The Vengeful Heiress's Deal With The Devil

The thick, coarse fibers of the hemp rope bit into Brea Sinclair's wrists.

She twisted her arms behind the wooden chair, her muscles screaming in protest. The friction tore the top layer of her skin.

Warm, sticky blood welled up from the raw abrasions. It slid down her trembling fingertips and dripped onto the dust-coated concrete floor of the abandoned warehouse.

A heavy iron door groaned on its rusted hinges at the far end of the room. The sharp, rhythmic click of high heels echoed through the cavernous space.

"You really thought they brought you back to New York because they missed you?"

Caitlynn Sinclair stepped into the dim, yellow light. She wore a pristine, white Chanel tweed suit. Not a single thread was out of place.

Brea jerked her head up. Her eyes, mapped with broken red blood vessels, locked onto the approaching figure.Her jaw ached under the crushing grip that followed.

This is her half-sister, whom she can never forget, because the appearance of Caitlynn's mother led her mother down a nightmare path, ultimately resulting in her death. They are the ones who killed her mother and brought her to this state.

She also understood. The phone call from her father after eighteen years in the Rust Belt. The fake warmth in his voice. The promise of finally coming home.

She thought her father had had a change of heart, wanting to make up for all those years of neglect, but they had other intentions.

She had believed him. Stupid, naive, hungry for a family that had never wanted her.

Caitlynn stopped inches away. A mocking, triumphant smile stretched across her perfectly glossed lips. She squatted down gracefully, bringing her face level with Brea's dirt-streaked cheeks.

"They just needed a walking bone marrow bank," Caitlynn stated, her nails digging into Brea's flesh. "To cure my illness."

So that's it, Brea thought, a cold, horrifying clarity washing over her. Not a daughter. A spare part.

Caitlynn watched the horror dawn on Brea's face. A soft, delighted laugh escaped her throat. She released Brea's jaw and stood up, towering over the tied-up girl.

"And Althea?" Caitlynn lowered her voice, leaning in slightly. "Your mother didn't die of a sudden illness. We poisoned her."

A guttural, animalistic scream tore out of Brea's dry throat.

She thrashed violently against the ropes. The wooden chair slammed against the concrete, the legs scraping loudly as she threw her entire body weight forward. She wanted to rip Caitlynn apart with her bare teeth.

Caitlynn took two quick steps back, her nose wrinkling in disgust as dust kicked up around her white heels.

She unclasped her designer handbag and pulled out a silk handkerchief. She meticulously wiped the lace fingers that had touched Brea's skin.

Without looking up, Caitlynn raised a hand and gave a sharp, downward signal to the shadows.

A heavily built contractor stepped forward. He carried a large red plastic jug.

He tipped it over. The harsh, chemical stench of gasoline flooded the air, splashing onto the concrete and soaking the legs of Brea's chair. The fumes instantly sucked the breathable oxygen from the room.

Brea coughed violently, her lungs burning, but her eyes never left Caitlynn. She stared with the pure, distilled hatred of a cornered wolf.

Caitlynn pulled a custom matchbox from her pocket. She struck a match. The small flame flared to life.

"We just need you alive enough to harvest the marrow," Caitlynn whispered, her eyes gleaming with malice. "A tragic fire leaving you with third-degree burns and in a comatose state will make the hospital paperwork so much easier. You won't be able to fight the transplant then."

With a serene smile, Caitlynn tossed the burning match onto the soaked concrete.

The air ignited with a deafening whoosh. A wall of orange fire erupted, instantly swallowing the space around the chair.

Caitlynn turned on her heel. The click of her shoes faded as she walked out the iron doors, never looking back.

The heat hit Brea like a physical blow. The skin on her arms began to blister and crack. The agonizing pain drilled straight into her nerve endings.

She bit down on her lower lip until the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.

As the flames licked higher, melting her clothes to her skin, Brea swore a silent, bloody oath. If there is a next life, I will carve you all to pieces.

The smoke filled her lungs. Her vision went black.

But before the darkness claimed her completely, she saw a blurry figure-a tall man with desperate, anguished eyes-rushing toward her through the flames. She couldn't hear his voice over the fire's roar, but she saw his mouth form a single word. Her name. Brea.

Clack-clack. Clack-clack.

Brea gasped, sucking in a massive lungful of cold, stale air. Her eyes snapped open.She threw her hands down, slapping frantically at her legs, expecting to feel the searing heat of melted flesh.

Her palms met the rough, intact denim of cheap jeans.Her breathing hitched. She turned her head.

The reflection in the grimy train window stared back at her. It was her own face, unburned, dirt-smudged, and exactly eighteen years old.

She pressed her hand flat against her chest. Her heart hammered against her ribs, strong and steady.

The memory of the warehouse fire collided violently with the sight of the worn-out train cabin.

She looked down. A faded canvas duffel bag sat by her worn sneakers.

