Torture Devices

*** ~~VESPER~~ ***

So this is the infamous Killian.

I stare at the man behind the wheel of the monstrous muscle car, my mind struggling to bridge the massive gap between reality and the stories I have been fed. I have heard the tales. Caleb talks about his brother the way a weary traveler might talk about a stray, dangerous wolf that occasionally shows up to the edge of a campfire. According to Caleb, Killian is the kind of phantom who steps out of the shadows, steals your food, creates chaos, and disappears right back into the dark woods. He painted a picture of a man who is wild, unpredictable, and maybe even a little unhinged.

Looking at him now, I can see the faint, underlying genetic connection. He does resemble Caleb in the most superficial ways. They share the same sharp, aristocratic bone structure. They share the same annoyingly perfect mouth. But the similarities end right there. Where Caleb is pure sunshine, easy charm, and pastel polos, Killian looks like he just crawled out of a dark lifestyle magazine meant for sophisticated, ruthless gangsters. Caleb is the guy who brings donuts to the office and remembers your birthday. The man sitting in this car looks like he would ruin your life and not lose a single second of sleep over it.

"How do I know you're not a kidnapper? You'll have to provide proof that you're who you say you are." I tilt my chin up, refusing to shrink back under his heavy, calculating stare.

"Like an ID card?" he asks, his deep voice carrying a faint trace of dark amusement.

"That would work." I keep my posture stiff, clutching my phone in my hand as if it is a weapon.

"I don't have any." He rests one thick, muscular arm over the edge of the open window frame, looking far too comfortable for a man interrogating a stranger on an airport curb.

"See? Kidnapper vibes." I shift my weight from one foot to the other, my travel bag feeling heavier by the second.

"Why don't you call Caleb and confirm?" Killian nods toward the useless piece of metal in my hand.

"He's not answering. Why do you think I've been standing here for an hour like an abandoned dog? And you showing up in an aggressive-looking muscle car that screams mafia boss isn't exactly helping your case." I cross my arms over my chest, glaring at the sleek black exterior of the Mustang.

"Are you getting in or not? I have places to be, young lady." The amusement fades from his tone, replaced by a sharp edge of impatience.

"Young lady? Did you really just belittle me?" I gasp, my jaw dropping slightly at his sheer audacity.

Killian sighs, releasing a long-suffering sound from deep within his chest. It is the exact kind of sound a man makes when he is testing what little patience he has left for a stubborn obstacle in his path.

"Get in, Vesper." He does not raise his voice, but the command carries a quiet, lethal weight.

I stare at him with a deadpan expression, locking eyes with the dark, fathomless depths of his gaze. For a long, tense moment, neither of us moves. The bustling noise of the airport terminal seems to fade into the background, drowned out by the low, continuous rumble of the Shelby GT500’s engine. Then, I let out a heavy sigh of my own. I clearly have zero self-preservation instincts. I have already agreed to fly across the country to help Caleb crash his terrible ex-girlfriend's wedding. Getting into a terrifying car with his potentially murderous, gangster-looking brother is not even the worst decision I have made this month.

"Open your trunk," I say.

Killian reaches down and pops the trunk from the inside. I haul my travel bag off the concrete and toss it into the dark cavern of the car.

I mutter under my breath the entire time. I remind myself that this is exactly how naive women end up as the featured victims on true crime podcasts. I slam the trunk shut, walk around the menacing front grille of the Mustang, and pull open the heavy passenger door. The interior smells like rich black leather, expensive spicy cologne, and raw danger. I slide into the low bucket seat, pulling the door shut behind me. The cabin is intimate and cramped, making Killian’s broad, muscular frame feel even larger and more suffocating.

I sit there waiting. Killian does not move a muscle. He simply rests his hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead through the windshield.

"Why aren't you driving?" I ask, glancing sideways at his sharp profile.

"Your seatbelt." He does not even bother to look at me.

Oh.

