Inflict

By Bethany-Kris

As the son of an Irish mobster, Connor O'Neil spent his boyhood hiding from the horrors of his own home. His one reprieve was a girl he knew only as Evelyn, but even she was taken away. As a man, Connor is determined to stay away from his father's business. With Sean, participation is not a request, but a demand. The truth is, Connor might be more like the evil he's trying to hide away from than he would like to admit.

And he's already spent years trying to cover the scars left over from the pain.

A chance encounter puts the lost girl from his past back on his path, and he no longer has a choice but to face the darkness he's been ignoring for years.

Evelyn. Sasha. Slave. 

She doesn't really know who she is anymore. 

Or maybe she does, and she doesn't want to tell.

She isn't the same as she once was—now a thing to be kept and maintained, shuffled from owner to owner until it was her time to go. She only became Connor's because he took her when he knew she wasn't his to take.

Except she isn't Connor's at all …

And he can't keep her hidden forever.

~Inflict is a Standalone Romance with graphic depictions of violence, sexual scenes, dark elements and a HEA. It is not recommended for those under the age of 18.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bethany-Kris
• Release date: Apr 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781988197296

Bethany-Kris

Bethany-Kris is a Canadian author, lover of much, and mother to three very young sons, one cat, and two dogs. A small town in Eastern Canada where she was born and raised is where she has always called home. With her boys under her feet, a snuggling cat, barking dogs, and a spouse calling over his shoulder, she is nearly always writing something ... when she can find the time. 

Book preview

Your feet will bring you where your heart is. ~Irish Proverb

For my editor, Nina.

Thank you for being so wonderful.

And for letting me make you cry.

Inflict – A Novel

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Epilogue

Thanks!

Author Bio

Other Titles

Copyright

"Daidí!"

All five-years of Connor O’Neil stumbled over his own steps as he tried to yank on the rubber boots and run at the same time, down the hallway toward his dad’s office.

Stopped raining, it did! Can I go outside now?

Rolling over to his back, Connor pulled the rubber boot on properly and turned back to his knees. Pushing his arse back up off the floor, he ran the rest of the way to the office without stumbling once.

His dad always said he was too excitable.

That he had no patience.

And he should watch more and not shout as often.

Because people who spoke less, heard more.

Connor didn’t even understand what those things meant.

"Daidí!" he shouted at the office doors.

He wasn’t supposed to just barge right in, if the doors were closed, but it’d been raining for a week, and he was what his father liked to call a sickling. He didn’t know what that meant, either, but when too much wind blew into his ears, they ached. And if he got too wet by rain, he was coughing awfully terrible the next day.

Not today, though.

The rain had stopped.

He wanted to play.

Usually Lela—his father’s maid—would take him out, but he couldn’t even find her.

Grabbing the doorknob in his wee hand, Connor turned the latch and pushed the door open, barreling into his dad’s office.

He found the maid.

And his father.

Connor blinked, taking in the odd scene he was seeing.

Something five-year-old lads didn’t know.

On her knees in front of his father was the maid, her mouth open, and his father’s prick sliding in between her lips.

Even in his head, Connor whispered that word—prick.

He wasn’t supposed to say it, that’s what the maid said.

His father—Sean—had a handful of the maid’s hair and looked to be pulling it fiercely. Like it must have been hurting her, but Connor didn’t know.

Connor knew he’d done wrong barging into the office without knocking, but he’d shouted.

He’d shouted.

So, he couldn’t be in trouble for this.

His father always said he was too loud, so how come he didn’t hear?

He always heard everything else Connor did.

He’d whip him hard with a belt for being too loud.

Connor didn’t want to get whipped, and he didn’t want to have to pick a switch, either. So, he stepped back, grabbing the doorknob and pulling the door shut behind him.

But before the door closed completely, he glanced back in, curious and heavy in his tummy. The first thing he realized, was that his father had noticed him.

Sean was looking straight at him, quiet and smiling.

It wasn’t a nice smile.

Connor wanted to shut the door, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t move because the second thing he realized was no, the maid was not enjoying what she was doing, and she was in pain. Because his father’s other hand was around her throat.

She gagged, and choked. Her face was red—eyes wide and lips a wee bit blue.

Stop, Connor wanted to say.

He liked this maid, but she was not the first. Many had come before her, and depending on how smart she was—and how well she could please his father—her stay might extend longer than the few months that was usual for their maids. Then again, maybe not.

Connor closed the door, still heavy in his tummy, but not as curious now.

