Tough Guy got tired of the foreplay—how like a man, amiright—and moved faster than he had up to that moment, getting under my guard and sending two vicious jabs into my ribs. He swept my legs out from under me, and I hit the mat hard. Gritting my teeth into my mouth guard, I used my new position to aim a brutal kick to Tough Guy’s knee. I heard a satisfyingpopbefore Tough Guy bellowed and fell to his good knee.
I used the opportunity to roll away and jump to my feet as Tough Guy staggered to his. He was limping now and absolutely enraged. It must have been disorienting for him to be losing so quickly. That was the only reason I could think of for how obviously Tough Guy telegraphed his next move. He must have decided enough was enough because he reared his fist back and unleashed a powerful haymaker aimed right at little ole me. His hit, aimed at my temple like it was, knocked me out cold. Well, it would haveif it had landed.
That was the good, or bad, thing depending on your perspective about haymakers. They were powerfulif they landand easy to avoid if you knew what you were looking for. The arc his arm cut on its way to my head was telegraphed to me in the way he twisted his torso and the slice it cut through the air, like the arc of a sythe the punch was named for. Lucky for me, and unluckily for Tough Guy, I saw it coming and dropped to my back, throwing my legs up and firmly planting my feet into Tough Guy's gut. He let out an audible “oof” as he doubled over, coughing. I twisted onto my side and kicked my top leg out, my foot catching Tough Guy under the chin and snapping his head back. Using the same leg, I quickly swept Tough Guy’s feet out from under him easily since he was already unsteady, thanks to the blow I’d dealt his knee earlier. Tough Guy hit the mat, still coughing. Dude needed to work on his core strength. I’d have to let Riordan know after I won.
When Tough Guy fell, his head hit the mat close to mine. Quickly, so I didn’t give him time to recover, I snapped my fist forward and felt acrunchwhen it made contact with his nose. Tough Guy tried to retaliate, but he was tired and in pain, so his moves weren’t as fast as at the beginning of our match. I scrambled to sit on his chest, raining blowsdown on his face. I timed my punches to theThree’s Companysong, vaguely aware that I was singing as I beat the ever-loving fuck out of the man below me. I distantly heard a bell ring and felt hands pulling me off Tough Guy. His head lolled to the side, and blood poured from his nose, which was all smashed to hell.
“Shhhh,” a soothing voice hushed in my ear. “It’s over, you won. Settle.” Bear’s firm grip around my waist from where he’d pulled me off my opponent was steadying, and I came back to myself slowly. Bear braced me, my back to his front, grounding me so I could come back from the numb place I went when I got lost to the violence. The crowd around the ring was rabid, cheering and yelling as they got a contact high from the unhinged violence that gave Savage Delights its name.
I tapped Bear’s arm, letting him know that I was back. He immediately released me and held my hand up in victory. Using the megaphone, Bear’s deep voice rumbled through the warehouse and announced that the last fight of the night was over. People began milling around, losing interest in the ring now that the spectacle was complete. I glanced to the side to see an ecstatic Lennon flanked by two frowny Crows and two extra frowny Russians.
“Holy shit, Indi! You kicked his ass! I wish I could have been in there with you. Ohmigod, could you imagine us tag-teaming?” Blood lust and excitement glinted in Lennon’s eyes, and Bones sent a savage snarl her way.
“Over my dead body,gatita.” Bones looked like he was about to take a bite out of someone, so I defused the situation by turning the focus from my cutthroat best friend to the grumpy Russian mobster standing before me.
“Mr. Petrov, I believe you owe me some answers.” I quirked an eyebrow at him and ducked between the ropes so I could drop down to the floor. I spit out my mouth guard and began to unwrap my hands. Riordan waited for me to finish before he nodded.
“It would seem that I do. I’ll be in touch; you’ll get your answers then.”
Apparently having had enough, Bones grabbed Riordan by his suit jacket and got in Riordan’s face. “No,puta, you’ll answer her fucking questions right now. That was the deal.” Riordan’s eyes narrowed, andhe raised his hand to stop his guards from surging forward the moment Bones put his hands on the heir to the Petrov bratva. Riordan must have had balls of steel because he didn’t seem to be bothered in the slightest that he was being manhandled by a surly biker. I’d be miffed at the very least, so I was able to appreciate his Zen in a stressful moment.
“I promised her answers,” Riordan conceded, “but I never said she’d get them tonight.” Turning his face to me, and completely ignoring Bones’s show of temper, Riordan spoke. “Well done,lisichka. I’ll be in touch. Then it will be time for honesty between us.”
Riordan seemed dead set on ignoring Bones's threat, which was a total power move. Bones released Riordan’s jacket and gave him a little shove as he stepped back. Ivan glowered over Riordan’s shoulder, and his guards stood behind them, coldly waiting for the boss’s word to discover if there would be more bloodshed in Savage Delights tonight. Riordan only had eyes for me, but I was over this little display of testosterone. I saluted Riordan lazily and linked arms with Lennon, who winked at Ivan. “Aye aye, captain. Come on, fellas, Sheila awaits! And I want victory tacos! Tough Guy mentioned Taco Tuesday while we were fighting, and it’s made me want a double-decker taco from Taco Bellrealbad.” I didn’t wait to see if Cricket and Bones joined us. I knew the late-night Taco Bell siren call would get them to follow us, even if nothing else would.