I blink in surprise. A safety-conscious potential kidnapper. That is incredibly unexpected. I reach over my shoulder, drag the heavy nylon strap across my chest, and snap it into the buckle with a loud click.

The very second the metal lock engages, he guns the engine.

Killian pulls out of the airport pickup zone and merges onto the highway with a brutal, smooth acceleration that physically slams me back against the leather seat. The G-force is intense, stealing the breath straight from my lungs. The moment the massive tires hit the open asphalt of the highway, he speeds up even more. The Shelby Mustang roars beneath us, vibrating through the floorboards like a caged beast that has finally been unleashed. The scenery outside my window instantly turns into a dizzying, unrecognizable blur of green trees and gray concrete.

"Whoa, slow down!" My hands instinctively shoot out, my fingers gripping the hard edge of the center console and the side of my seat.

"Wanna get out?" he asks, his voice infuriatingly calm despite the terrifying speed of the vehicle.

"No. But you're moving too fast. I can't even see the city." I keep my eyes glued to the dashboard, mentally preparing for a fiery crash.

"Asheville? There's nothing to see." He shifts gears, the engine revving higher as he effortlessly weaves past a slower sedan.

"Easy for you to say. You've probably lived here all your life and traveled the world. I hardly leave New York. When I do, I like to... fill my eyes." I force myself to look out the side window, trying to catch glimpses of the rolling mountains in the distance.

The words sound overly poetic the second they leave my mouth. It is almost embarrassing to say out loud to a man who looks like he eats feelings for breakfast. But it is the raw truth. I collect moments, fragmented images, and fleeting sensations. I store them away in the quiet corners of my mind. I save them for the long, lonely nights when my cramped New York apartment feels far too empty and the anxious thoughts in my head become far too loud.

"You think I live in Asheville?" he asks, glancing at me from the corner of his dark eyes.

"You don't?" I turn my head, my brow furrowing in genuine confusion.

"Nope. New York." Killian smoothly navigates a curve in the highway, his focus returning to the road ahead.

Wait a damn minute.

My brain screeches to a violent halt. The words hang in the heavy air of the cabin, echoing against the leather upholstery. New York? He lives in New York? The revelation hits me like a physical punch to the gut.

"You've been in New York all this time." I state it as a fact, but my voice wavers with disbelief.

"You sound shocked," he notes, a hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

"It's just... Caleb's never mentioned that. Ever. How do you both live in the same city and never cross paths?" My mind spins, frantically flipping through years of memories, conversations, and late-night confessions with Caleb.

Caleb is my best friend. We share everything. We complain about our bosses, we split terrible takeout food, and we know each other’s deepest insecurities. Never once in all those endless hours of talking did he mention that his wild, estranged brother lives in the exact same zip code. Caleb always made it sound like Killian was off roaming the wilderness in some distant, untouchable part of the country. To find out they share the same city makes no sense. The lie of omission feels massive, heavy, and deeply unsettling.

"Caleb and I have a... complex relationship." The hard, flat tone of his voice builds an instant brick wall between us.

The finality in his statement makes me drop the subject. I swallow the dozen questions burning the back of my throat and turn my gaze back to the window.

We drive in a thick, tense silence for a long time. The highway gives way to secondary roads, the lush scenery morphing into scattered commercial zones and dusty strip malls. My mind remains trapped in a chaotic loop, trying to decipher why Caleb would hide such a massive detail about his own flesh and blood.

Without any warning, Killian suddenly swerves off the main road. The heavy car takes a sharp, aggressive turn that sends my shoulder crashing into the passenger door. I let out a startled gasp, clutching the door handle to steady myself. The Mustang growls as it pulls into a dingy, dimly lit parking lot attached to a weathered commercial building.

Killian throws the car into park. The engine idles with a low rumble.

I look out the window. We are parked squarely in front of a shadowy storefront. The windows are heavily tinted, blocking any view of the inside. Above the main entrance, a massive, flickering neon red sign cuts through the afternoon gloom. The glowing letters read: PRIMAL PLEASURES.