• • •

Water flew everywhere, each time his rubber boots came down into yet another puddle. He could not run fast enough. His lungs burned. His legs hurt. It still was not enough. And it was more than the nasty neighbor’s mutt chasing too close on his arse. He couldn’t outrun his mind. He couldn’t outrun what he had left behind. He couldn’t outrun what he had seen.

He had more important things to worry about, like the damn dog on his heels.

Connor’s lungs burned as he chanced a look over his shoulder, only to see the nasty mutt chasing him was still too close and gaining ground. His dad had threatened to kill the neighbor’s dog more than once, but that was because Sean didn’t like any animals, not because the dog was mean and had bitten Connor once before on his arse.

Miss Carol’s stone fence came into view, and for the first time all day, Connor felt relief. He wasn’t a very lucky lad, or so his dad always told him. Trouble found him, not the other way around. Connor was starting to think his dad might be right—except the fence was a wee bit of luck for him.

The stone fence enclosed Miss Carol’s entire property, and the only way in or out was to open one of the two iron gates at the front and back. She wasn’t nice, and she walked with her back hunched over at her shoulders. She had thrown crab apples at him after he climbed the trees in the back of her property—missed him by a mile, but he made sure to keep a distance after that. Connor didn’t think she would even know he had used her fence as an escape route.

The stone fence came faster than Connor expected it to, but that could have been because he was still watching the dog behind him. He managed to jump just in time to make it, but he didn’t clear the top of the fence entirely. The toe of his right boot hooked one of the oddly-placed stones, sending him flying head over heels atop the fence. His arms flailed wildly before he smashed into the ground with a quiet cry.

He’d learned long ago not to complain, even if he was hurt. It was only okay to complain if there was a lot of blood, or bones that looked wrong.

Still, he struggled to catch a breath, his ribs aching when he finally did draw in enough air, though that hurt, too. He almost smiled when he heard the sharp yelp of the dog as it crashed into the stone fence, almost the second after he had hit the ground.

Bastard, he thought.

Connor quickly remembered where he was, stood up, and shot a look in the direction of Miss Carol’s old house. The ivy growth along the brick and windowsills were covered in shadows from the large trees lining the side of the house.

Maybe she hadn’t seen a thing, or heard him when he fell.

He didn’t wait around to find out.

Keeping close to the fence, and being as quiet as possible to make sure the dog didn’t hear him, Connor followed the overgrown grass until he was all the way around the back of the house. He slipped out the back gate, not caring that it creaked loud enough to sound like the squawk of a dying bird, because as soon as he pushed it open, he knew he was free.

Triumph made Connor smile as he shot toward the walking path leading into the woods, never once looking over his shoulder. It would take double the time for him to get home as he crisscrossed the paths through several backyards of other properties, but he didn’t mind at all.

He wasn’t looking forward to finding what waited at home. Not after what he had seen before he left.

For the most part, their small Jersey community was made up of mostly people like him and his father—Irish. His father had never been very fond of his homeland, but he never made a great effort to separate himself from the culture, either. Nonetheless, it made his community feel a wee bit safer when he did go beyond his own property to explore.

Connor brushed the dirt from his clothes and hands the best he could as he made his way in the direction that would take him home. If there was anything his father hated the most when Connor played outside, it was when he came home dirty. His efforts didn’t help all that much, as the rain had left the ground muddy, and his clothes were covered in the muck.

Maybe he could get inside and to his room to change before—

Hi.

The quiet greeting made Connor trip over his own two feet, and sent him sprawling onto the muddy ground again. He quickly pushed up from the path, wiping at his face with an already-dirty hand, and probably making his messiness worse.

Sorry, the gentle voice said.

Connor found where the voice was coming from as soon as he righted himself fully. A wee lass with a pink and white dress, bright-yellow rubber boots, and a white bow tying up her almost-white hair, stood just off the path, hidden in the thickets and brush. Her clothes, pretty and frilly, held similar marks as his—muddy handprints across her tulle skirt, smeared dirt on the satin bow in her hair.

She was almost as tall as him, but not quite, as her wide eyes looked up at him when Connor moved closer. She had really green eyes.

Hi, Connor said.

She peered behind him, back the way he had come from. Her eyes widened even more, making her look like those porcelain dolls he’d seen once in the toy store when his birthday had come around, and his father had taken him to pick something out. Except she was different looking, too, as her cream skin was splattered with dark freckles, and her lips were more red than pink like the dolls’.

Were you at Miss Carol’s? she asked in a whisper, seeming almost afraid of saying the old woman’s name too loud.

Connor shrugged, not wanting the girl to be afraid. Not for long.

He didn’t think mentioning the dog would help.

"Daidí says not to go that far."

He’s probably right.

She looked down at the ground where Connor still stood on the path. "I’m not supposed to go this far, too."

