The tiniest sound reaches me… a guard’s footsteps down the hall. It’s go time.
I sit up straighter, my hands still bound, but my mind is racing. I’m eager to see Geneva.
The door creaks open, and I don’t have to look to know it’s her. I can feel her presence, the feminine energy that fills the room whenever she’s near. I slowly lift my head, my eyes locking onto hers the moment she steps inside.
Welcome back, Geneva.
She walks up to the table, her steps deliberate, every muscle in her body tense, like she’s preparing for a battle she knows she can’t avoid. That’s what I love about her: the fight. She’s alwayswrestling with herself, with me, with the darkness that’s creeping closer every time we sit in this room together.
I lean forward, ready to play, ready to watch her unravel again. But then I see it.
A bruise.
The purplish shadow is barely visible under the makeup covering her cheek. But it’s there. My smile fades, the amusement that had been dancing on the edge of my mind slipping away in an instant. I stare at the mark, my gaze narrowing, all the plans I had for toying with her disintegrating.
It wasn’t a shadow like I assumed when watching her through the cameras. She’s had this on her for days…
Someone put their fucking hands onmyGeneva.
I know without her saying a word. It washim. Mason.
I pushed her to destroy him and now her beautiful skin is marred with a bruise.
He’s a dead man walking. I’m going to fucking annihilate him.
What method of torture should I employ?
Skin him alive and make a rug out of his flesh?
Cut off his dick, and shove it in his mouth so he’s a literal cocksucker?
Beat the ever-loving fuck out of him until he’s pliable like a bean bag?
So many choices, but none of them will ever be enough to reverse what he did.
Geneva says nothing, just stares at me, waiting. Probably wondering why I haven’t spoken, why I’m not twisting her mind into knots.
But I can’t. Not when I’m looking at that mark on her face, the evidence that someone else has dared to touch her.
Hurther.
My fingers curl into fists, the chains rattling again while I force myself to stay calm. I have to. But inside, there’s a stirring of the blinding, all-consuming wrath I haven’t felt in years.
Not since Abby.
CHAPTER 17
GENEVA
The silence between us is unnerving.
Ghost is always talking. Always taunting. But today, he’s just… sitting there. As motionless as a statue, not even blinking.
But he’s definitely watching me.
The intensity in his gaze hasn’t dulled. If anything, it’s sharper, and more focused. His hazel eyes are almost gold, molten and burning. Not with mockery, but with anger.
Is he mad at me?
