And knowing that…hurts and comforts in the same broken breath.
“The biker is too weak,” Cortéz says to no one in particular, like he’s commenting on the weather instead of a dying man. “Interesting.”
He glances over his shoulder. “Change of plan. Send Aaron down. I’ll allow him to play while the biker watches.”
My stomach drops.
Moments later, footsteps echo down the stairs, and a man appears…young and handsome in a way that makes my skin crawl. He looks at me like I’m a dessert someone forgot to cover.
“I thought I was going to get to play with the biker,” he says, disappointed. “Not his toy.”
“Well,” Cortéz laughs, “it seems the biker can’t even hold himself up. He wouldn’t survive your game.” He gestures lazily at Knuckles, slumped and trembling on his knees. “The toy, however? He might do the trick. Spike and his men have this ridiculous belief that innocent people shouldn’t be harmed.”
Both men laugh at his twisted idea of a joke.
I flinch.
“Of course,” Cortéz goes on, “My friend's gift won’t be shiny when he receives it, but I don’t think he’ll care. Try not to kill him, Aaron. As long as he’s warm and can fight back, my friend won’t mind.” He smiles…an empty, cruel thing. “He enjoys blood play, after all.”
Aaron’s eyes gleam as he looks at me again.
Knuckles pushes himself in front of me on trembling arms, coughing wetly, blood splattering the concrete.
“Over my fucking body,” he grits out.
And Cortéz just smiles.
Because Knuckles is too weak to stand. Too weak to fight. Too weak to save me.
And they all know it.
Knuckles’ eyes go wide, and suddenly he’s gulping for air like he’s drowning on dry land.
“Knuckles,” I whisper, dropping to my knees beside him. My hands tremble as they move over his back, useless but desperate. “It’s okay…it’s okay. I’ll be okay. I promise.”
We both know it’s a lie.
A horrible, tearing gasp rips out of him before he collapses onto one elbow, coughing so violently thatbloodsplatters across the concrete. Cortéz laughs like he’s watching a comedy show.
“Grab the toy while the biker is distracted.”
I don’t even have time to brace.
Aaron steps around Knuckles and, grabbing my arm, drags me toward the empty metal chair. Knuckles reaches for me, but his arm buckles beneath him, and he hits the floor with another wet, choking cough.
Before I even process what’s happening, I’m shoved into the chair, and chains rattle like snakes as they wrap around my chest, my wrists, my waist, and my legs. They anchor me in place like I’m an animal being prepped for slaughter.
My heart is going too fast. Too hard. Too dangerous.
I try, God, I try, to breathe slowly, to relax.
But I’m failing.
“Don’t…” Knuckles gasps, rolling to his stomach, reaching for me again. “…fucking…touch…him.”
“Oh, this is adorable,” Cortéz laughs. “Biker love.”
He pulls out his phone.