The realization hit her like a physical blow to the gut. She was back. This was the night train to New York. The exact day the Sinclair family had brought her back from the Rust Belt.

It was also the exact day they had hired dark web contractors to stage an "accident" before she ever reached the city.

A heavy metallic clank echoed from the connection space between the train cars.

Brea's muscles locked. She sprang up from the cracked vinyl seat, grabbed the canvas bag, and slung the strap over her shoulder.

She peeked through the frosted glass panel.

Two men in worn denim jackets and dark baseball caps stood in the aisle of the next car, appearing at first glance like ordinary late-night travelers. However, Brea's hardened instincts immediately caught the unnatural rigidity in their posture and the heavy, unmistakable bulge of concealed firearms hidden beneath their casual coats.

One of them held up a printed photograph, discreetly comparing it to the sleeping passengers in the seats.

The man suddenly snapped his head up, his gaze locking directly onto the glass door where Brea stood.

Brea spun around and broke into a dead sprint toward the opposite end of the car.The old train violently lurched on the uneven tracks. Brea lost her footing. Her body pitched hard to the right.

Her right shin smashed brutally against the sharp metal edge of an exposed luggage rack. A sickening tear of pain shot from her bone straight up to her spine.

She bit down hard on her lower lip, swallowing the scream that tried to claw its way out of her throat. The taste of copper flooded her mouth.

Sweat beaded on her forehead. She gripped the back of a passenger seat and forced herself to stand, her right leg trembling violently.

The electronic chime of the automatic sliding door sounded behind her. Heavy, urgent combat boots pounded against the floorboards of her car.

Brea dragged her bleeding leg forward. She shoved her way through the narrow corridor leading into the first-class VIP section.

At the very end of the plush hallway, a heavy walnut door stood slightly ajar.

She threw her entire body weight against the wood, tumbling into the dark room. She twisted around on the floor, kicked the door shut, and slammed the palm of her hand against the brass deadbolt.

Click.

She slumped against the cold wood of the door, her chest heaving as she dragged in ragged breaths.

Then she heard it. A harsh, irregular sound cutting through the silence. Someone struggling to breathe.

Her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness.

A massive silhouette was curled up on the leather sofa in the corner of the room.

The man had his hands buried in his hair, gripping the strands as if trying to tear them from his scalp.

A low, guttural growl ripped from his throat. It sounded like a wounded, cornered animal.

Brea pressed her spine flat against the door, assessing the threat.

The low growling stopped abruptly. The man snapped his head up, staring directly into the shadows where she stood.

Before she could blink, he launched himself off the sofa with terrifying explosive power.

A large, freezing hand clamped around her throat.

Her feet left the floor. The air was violently forced out of her lungs.

She clawed frantically at the massive hand crushing her windpipe, her fingertips brushing against the cold, heavy platinum of a bespoke cufflink. The sheer, overwhelming physical power and the faint, expensive scent of cedarwood told her this was no ordinary thug. She struggled to focus through the darkness.

Through the faint sliver of light bleeding in from the hallway, she saw his eyes. They were bloodshot, dilated, and completely unhinged.

As her vision began to blur with black spots, the ambient light briefly caught the sharp, aristocratic angle of his jawline and the ruthlessly cold features.

Her stomach dropped. She finally recognized the face from countless financial magazine covers in her past life. Jaxon Kensington. The tyrant of Wall Street.

The rumors of his severe, violent PTSD flashed through her mind.

Jaxon's fingers tightened. The thick veins on the back of his hand bulged.

Black spots danced at the edges of Brea's vision. The sensation of dying returned, suffocating and absolute.

She knew fighting back would only trigger a deeper violent response from a PTSD patient in a dissociative state.

She stopped kicking. Her arms felt like lead, but she forced them upward.

She opened her palms and gently pressed her warm, soft hands against Jaxon's rigid jawline.

Jaxon's massive frame flinched violently at the sudden, non-aggressive touch.

Brea fought through the crushing pain in her windpipe. She locked her clear, unwavering gaze onto his chaotic eyes.

She parted her lips and made a soft, rhythmic shushing sound.

"I can fix the pain in your head," she forced out in a raspy, barely audible whisper.

Jaxon's heavy, erratic breathing hitched. He froze.

The murderous intent in his eyes fractured. A flicker of confusion broke through the madness.

The iron grip around her throat loosened by a fraction of an inch.

Brea immediately grabbed his wrist, holding it in place as she sucked in a desperate, greedy lungful of air.

Jaxon let go completely. He stumbled backward, as if his strings had been cut.

He collapsed back onto the leather sofa, buried his face in his hands, and began to shake.

Brea slid down the wall. She hit the floor, coughing violently, her hands clutching her bruised neck as she watched the monster in the dark.

Brea leaned her head back against the wall, waiting for the coughing fit to pass.

She looked down at her right leg. The cheap denim was soaked through with dark, wet blood.

On the sofa, Jaxon sat up.