting with my side. The fist flying at me. Then nothing. It all goes black. I can't shake the feeling of unease, of being left in the dark alone … again.

  Who brought me back? Who put me in my bed? Who tucked me in so lovingly? Was it Father? Did he carry me back, and for a moment, feel anything but anger and vindictiveness toward his daughter?

  It doesn't really matter though, does it? He can never be trusted, he will never change, no one ever really does. He will forever treat me like an outsider, like the enemy.

  Continuing to work my dress down the rest of the way, I press them over bare hips. My mind clutches on what’s missing, what I know was there. Frozen in place, the feeling of drowning all over again assails me. My eyes fixed on my naked body. A sob escapes me. Not again. Never again.

  I turn the water on in the shower, adjusting the temperature until it’s as hot as I can stand it. When steam bellows from the small opening and fills the room, I step in and start the vigorous task of scrubbing every inch of my body with an urgent need to burn and cleanse away the lingering traces of his touch. Scrubbed within an inch of my sanity, sore, red, and raw; his dark imprinted touches—both physical and mental—still linger under the surface, tainting every piece of me down to my very soul.

  Will I ever be rid of him? I stand with my hands braced against the shower wall, the water beating down on my back, my tears silently washing away down the drain.

  I have to escape the demons before there is nothing left of me. I just don’t know if I have the strength to do what needs to be done.

  After removing another layer of skin trying to rid myself of every trace of my demons and finishing rinsing out my waist-length golden blonde hair, I wrap myself in my overly large, and incredibly soft, fluffy pink towel. I saved loose change for over a year to buy this monstrosity; it’s become my security blanket.

  Towel securely wrapped around my body, I walk back into my room and come face to face with my living nightmare—my father—sitting at the end of my bed. I grip the top knot on my towel with every ounce of strength I have left and freeze in place, water dripping from the ends of my hair to pool around my feet.

  He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence. Instead, his eyes are fixated on the book in his hands … my journal. My. Fudging. Journal. My stomach drops to my feet and my heart lodges itself firmly in my throat. A curse sits on the tip of my tongue that I don’t let slip—that would be a sin—an alternative I’ve heard Mother use many times before comes to mind. Fudge Monkey.

  I want to scream, to ask him what he’s doing in here. But I know if I open my mouth now, the punishment from earlier would seem like child’s play. So I do nothing except stand here, locking my knees to keep from sinking to the floor, and wait.

  He hums as he flips page after page, forwards and backwards. His expression changing with each soul-bearing entry. Until finally he stops, flips forward a few pages, and finally speaks. “It would seem that you have not learned from our sessions today,” he says, tapping the open page in his hand.

  “I haven't written anything today.” It’s a whispered plea that he’ll see reason, a hope with all that I am that he won’t consider my words backtalk.

  I stand with my fist tightening over the knot in my towel, my eyes glued to the date on the page. Pleading with him to see and understand that those words of anger, the plans made to run were not from today. I don’t say another word. I know if I do that it’ll mean more corrections, more punishment, and where I stand, my body can’t take any more physical trauma. Hell, my mind is already so close to the breaking edge of insanity, I’ll crumble if he inflicts any more pain on me. That is something he revels in and I really do not want to give him that satisfaction.

  He looks down and clicks his tongue again in that way that makes my skin crawl. “So, it would seem.” He meets my eyes and his brows come down together, studying my body, my stance. I fake a small tremor in hopes of conveying fear, just as he likes me—frightened and shaking in his presence. Maybe he’ll leave if he thinks I’m terrified of him. To be honest, it’s not hard to pull off with how weak I am right now.

  An evil smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. Satisfaction with my wounded, frightened animal reactions. I give him an extra flinch, rolling my shoulders forward, and dropping my eyes, an attempt to make myself smaller.

  He stands from his seat on my bed and strolls over, stopping directly in front of me. He runs the edge of my journal up my left arm and then down over my left ribs, giving a little push. I draw back with a whimper, wrapping my arm protectively over my ribs. God, that hurt. Tears spring to my eyes. One escapes as I try to hold in the sob threatening to break free.

  Gliding the journal back up my body, he runs it through the valley between my breasts, pressing down on the front of the towel. “I’ll be keeping this, and if you get any wise ideas of acting any of this out … just know it won’t end well for you.” His words trail off as he taps the journal against my chest, over my heart, before he turns and walks out, slamming my door behind him. His threat left hanging in the air, a foreboding promise to my ultimate destruction.