{PROLOGUE}

Greg Lestrade had been a police officer for over fifteen years. He'd worked his way up until he'd advanced to Detective Inspector of one of the most effective divisions of the Scotland Yard. He'd been so proud of what he'd accomplished in a short amount of time; he made his family proud – or so he thought until his wife stepped out on him for the third time since his promotion.

Apparently, she couldn't handle his work hours – couldn't handle the stress of being an officers' wife and constantly berated him for it. Greg tried everything that he could to be understanding, ignoring the cheating and twisted lies for the sake of their two children. He wanted his marriage to work. He wanted someone to come home to after the long horrific days in homicide. His wife had no idea about the things he'd seen through the day and he had no inclination to tell her any of the sordid details, no matter how much she begged for 'open dialogue' about his day.

He'd taken to stepping out for lunch when he could and meet up with her for a quick meal in order to 'spend more time together' as she'd demanded. His men rolled his eyes at him when he waved to them on the way out the door, many of them making whipping noises as he passed them by. Yes, they certainly could haze him for being whipped for he felt the old ball 'n' chain as it dragged along invisible behind him, weighing him down.

As he parked his car near the café where his wife was meeting him, he noticed a florist not too far from the restaurant. The shop carried her favorite flowers, red roses, and he asked the clerk to wrap it up nicely. He handed the young woman the plastic charge card and tried not to wince at the cost. The cost, he hoped, would be worth it if his wife allowed him back into their bed.

Apparently, he'd forgotten the anniversary of their first kiss, and he'd been put out – made to sleep in the guest room until he'd made it up to her. There were far too many anniversaries to remember… but, stating that fact seemed to backfire on him.

As he walked to the café from the florists, he couldn't help but notice a black van parked in the alleyway – blocking the rear entrance of the restaurant and surrounding boutiques. He was about to go and check it out when his wife waved at him from their usual outdoor table.

He shook his head at the van and mentally brushed it off as he made his way to their table and handed her the bouquet of roses.

If he could've reversed time and space, that was the one moment he wished he would've changed. That one single decision!

For it was that decision that ruined his entire life.

-
{CHAPTER ONE}

It was dark. At least, Lestrade imagined that it was dark in that both eyes were swollen shut and he couldn't see a single damn thing. His body was raw, and he was so cold that he was practically numb. He knew he was strung up in some moldy basement, completely naked with the exception of his tie. The bastards left it on and strangled him with it a few times.

He was bleeding from his cheek, the red hot blood warmed his face and proved him still alive. Greg fought to keep from losing it, every one of his senses enhanced –body poised in fight or flight but unable to move. One of his shoulders was dislocated, though it was hard to tell which one at this point with both of them overextended his head and holding up his entire body weight, toes barely touching the wet concrete.

His head still felt foggy, a concussion a sure diagnosis from being bashed in the skull with a tire iron by some nameless brute and thrown in the back of a van. The gang had been after him for sure. They waited until his wife kissed him goodbye and then grabbed him. He fought two of them, while the third hit him over the head. It was so quick he hadn't even had time to call out for help.

Next thing he remembered was getting strung up with metal chains digging into his wrists and getting the wind knocked out of him with every rock-hard fist against his flesh. The worst hits were to his face – his eyes. They'd swollen to the point where he couldn't see where the next hit was coming from. Somehow, that made it a thousand times worse.

Not knowing where they were – what they were doing or even how many of them there were as they beat him senseless. Greg hyperventilated at the memory of them cutting his clothes off with pocket knives. He'd screamed obscenities at them until one of them placed a blade against his lip and cut him. His mouth still tasted of blood. He stopped screaming and gave in. Once he was naked, they replaced his necktie and proceed to tighten it until he couldn't breathe. He blacked out several times, waking only when they sprayed him with ice cold water.

He vomited everything he'd eaten at lunch at the warm touch of a hand caressing his skin. The vomit must've gotten on the man, because Greg got a knee to the balls right after. "You're disgusting!" The bastard shouted, bashing a fist into his gut before leaving the room. The door slammed shut behind him.

Greg listened intently, making sure that they weren't the room before breaking down in sobs from the pain and fear. What the hell did those bastards want from him? He didn't have any freaking money! He didn't have much power – the damn bureaucrats at the Yard made sure of it. He wasn't even investigating anything important.

The pain was unending and time stopped. They barely left him alone to think and continued to beat and cut him until he begged for it to end. "Please, stop. I'll give you whatever you want. Just tell me! What do you want from me?"

They just laughed, one of them licking the blood, sweat, and tears from his face making him jerk away painfully, the muscles in his dislocated shoulder pulling in an impossible direction. One of them whispered in his ear, "This is for my brother! This is for the pain you caused my family." With that, the man stabbed his thigh with a pen knife and twisted it.

Greg screamed. His legs collapsed completely from under him as he felt the right shoulder finally give as he lost consciousness.