It slides out, cold and damp, leaving a taste that will live in my sinuses for years.
I cough, spit, and try not to show how grateful I am for the clear airway.
"Better?" he says.
"Fuck you," I reply.
It comes out hoarse but lands.
He grins.
"There she is."
He glances at the nervous one.
"Told you she'd be a handful."
The nervous one—maybe twenty, maybe just old enough to drink—doesn't look at me.
Instead, he stares at the floor, tapping the grip of his gun with the edge of a fingernail.
"Can we give her water?" he asks, not to me but to Scarface.
I say, "If you want to clean up vomit, by all means. But it's not in your job description."
Scarface is still grinning.
"I like you. Most people cry or beg at this point. You're running the math."
I keep my face blank.
"You told me what you want. Now tell me what you're going to do."
He shrugs, as if this is the easiest problem in the world.
"We wait. Ruairí calls, or he doesn't. Either way, you're a message."
"To whom?"
He seems genuinely surprised.
"To everyone."
The gym rat snickers.
"Especially to you, Princess."
I glance at him.
"If you're going to call me that, at least untie me and give me a tiara. This isn't even grade-school abduction. Next time, spend the extra twenty on rope."
Scarface lets out an actual laugh.
"Jesus, you Crowleys don't quit."
I try to sit up straighter, but my arms are starting to lose sensation.
I roll my shoulders, trying to get blood back.