Oh.

Connor’s father didn’t put boundaries about where he could and couldn’t play, but he thought that was mostly because his father liked when he was out of his hair, more than when he was stuck inside the house.

But if she wasn’t supposed to be this far …

I can walk you home, Connor offered.

Not supposed to talk to strangers, she said simply.

Connor frowned. "But we already are."

And he was a lad, not a stranger.

The lass looked like she was considering his statement before she blurted out, My name is Evelyn.

I’m Connor.

I like to draw. To show her point, Evelyn held up a dirty notepad in one hand, and a pencil with a broken lead tip in the other. But I broke my pencil when I sat on it. Not supposed to bring my pencils and paper outside when it’s wet.

She had a lot of rules.

Connor pulled out a pocket knife from his jeans, and took Evelyn’s pencil when she offered it to him. A few quick scrapes of the sharp blade against the wood, and it had a new tip, ready for her to draw in her notepad again.

Here, Connor said.

Evelyn’s amazement lit up her doll-like features as she took the pencil back. You have a knife?

Not supposed to play with knives?

She shook her head slowly.

They are sharp, Connor said, his gaze catching the scar on his palm from where he’d cut himself learning how to peel an apple. There had been a lot of blood, so much it painted the counter, but his father had only laughed, while Connor had been entranced by the sight until the pain started. Maybe that’s a good rule to have, Evelyn.

Evelyn smiled up at him. We’re not strangers now.

We’re not?

Nope. Her white teeth flashed at him in her smile. You can walk me home.

Connor nodded, and stepped off the path. Before he even knew which way to go, Evelyn had stuck her tiny, dirty hand in his, and pulled him in the direction she must have come from, wherever her house was beyond the trees. He’d been so surprised that she was holding his hand that he didn’t even pay attention to where they were going.

He decided he liked holding hands.

He’d only seen a few people do it.

All too soon, the trees began to thin, and the back of a house came into view, far beyond where the line of the forest ended. The pale-yellow siding was far more inviting than the old, worn brick of Miss Carol’s.

Evelyn let go of Connor’s hand before he was ready for her to. Thanks!

Wait!

Evelyn’s hair caught the rays of sunlight peeking through the edge of the trees as her head whipped around. In the light, her almost-white locks had a sheen of red. Yeah?

Connor didn’t know why he’d stopped the wee girl, and so he blurted out the first thing to come to his mind. Wanna play tomorrow?

Evelyn’s brow knitted together. Not supposed—

To play with strangers, I know. But we’re not, remember?

Maybe. She didn’t sound entirely sure. Will you come back?

After lunch.

Evelyn didn’t get a chance to reply to his promise, as a form darkened the side of her house just before a bellow of her name flew across the yard.

Evelyn Marie!

The form took another couple of steps forward, close enough for Connor to see that it was a familiar man he had seen before when he drove around in the backseat of his father’s old Cadillac. Sometimes, Sean would park the old boat of a car, leave Connor in the backseat playing with whatever toy he had brought along for the day, and disappear into a restaurant or wherever for a while.

Usually a long time.

But he had seen that man before—Boss, that was his name.

Or at least, that was what people called him.

Connor had only seen peeks of the man before—once, when he sat in a corner booth of a pub, drinking a pint of the black stuff, and another time at the barber’s shop, while a man shaved his face with careful hands.

Evelyn!

Connor jumped from the second shout, as it was much louder than the first.

That’s my daddy, she told him, so I better go.

Her father?

Where’s your mammy? Connor asked.

Evelyn stared blankly at him. In Heaven.

The answer took Connor by surprise.

So is mine, he whispered.

Or at least, that’s what Father Devin explained to him one Sunday afternoon, while his father did penance a few pews behind him. His father, on the other hand, had only ever said his mother was exactly where she belonged to be.

Whatever that meant.

Connor liked the Priest’s version better than Sean’s, so he chose to believe his mother was now an angel. Because who knew where his father thought his mother belonged, when Connor wasn’t even allowed to keep a picture of her that he had found once?

Evelyn flashed him another one of her smiles, but it wasn’t as bright as before. Tomorrow, right?

Connor nodded. Right, tomorrow.

In a blink, Evelyn darted out of her hidden spot inside the tree line while her father’s back was turned. Connor had the distinct feeling it probably wasn’t the first time she had gone farther, or played beyond, than where she was supposed to.

With her dirty notebook in one hand, and her newly sharpened pencil in the other, Evelyn skipped toward her father, the tulle of her skirt swishing back and forth with each step. Connor couldn’t see her face, and while he knew it was probably time for him to go, he couldn’t move. He stayed in his own hidden spot, watching from the shadows as the man turned around and saw Evelyn coming his way.