"Umm… Is this your parents' house?" I ask, staring at the sketchy alleyway running alongside the building, knowing full well it is not.

"Primal Pleasures? Really? Does it look like a house to you?" Killian smirks, pulling the keys from the ignition.

The place is exactly what you would expect a seedy adult store to look like. It has dark windows, peeling paint on the brick exterior, and a shady alleyway that looks perfect for illegal transactions. It is a stark, jarring contrast to the expensive, pristine sports car we are sitting inside.

"A sex shop?" I ask, pointing a finger at the neon red letters.

"Bingo." He unbuckles his seatbelt, the metal latch echoing in the quiet cabin.

My brain short-circuits for the second time in twenty minutes. I stare at him, utterly bewildered.

"Why are we at a sex shop?" I demand.

"Need to grab a wedding present," he replies, his voice incredibly casual, as if stopping at an adult store is standard procedure for a wedding weekend.

"For who?" I blink, trying to process the absurdity of the situation.

"My friend and his bride," Killian answers, rolling his broad shoulders to stretch.

I hesitate. A cold, sinking feeling settles deep in the pit of my stomach. My mind rapidly connects the chaotic, jagged puzzle pieces. We are in Asheville. For a wedding. Caleb is crashing his ex-girlfriend Scarlett’s wedding. Scarlett is marrying a man named Barrett. Killian is here buying a gift for his friend the groom.

I swallow hard, the moisture vanishing from my mouth.

"Wait... your friend is Barrett? The groom?" I stare at him wide-eyed, praying I am jumping to the wrong conclusion.

"Yep." He nods, unbothered.

"Scarlett's fiancé?" My voice comes out as a breathless squeak.

"Yep." Killian grins wickedly, clearly enjoying the mounting horror painted across my face.

Oh, for God's sake.

The reality of the situation crashes down on me like an avalanche. Caleb's brother is best friends with Scarlett's fiancé? Caleb’s own brother is tight with the very man who stole Caleb's girlfriend? The sheer, twisted madness of the social dynamic is staggering. Why has Caleb never mentioned any of this? The secrets are piling up faster than I can count. It feels like I know absolutely nothing about the man I consider my best friend. He dragged me across the country to crash a wedding, failing to mention that his own brother is a VIP guest on the groom’s side.

This is not just a messy breakup scenario. This is a massive, highly unstable time bomb waiting to go off.

"Would you like to wait here or come inside?" Killian asks, gesturing lazily toward the glowing red neon sign.

I glance at the dark, forbidden building. I turn my head and look back at the dangerously handsome man sitting in the driver's seat. My loyalty to Caleb wars with my profound irritation at his endless lies. But above all else, a fierce, protective anger flares to life inside my chest. Caleb might be a secretive idiot, but he is still my idiot. Scarlett broke his heart. Scarlett cheated. Scarlett is the villain of this story, and I am here to be the loyal sidekick.

Screw it.

I unbuckle my seatbelt and push the heavy car door open. I step out onto the cracked asphalt of the parking lot, the humid North Carolina air wrapping around me. I awkwardly adjust my glasses, pushing them up the bridge of my nose, and smooth imaginary wrinkles out of my dark top. I stand tall, refusing to let the bizarre circumstances intimidate me.

"Let's go buy some torture devices in Scarlett's name. I am not the least bit joking." I slam the car door shut, my voice hard and resolute.

"Alright, ma'am. But I must warn you, some girls do enjoy being tortured." Killian steps out of the car, a low, rumbling chuckle vibrating in his chest as he locks the doors.

We will see about that. I square my shoulders and march straight toward the glowing red entrance of Primal Pleasures. I am going to walk into this degenerate store and find the most terrifying piece of equipment they sell. I am going to get something with enough high voltage to zap Scarlett's fake, cheating ass right off the face of this Earth, ensuring she never gets the chance to ruin Caleb's life ever again.