His Father's Legacy

Natasha drags herself back home with Edwin after sitting through that fucking will reading. Her eyes are puffy, her shoulders slumped, the cold knowledge sinking in that her dead husband left her nothing. Edwin throws an arm around her. "Don't worry. I got you. You can stay here as long as you need." She leans into the hug like she's drowning, then pulls back with a shaky little smile. "We should start clearing his shit. Get it over with." They head for the storage locker the next morning, swing the door wide, and stare. Metal rings. Chains. A spanking bench like some twisted altar staring right back at them. The dead man’s secret blows up in their faces like cheap fireworks. Edwin’s stomach turns, then something else lights up low in his gut when he watches Natasha trail her fingers along a leather cuff, curiosity replacing the disgust for one split-second. He pushes it down. "I’ll empty this myself." Days crawl by and the room stays exactly as they found it. Natasha keeps swinging by, asking why the equipment’s still there, each visit turning the air thicker. Creeped out, she corners him one more time, voice cracking. Edwin finally steps out of the shadows with that ugly little smirk cutting across his face. He’s got plans. He’s ready to pick up exactly where his stepfather left off.