Just yours. *heart emoji*
Mal groaned, slipping his phone back in his pocket before he did end up jerking off in the bathroom. He set his phone down, sighing as the front door buzzed. He made his way through the short hall to the door with the bars across the front. Maybe Maggie had forgotten her key.
He pulled the door open, frowning when he saw two familiar faces standing before him. He had just enough time to register them as the men from the market before his whole body jolted, his heart tripping in his chest. His legs gave out, his muscles stiff and twitching, skin burning where the leads from the taser had pushed against his skin.
He couldn’t move, couldn’t talk. His heart and mind were both racing. What did they want? Why were they there? How did they find him? Was Lisa okay? Would they go after Nico, too?
No, Nico was safe. He was in class, surrounded by fifty plus students. Mal grunted as they snatched him beneath his arms, dragging him into the studio. Some movement was returning, but he was still shaky. He did the only thing he could do, which was roll onto his side, curling in on himself, trying to hide as many vital organs as possible.
The first kick went straight to his solar plexus, forcing all the air from his lungs in a whoosh, making them burn like he was drowning. He tried to claw at his chest, but his fingers were spasming.
He grunted as the next kick landed just above his kidney. The third hit his stomach, forcibly expelling the water he’d guzzled moments ago. He gasped as he was able to—finally—pull air into his lungs, but a boot to the face had him seeing stars, the metallic taste of iron filling his mouth.
They continued to kick him while they spoke in rapid-fire Mandarin, clearly talking to each other. The fact that they hadn’t tried to stab or shoot him meant that they still wanted something from him. So…that was something. It wouldn’t matter though if they accidentally stomped him to death. It would serve them right.
The shorter one grabbed him by his hair, dragging him to his knees. He hissed as something sharp settled against his throat. There it was. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision,hissing when the blade at his throat cut him. It wasn’t deep, but he could feel tiny beads of blood welling, then rolling down his chest.
“Wha you wah?” Mal tried, his tongue too thick for his mouth.
“Where is she?” the man asked, his accent thick.
“Who?” Mal slurred.
“The girl,” the man barked.
Mal’s head was spinning like he was on a tilt-a-whirl. “Who?”
“Don’t be stupid,” the other one warned, digging the knife in deeper. “I will kill you.”
“Amy?” Mal asked, his jaw feeling like it was floating on its own, detached from the rest of his skull.
The man didn’t answer. “Where is she?”
Mal wasn’t sure which one asked; he was too light-headed. His vision tunneled to black for a few moments before a harsh slap brought him back.
“I-I’m looking for her, too,” he said, words mooshy.
The man yanked his hair hard, forcing his eyes open again. “Why? What do you want with her?”
Mal groaned, spitting out the blood that had filled his mouth. “Her daughter—Her daughter—” He fought to stay conscious— “My dance class. She disappeared. Was worried.”
“Why would you care?” the one with the knife asked.
Mal’s eyes rolled to the back of his skull. Even trying to lift his eyelids took Herculean strength. “Door broken. Apartment…trashed. Just worried.”
“We know who you are,” the man said with a laugh.
The man crouched in front of him, waving the knife far too close to Mal’s eyeball for his liking. “Most important, the Dai Lo knows who you work for. Stop looking into our business before your whole crew disappears, too.”
They released Mal, letting him fall into a heap on the floor. Everything hurt. Everything. But the wood was pleasantly cold against his sore face, so he kept it there. He tried to stay conscious, but his vision pinpointed until everything went black.
“Oh, my God!” Maggie’s shout and the sound of something crashing to the ground brought him back around. “Mal? Mal? Malachi!” He tried to answer but the words wouldn’t come. “Oh, fuck. Where’s my phone?” she asked herself. To him, she said, “I’m calling an ambulance. Hang in there.”
“No!” Mal shouted, holding his hand up. “No. Get—Get…my phone. No ambulance.”
“What? What are you talking about? You could have a concussion. A brain bleed. Internal bleeding.”
Micah had beaten Mal’s ass enough times for him to know that, aside from a cracked rib or three, he probably only had a concussion at worst. “Freckles.”
