“You lie to me, I’ll flay you alive.”
“I’m not?—”
“If I find an empty fucking warehouse, I’ll bring back a carving knife and take you apart. Slowly. Starting with your tongue. You wanna be smart? Be useful. Or I’ll hang what’s left of you from the rafters. I like making men bleed. But women?” I lean closer. “I take my fucking time.”
She whimpers, blood running down her chin. I let go, the crack of her head against the tile echoing off the walls.
I straighten, crack my neck, and grab my gun.
“Get her stitched. And if she passes out, wake her up. I want her conscious when I come back.”
I don’t wait for a response.
The door slams behind me.
Fluorescent lights stab through my skull the second my eyes crack open.
The sterile burn of antiseptic lingers in the air, sharp enough to make my stomach roll. My arm feels like it’s on fire, my side aches with every shallow breath, and the rest of me—bruised, cut, broken—doesn’t feel much better.
Then it all comes crashing back.
The warehouse.
Liam.
Gunfire.
Heat.
That bastard’s voice right before the bullet tore through my arm. Fucking prick. ASovereignfucking prick.
Even thinking the word makes my chest tighten.
They ruined everything.
They took my life, burned what was left of it, and pissed on the ashes.
And now I’m lying on a slab in one of their facilities, stripped bare, stitched up, and breathing the same air as monsters.
A cold sheet barely separates me from the metal underneath, and when I finally manage to lift my head, I spot the IV jammed into my arm. The sight makes my skin crawl. I reach up, fingers trembling, and rip it out. Blood bubbles, then trails down my wrist in slow thin lines.
I let my head fall back with a thud. Everything hurts.
But I need to move.
Bracing my good arm on the slab, I swing my legs over the edge and push. The floor rises fast, slamming into me as I drop. I gasp and bite down hard to keep from screaming as a fresh wave of pain explodes through my side. Copper floods my mouth—I swallow it.
It’s not the first time I’ve taken a bullet. But two in one night?New personal best.
I crawl to the corner where my clothes lie in a ruined heap. Blood-soaked, torn, and completely useless. Just great. I shove them aside and drag myself upright using the edge of the counter, my reflection in the glass cabinet catching my eye for half a second—pale, cracked lips, blood dried at the corner of my mouth. I don’t even recognize myself.
I rifle through the drawers, ignoring the stabbing pain in my side, until I find a black hoodie and a pair of joggers. They’re oversized, probably meant for one of the bastards who works here, but they’ll do. I tug them on, slow and stiff, every movement pulling at the bandage.
Warmth seeps through the gauze again, blood already drenching the fabric. I clench my teeth and keep going.
My fingers find my small gold necklace tangled in the mess. The old clasp sticks, but I force it shut and let it settle against my collarbone. It’s one of the last pieces of me I have left.
Drawer by drawer, I collect any random shit that might be useful and shove it into the hoodie pocket.
