All of them but one.
As he approaches, I can see my faded reflection in his polished loafers. His slacks are crisp and clean, not a speck of lint on the obsidian fabric.
The overhead beams kick on, momentarily blinding me. I blink through the floating orbs of color, and when my vision adjusts and my sight returns, I take in the rest of the polished clothing, finding an equally polished man to match. Stark silver hair gleams beneath vibrant fluorescents, shining almost as bright as the blue swirling in his gaze. “Hello, Cade,” he says casually. My name falls off his tongue as if he’s said it a million times before—as if he’s known me all my life.
That comfort brings him close. Not close enough to be within reach, but close enough to have his shadow swallow mine. Sweat forces my hair to stick to my skin, so I glare between the strands, eyeing the predator lurking closer.
“Who are you?”
His smile is blinding, vivid as the beams shining above, viciously sharp and wicked. “I’m the one who’s going to make all your dreams come true.”
There’s a hollow pit in my stomach, a mass that eats its way from my gut to my throat. “Then why am I tied up?”
“I needed to make sure you’d behave.”
With wrists bleeding, I try to squeeze myself out of the bindings. “Behave? What-what’d you think I’d do?”
Slowly, the smile spread across his lips, turning into a slick grin. “Why don’t we find out?” With a flick of his wrist, the man orders one of the guards to undo my restraints. The rest of them have their guns trained on me while one slices through the rope. The silver-haired stranger just stands there, watching.
Once the bindings fall to the ground, I bring my arms to my front, ignoring the numbing pain zipping through my muscles. Deep wounds circle my bones, the gashes sending blood freely flowing down my flesh. I’m cradling the open skin, still hunched over on my knees, when spit-shined shoes stop before me.
“Perhaps my scout was wrong. There’s not a fighter in you. I doubt there’s a man in there at all.”
My blood flows faster when it begins to boil. I don’t let him see that. I don’t let any of them. Instead, I keep my wrists close to my chest, my head bowed, my gaze fixed on his feet. I let them all believe that I’m too afraid to fight, and when his foot begins to lift, and everything around me slows, I fly forward, sinking my teeth into his slack-covered calf.
Thick, hot blood pours down my throat, suffocating me. The scent of iron fills the space, almost as potently as his yelling. At the start, he tries to shake me off, jerking his leg to and fro, like a sick game of tug-of-war. Even with my jaw aching and teething threatening to fall out, I latch on tighter, sinking my teeth in deeper until I feel his muscles tearing across my tongue.
I think I was so wrapped up in holding on that I didn’t feel the guards at my back, some attempting to pull me off, the others ramming their guns into my sides. It’s almost as if they’re nonexistent. But then the silver-haired man joins in. His free leg shoots forward, jamming his shoe into my stomach. It took the air from my lungs, but still, I held on. He aims for the shoulder next and then the jaw.
He kicks and kicks and kicks the same spot beneath my mandible until I have no choice but to cry out, freeing his leg. I fall to the side with my face in my hands, attempting to keep my bones in place. The stomping continues.
“Mr. Marone,” I heard distantly whispered, “you’re going to kill him.”
“I fucking should!” Marone spits, but he finally stops.
Through teary vision, I spot the man named Marone bent at the knees, blood leaking from the cuff of his pants. Spearing his hands through my hair, Marone rips my head back, hatred burning through his eyes. “You want to act like a fucking dog? Fine. I’ll treat you like a fucking dog.”
Another flick of his wrist, and I’m pulled off the ground. Hands rip me off the floor from underneath my shoulders, yanking them from the sockets to drag me off somewhere beyond the door. I see the end approaching, and I know the second they pull me out of here, I’m done. There’s no coming back once I cross that threshold.
Held in an iron grip, with my lower half limp, I use whatever is left of my strength to break free. Dropping my knees, I throw my body forward, surprising the guards enough to let me go. Once free, I take off on my own, sliding on the solid ground until I get my footing.
I don’t run toward the door, terrified of what’s beyond it, so I circle back around, barely dodging the men reaching for their guns.There has to be another way! There has to be anotherdoor!My panicked thoughts leave me scattered, unsure of what to do. I’m headed in an unknown direction, toward the back of the warehouse, desperately hoping there’s another way out. I don’t even make it two feet before a shot fires out, skimming the side of my neck.
I fall, out of pain or terror, I don’t know, but I lie face down on the concrete, knees curling inward while I clasp my hands over my torn skin. Whimpering, I’m blinded with tears. Still, I see clean shoes in my peripheral vision.
“Maybe I will get something good out of you after all.”
Cade
Ican’t see two inches in front of my face, but I’m sure the bleeding in my neck has finally stopped. For hours, I’ve sat in the same position, back pressed uncomfortably against rusted iron bars. My head brushes against the top of my enclosure—the fucking cage Marone had me thrown in. It may be shallow, but at least there’s enough room to stretch out my legs, which are desensitized by the lack of motion.
I poke at a bruise I feel forming beneath my skin, hoping to feel pain instead of the numbing, tingling dancing inside my veins. Just when I start to feel something, a creak echoes in the darkness. Sitting up as much as possible, I bring my knees up to my chest, and some sensation finally returns. My face is frozen, minus the hardness behind my eyes, watching whoever approaches.
The glare from his flashlight blinds me, leaving me no option but to shield myself while he opens the cage. “Eat up.”
The light disappears, and the door latches shut before I can see what splashes on the ground. Feeling the moisture of it seeping into the fabric of my jeans, I contort to tuck my legs beneath me, flipping onto my elbows to see what’s been served to me.
More tears spring to my eyes, and vomit crawls up my throat with the first sniff. Sour meat, congealed fat, and some unknown rancid liquid fill a shallow dish. The mush is ground into a slop—minced like all wet dog food is.
