Tremble, Baby

TREMBLE, BABY KNOXLEY SECURITY SERIES: BOOK TWO DANIELLE MARX Copyright © 2023 by Danielle Marx All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. CONTENTS INTRODUCTION Prologue 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 Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five AFTERWORD ABOUT THE AUTHOR KNOXLEY SECURITY SERIES: Swallow, Girl Tremble, Baby INTRODUCTION Thank you for reading! Tremble, Baby is book two of the Knoxley Security Series. Each book is a standalone but are best enjoyed in sequential order. I hope you enjoy reading Tremble, Baby as much as I enjoyed writing it. Danielle xXx *Disclaimer* Content/trigger warnings: references of sexual exploitation, sexual assault, references of abuse (physical and emotional). Prologue Dylan SUMMER Bonk, clink, ting, bonk, ting-ting, clink, bonk. Even between the cries of seagulls and the waves bashing up against the sand, I could still hear the wind chime, rattling away on the porch. I was sitting a good thirty feet away from the house too. Mama had spread out a bunch of colorful beach towels for me to rest on just by the low sand dunes and dried up reeds. The summer breeze churned the beach to life. But not for me. The sun was too hot, the air stung my flesh, and the only thing that thundered in my ears was that fucking wind chime. She’d crafted the monstrosity three summers earlier with bits of crap us boys had scavenged from the sand. Seaglass, mini liquor bottles, rotted driftwood, and even a broken registration plate I’d found on the side of the road. Mama gathered me and my brothers around the kitchen table, armed with wire cutters and a hot glue gun. Like a surgeon, she’d call out our names when it was our turn to pass her a piece of junk to add to the structure. A crease cut into her brow, and her tongue poked out to the side in deep concentration. I remember getting bored fast and sneaking out when she wasn’t looking. I always wondered if she would have preferred daughters. The intelligent, creative ones who would love to waste an afternoon at the crafting table instead of play fighting on the beach or smashing old shit up in the garage. She was the last one at the table that day. One by one, my brothers wandered off too, looking for something more exciting to fill the afternoon with. But I do remember Dad, calling us around the firepit that night to watch him hook Mama’s wind chime to the back porch. It was a grungy looking thing with its drab color and sharp wires sticking out. It sounded ugly as shit too. Tink, bonk, clap, clonk. No one said anything though. We all gave her a big grin to match her own and blanked out the racket whenever the wind blew. It was easier back then. But now, three years after its construction, it was all I heard. Day and night, all summer long, clanking around in my head. Tink, bonk, clap, clink. The racket followed me around Mama’s beloved beach house even after she finally unchained me and let me out of the garage. I’d been locked in there for seventeen days. Each one felt like a year with that noise haunting me. After the screams and howls wore out my throat, and I could no longer beg, I’d listen to those final fists of the night, slamming into my body. The sadistic slurs and jeers. He’d wipe my blood from his hands with an old rag and bolt the garage door back up for the night. And I’d lie there, broken in the darkness, hearing nothing else till the morning but that wind chime, battering about on the porch outside. It had been four days since my release. Every bone in my body still cried out in agony, professionally bruised and cracked without any actual break. Decker listened when Mama told him I only had three weeks to heal up before returning home. A cast or sling wouldn’t be easily explained to my father, but Decker’s precision was on point. I clearly wasn’t his first victim. Mama insisted I join them on the beach for some real vacation time. She redressed my bandages that morning with a smile and forced me to sit on the beach towels in the harsh light. The sandy breeze whipped at my cuts and welts. Every so often she would run back into the house like a doting mother and swap the ice packs on my legs for fresh ones. “These are melting too fast,” she said with a smile in her Russian accent. “Maybe you should go for a swim instead, Dylan. The water is nice and cool.” My throat trembled with the stiff reply. “Please can I go back inside, Mama? It’s too hot out here.” “You’ve been locked up inside for over two weeks. You need some fresh air, syn. The salt in the sea will help heal your injuries.” “I can barely walk.” I wanted to scream it in her face but my jaw was too swollen and my courage was gone. “I can’t swim like this. I’ll drown.” “Brian and I can help you.” “No.” It came out a