He couldn’t stop me, too focused on fighting the rope to breathe.
Once his body was in position, I grabbed his flailing arms. Fisting his right, I pinned it to the unforgiving wood above his head, wrapping the leather around his wrist and fastening it tightly.
“No, wait!” His voice wheezed, his fingers clawing at his throat.
He continued to pant while I remained silent, moving down the table to capture his right leg. The leather had turned stiff with age and blood, but I managed to wrap it around his ankle, shoving his jeans out of the way and fastening tight.
“Jethro—stop.”
I didn’t obey.
Meticulously, I drifted to the left side of the table. His left leg tried to kick as I crushed his knee against the table. I wrestled with him to buckle the strap. I panted with exertion but won.
I was weak. Tired. Sick from traipsing around the world and dealing with complications he’d caused.
Yet, I had enough strength to subdue him.
Our gaze met as I skirted the table, reaching for his left arm.
“Don’t.” His eyes widened as I forcefully removed his fingers from around his neck, slamming it unceremoniously against the wood above his head. Bending over him, his chest rose and fell as I threaded the leather around his wrist and finished the final binding.
All four points secured. There would be no running, no fighting back—completely at my mercy.
“Still think I don’t have it in me?” I looked down at him, pitying him alittle. When I was younger, I’d always hoped he’d be lenient and let me go. I held blind belief he was my father and wouldn’t hurt me too much.
But Cut knew otherwise. He remembered what he’d done to me. He recalled every scream and beg. It was his turn now.
I patted his cheek.
His lips tinged purple as he sucked in a lungful of air. “Jethro...fucking obey me and—”
“I’ll never obey you again.” Wanting him to remain lucid for future events, I unwrapped the rope from the hook at the base of the table and removed it from his throat.
He gasped, sucking in air while an angry red line marred his bristle-covered neck.
Leaving him to breathe, I moved toward the table beneath the grime-smeared window. No reflection or view from the outside world was noticeable. The pane had turned cloudy with age, deleting everything but us and what was about to happen.
Cut’s emotions built until they threatened to eclipse my own. He wasn’t terrified—not yet. He still believed I wouldn’t be able to do this.
I’ll prove you wrong.
Grabbing the corner of yet another dusty sheet, I whipped it off to reveal a long table of nasty implements.
My heart clenched as my eyes fell on every tool. Most had been used on me. But a few had been used on Jasmine.
I shuddered, closing my eyes against the influx of memories.
“No, leave her alone!”
Cut didn’t obey. He finished tying Jasmine’s hands before twisting to look at me. The leather bit into my wrists and ankles, binding me to the table. But the fulcrum had been activated, switching the table from horizontal to vertical. I hung as if crucified.
I would see everything. I would feel everything. I wouldn’t be able to stop anything.
Jasmine’s bronze eyes met mine, her twelve-year-old face glowing with grief.
“Don’t. Please, don’t.” My voice battled with tears.
Cut marched toward the table to grab a tiny blade. “Seeing as hurting you doesn’t teach you how to switch off your condition, I’ve come up with a better idea.”