Connor didn’t think he had ever seen a man smile so big.

There you are! He was on one knee before Evelyn had reached his spot, his arms opened to her. He didn’t seem to mind the wet ground, or that it was probably dirtying his nice black slacks. Once he had Evelyn in his embrace, he picked her up from the ground and stood, his one arm holding around the backs of her legs so she was almost sitting in his arms. You’re all dirty, sunshine.

I fell, Evelyn replied.

Or you played in mud and wiped your hands clean on your dress.

Evelyn laughed. Did not, did not.

I think so, wee one.

She held out her notebook. A picture for you.

Connor was once again stuck in a sense of awe as he spied on the father-daughter duo. His father would never have held him, never hugged him, and he would not have been smiling about Connor making a mess of himself and his clothes.

The scene in front of him was … abnormal.

Nice, but strange.

It left him feeling a bit empty.

He wondered what that felt like—to be loved and wanted?

He didn’t know.

You worried me, the man said. I called and you didn’t come, Evelyn.

Connor decided then that it was time to go. His father was probably wondering where he was, and he was getting hungry. He didn’t want to go back to the scene he had run from, but he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.

But even as he turned away to head back to the path, Connor could still hear the conversation between Evelyn and her father.

It hurts when I worry for you, he said, his voice growing faint the further Connor walked. You were so longed for, Evelyn. Such a wished for child, pretty girl, our miracle in the night. I don’t know what I would do if I lost you, don’t you understand?

I’ll come quicker next time you call.

But do you understand, Evelyn?

I understand.

Connor didn’t.

• • •

There were more cars parked in the driveway when Connor arrived home than there had been when he left earlier. He recognized a couple, men who occasionally showed up at his house for a pint of Guinness or a glass of whiskey with his father. Sometimes, they’d sneaked him a sip from their glass, laughing until their faces reddened when he coughed and choked from the harsh liquors.

All of them were Irish, like him, some with thicker dialects than others, and some who spoke of home as being the countryside they’d left in Ireland years ago. He liked those stories the best, when one of them were drunk enough to talk, but not so drunk that he couldn’t understand what they were saying.

His father rarely spoke of Ireland, saying only that America was their home, and that his old country betrayed him. And because of that, Connor had been given the American spelling of his name, instead of the Irish one. Connor believed there was more to the story, more that his father didn’t say, because even the men who came around didn’t talk about Ireland when Sean was in the same room.

Mostly, Connor tried to stay out of the way of the men when they visited.

His father told him to.

He tried to listen, when he could.

Sometimes, they pried him from one of his many hiding corners, and as long as his father wasn’t too close by, Connor didn’t mind.

Connor decided to use the unexpected visitors to his benefit, knowing his father was probably stuck in his office with the men, or even in front of the television in the main room. If Sean was distracted, he might not notice Connor sneak to his bedroom upstairs to change his dirty clothes before his father could lay into him for getting messy when he knew better.

He was not looking forward to the whipping he would surely get if he was caught with mud-stained skin and clothes.

Even still, Connor wiped his clothes as he climbed up the front steps out of habit, trying to get rid of whatever mud might have dried. Barely any came off, and his hands were brown, with dirt caked under his fingernails.

Stupid mutt.

Next time, he was going to have his pocketknife ready for that dog.

Connor opened the front door slowly, listening for any sounds that would tell him where his father and the other men were inside the house. Faint murmurs echoed down the hall, telling him they were likely in the main room. He had hoped they would be upstairs in the office, because it would be easier for Connor to get inside his own room when he didn’t have to bypass the office. The main room, though, had a wide entrance that he would have to speed by and hope not to be noticed.

It wouldn’t be as easy.

Connor?

Connor damn near slammed the front door shut and bolted back down the front steps at the soft call of his name—it was only because the voice, though hoarse and sore sounding, was soft, did he push the door open the rest of the way. He quickly stepped inside, making sure not to let the door even make a click when it latched shut.

On her hands and knees, scrubbing muddy footprint streaks off the wood floor, was the maid. Connor’s gaze instantly went to the flimsy, flower-patterned scarf tied around her throat. It was an unusual sight, as she only ever wore black- or gray-colored clothes, and never something with more color.

Where had she even gotten that scarf from?

Oh, you’re all dirty, she whispered, not moving from her spot with the scrub brush and chemical-smelling bucket on the floor. You better hurry upstairs and get cleaned, lad.

Connor’s gaze darted down the hall, thankful his father wasn’t standing there watching. She wasn’t allowed to talk to him, and he wasn’t allowed to speak to her, but sometimes, they managed a word or two when it was safe.