Chapter 20
Indigo
Some people might want to live their dreams, but not this chick. Even my good dreams could be vivid and intense, never mind how overwhelming my nightmares were. I tried to exhaust myself as much as possible and push my body to the point of collapse so that when I inevitably passed out, my brain was too busy recharging to plague me with nightmares. When I first escaped the basement, it was the worst. I was so terrified and always looking over my shoulder for Uncle Roark’s henchmen or the devil himself. Nights spent sleeping in abandoned buildings, alleyways, dumpsters, and shelters all ended the same way: me, thrashing and screaming, covered in sweat and scared shitless.
As days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, I slowly acclimated to sleeping above ground and exposed. My screams devolved to whimpers, my thrashing to restless tossing and turning. Two years ago, I was a traumatized, exhausted, shaky mess. After reading several books on PTSD and months of living with the Crows, I was still a lightsleeper and tormented with nightmares, but I could honestly say that I’d gotten the best sleep of my life here. I had my own room, with a door that wasn’t locked from the outside. No one broke in or tried to steal my things.
Still, some nights, the darkness in my memories slithered through my cracks and hurtled me right back to the vulnerable mess I was when I first escaped. I hated it. I hated how weak it made me feel and how out of control I felt every time I woke up to the sound of screams and realized I was the person screaming. I’d rather wake up to the smell of garlic-laced morning breath than the taste of my own tears. Unfortunately for me, my unconscious brain didn’t give a fuck what awake Indi wanted.
Whimpers and gurgles broke the suffocating silence in the wet room. I was tied face down on a cold metal table, with my head turned to the side so I couldn’t miss the show. The show being the mangled body of Dallas, one of the guards on Uncle Roark’s estate. He used to be an outside guard, but for the past few weeks, he was in charge of bringing me my meals. Now, all he’d be doing was suffering until he was allowed to die.
I gave up trying to understand what actions or words of mine caused Uncle Roark to spiral into his rabid place. It wasn’t like it really mattered anyway. I used to try to please him to avoid punishment, but I learned long ago that it didn’t matter. Not really. If he wanted to hurt me, Uncle Roark would hurt me. If he wanted to torture his own men, he would. I guess Dallas thought Uncle Roark bottled up his extra-strength crazy just for me, but if I asked him now, he’d probably say differently. Or he would if he still had a tongue.
That had been the first thing to go after Uncle Roark secured me to the table. Dallas had asked him why Roark had called him into the wet room. Instead of answering, Roark had fallen on him like a beast. Now Dallas couldn’t say anything at all ever again. I watched, like I knew he’d expected me to, not daring to even blink as Uncle Roark tore into his own man. Dallas choked on his blood as savage blows rained down upon him. His horror-filled eyes met my blank stare. Uncle Roark took his eyes next.
Time passed, though I couldn’t say how much. Really, it seemed like I’d always been tied to this table in the wet room, and the empty pit that existed at the heart of me told me that, in one way or another, I always would be. Eventually, Uncle Roark got bored with Dallas. He left the man a sobbing mess, bleeding out on the floor. His manic eyes locked onto mine. They promised pain.
The first slice of Roark’s blade on the back of my upper right thigh was so quick and deep, the blade so sharp, I didn’t even register the pain of the cut right away. A few moments later, the pain seared through me, and I felt blood well up and begin to trickle down my thigh. He tsked in dismay; apparently, I couldn’t even manage to bleed in a way that pleased him. Leaving my side to rifle around in his workbench, I counted Dallas’s slowing breaths and watched as he tried not to drown in his own blood. Lucky bastard. His suffering was almost over, but mine never would be.
Having found what he was looking for, Uncle Roark returned to the table and immediately got to work. I felt him hack into me, but unlike the almost surgical cut from before, this blade was serrated and dull. I gasped, trying to eat my screams when they threatened to burst from my mouth, but it was no use. If he wanted me to scream, I’d scream. My thigh was on fire, and my whole body shook against my binds. My eyes looked at Dallas once again, hoping to count his breaths in an attempt to distract my mind from the kiss of Roark’s knife. But there were no more breaths to count. Dallas’s corpse was still, leaving me alone with the Beast of Boston.
Suddenly, my vision was filled with the face of evil. Uncle Roark, blood-spattered and vicious, smoothed my hair back from my face where sweaty strands clung. His eyes were like pits, dark and endless.
“He looked at you.” Roark spoke for the first time since Dallas joined us. “He looked at you with his eyes and spoke to you with his tongue, and you? What did you do?” he asked in an eerily calm voice. Roark brought his fist down upon the table, an inch from my face, causing me to jump. A whimper escaped me, and Uncle Roark’s pupils dilated at the sound. He was getting off on my pain and fear, and my stomach clenched in terror.
“I- I didn’t d-d-do anything.” My voice was so shaky and small. I loathed it.
“You’re a filthy, lying whore just like your mother!” Uncle Roark roared into my face. “You smiled at that motherfucker, and your smile sealed his fate. You did this.” Roark’s rancid breath puffed across my exposed cheek, cooling the trail left by my tears. “You’ll never, ever be free of me, Girl,” he snarled and resumed sawing cuts on the back of my thigh. “You’ll always carry my mark, my name. Now,” he growls as his voice deepens with the force of his loathing, “scream for me.”
And Bob help me, but I did.
My own hoarse wail ripped me from my nightmare to find my sheets damp with sweat and tangled around my legs. I raised a shaky hand to wipe my eyes and found that my face was wet with salty tears. I was still breathing heavily when the door to my bedroom was wrenched open, and a tall figure holding a handgun filled the frame. I didn’t think; I just reacted. One moment, I was fighting off a dream of my past, and the next, I was chucking the alarm clock from my nightstand at the intruder.
