Click.
A sound I know by heart.
Priest’s Glock is aimed at his skull.
“You’re out of bullets,” Blondie spits.
“Take one more step, Dalton, and I’ll blow your fucking head into the wall. No one touches her.”
Dalton’s jaw flexes, but he freezes. Something cold slithers up my spine.
What the hell is this?
I whirl on him. “I don’t need your fucking protection. You’re not a goddamn hero.”
Priest slides his gun away, and the second it’s holstered his hand shoots out and clamps around my upper arm. Pain detonates through my shoulder as he slams me into the exam table. One brutal hand on my sternum. The other snatching zip ties from a tray.
“Get off me, you sick fuck?—”
“Shut up. You want to act like a feral stray? Then I’ll treat you like one.”
The plastic bites into my wrist as he cinches the first tie around it. I thrash, and he wastes no time grabbing my other arm, wrenching it down, and securing it. Within seconds, my hoodie is sliced and ripped off me, my white tank top and shredded jeans are the only things between me and the cold metal.
He steps back, admiring his handiwork.
I lift my head just enough to glare at him. “You’re a fucking psycho.”
His eyes drag down my arms, landing on the ugly bruises blooming from where he manhandled me.
And the fuckersmiles.
“That one looks like a handprint.” He trails a finger just above the mark. “Shame it’ll fade.”
I recoil instinctively, which only seems to amuse him more.
He grips my chin, squeezing hard enough to grind the bones together. “You think I give a shit about your little tantrums?”
He leans in, and I brace myself for another insult, but instead his mouth brushes close to my ear—too close. My breath stutters, heat prickling beneath my skin. I hate that he gets a reaction out of me.
“You want to keep playing brave, little girl? Go ahead, be stupid. But every time you test me, I’ll leave something on you that doesn’t fade.”
He straightens, but not before dragging his gaze down the length of me. Reaching over to the next table, he grabs my wallet, then starts walking away.
“If you slip out of those, I’ll hunt you down and fuck you with that knife you like so much.” His head turns slightly. “And not with the handle.”
“You’re insane.”
“Kitten…you haven’t even seen the part of me that needs restraints.”
The door slams behind him, echoing like a death sentence. I’m alone. Bound. Sore. And shaking.
What the fuck am I going to do?
Raze is the only one quiet, half-slumped in the armchair across from me, blood still soaking his clothes. But not Dalton or Alistair. Those two are always talking and scheming.
The safehouse reeks of antiseptic and sweat.
We’ve been holed up for over an hour and it’s still a goddamn clusterfuck. The Vault’s been alerted, but we’re flying blind. We don’t know if the whole South is under attack or if this was a personal strike aimed at one of us.