She was nice—sweet. Though never explicitly asked, she made sure Connor had clothes or pajamas on his bed every night and day, a glass of cold water on his nightstand before bed, and juice in the morning, hot meals, and sometimes she’d sneak him food, toys or his picture books when he was being punished.

He knew she wasn’t, but she was the closest thing to a mother he’d ever had. The others that had come before her were never as soft-handed, gentle, or caring. They only worried about doing what they needed to in order to avoid Sean’s anger, and Connor didn’t blame them for that.

He was the same way.

Sometimes, like him, she wore bruises on places where they couldn’t be hidden.

I will, Connor said.

Her hand fiddled with the scarf at her neck, but quickly stopped when Connor looked at the item again. He didn’t know if she had seen him in the office doorway, earlier. Not like his father clearly had. Connor wasn’t about to ask.

Hurry, she said in that raspy way.

He wondered if her throat hurt—did it hurt to speak?

He decided not to ask that, either.

Connor didn’t wait around in the entryway any longer, once the maid went back to scrubbing the floor. He headed down the hall, more cautious than before. The closer he came to the main room, the louder and clearer the voices of the men and his father became.

"He’s too stuck in what used to be, Sean said. He’s not ready to take this organization where it needs to go."

Sean—

"Declan is still thinking small. We need to think big."

Declan makes sure our arses stay out of prison.

Then you think small, too, Sean snapped with his usual bark of irritation.

A familiar drip of cold dread slid down Connor’s spine. When Sean got angry—especially when the men were in the house—it never ended well. He sped up his steps, despite his curiosity over the conversation happening behind thin walls. He didn’t understand what they were talking about at all. Words like organization and prison were foreign to him, and he didn’t have a clue who Declan was.

He thought it might be interesting to figure out, but if Sean was already mad, Connor wasn’t about to get caught up and add to it by coming in the house looking like a dirty dog that had rolled in the mud.

His steps quickened as the entryway to the main room came into view. He dropped his head down low, shoved his hands in his pockets, and passed by without even looking inside once. He didn’t pause as he headed for the stairs, almost feeling like he might be into the safe zone.

Almost.

If there was anything Connor had learned in his short life, it was that relief was the most traitorous feeling.

Connor!

His muddy boot had just hit the bottom step when his father called his name with a coldness that burned from feet away. He didn’t bother to turn around right away, but his shoulders shrunk in on themselves as he listened to Sean’s footsteps come closer.

Turn around!

Connor did as he was told, although slowly, and he didn’t raise his gaze.

Thinking you could sneak your dirty arse upstairs, did ye? Sean asked.

Connor’s eyes prickled with pain from holding back the wetness wanting to fall. He knew better than to cry, so even if he hurt, he held back the tears. Sorry.

Look like swine, you do, Sean raged on, like a wee pig. Did I raise a pig, Connor?

No, sir.

"Apparently, I did. You look like a pig, you smell and act like a pig, so you must be a pig."

Embarrassment and shame filled Connor to the brim, and he still couldn’t raise his head to look up at his father. None of the men had come out of the main room, but he knew they could hear every single word. Sean wasn’t being quiet, and the walls were terribly thin.

I’m not a pig, Connor whispered.

"You are—you’ll eat supper outside on the ground like a pig would, too, damn you. Get your muddy face out of my sight, lad, now."

Connor didn’t have to be told again. He bolted for the stairs, careful not to go too fast, lest the dried mud fall from his boots and clothes and give his father more of a reason to be angry. As it was, Connor didn’t understand why all his father had done was yell at him and shame him. Sean liked his physical forms of punishment much more than verbal.

He decided it didn’t matter.

He’d clean himself up.

He’d eat outside in the mud like a pig for supper.

It was better than a beating.

Better than the belt.

Better than the hole …

• • •

Connor awoke when he was kicked from his bed. He couldn’t see straight in the dark, and he didn’t even know what had happened, except that he was lying on something much harder and colder than his bed.

He only figured out he’d been kicked out of his bed when Sean’s boot connected with Connor’s arse a second time.

Move, Sean said, amusement coloring up the anger in his words. Don’t make me tell you again, lad.

Connor still wasn’t sure what in the hell was going on, and he didn’t move nearly fast enough to please his father’s rage.

Feckin’ useless thing, I said move!

Sean didn’t need Connor to do a thing, as he found a handful of his hair clenched in his father’s fist before he was thrown a good three feet across his bedroom floor.

Thought I’d forget about what you did earlier, did ye? Sean asked.

Connor didn’t get the chance to respond. He