But when he sends his scarred fist into my gut, I can’t stifle my reaction. A groan slips free, and I barely catch myself before doubling over.
He chuckles, sending another shot into my kidneys. Spittle flies from my mouth from the weight of his punch.
“That all you got?” I hiss, breathing through the pain.
I force my shoulders back instead of curling in on myself the way I want to. I can’t be more vulnerable than I already am.
“You don’t know who the fuck you’re messing with!” he snarls, shoving me against the wall. This time, it’s me who laughs.
“I know exactly who I’m dealing with,” I rasp, shooting him a haughty look. “The trash. The lackey.” I grin. “The disposable one.”
Fuck only knows why I’m antagonizing this piece of shit. Maybe because I’m pissed and scared, needing a reprieve from the chaos swirling through my mind.
His fist comes up, and I watch as it arcs back, aiming for my face. Fuck. This is going to suck. Just before he can send it sailing into a destructive path, someone barks out a word that has him freezing.
“¡Detente!”Stop.
The man's eyes widen as he stills. There’s only a few inches between our bodies, but I swear, I can feel his heartbeat kick up at the unexpected voice. Or maybe it’s mine.
There’s something about the voice. It’s cold. Empty.
And with just one word, I know everything I need to know. He’s not a lackey. He’s not disposable.
He’s the man in charge, and with that comes a lethality you don’t want to fuck with.
The guy in front of me drops his arm, and I watch as his tan skin grows pale. His throat bobs as he steps back and stands tall.
“Perdón, jefe.”Sorry, boss.
Ah, I was right. I move away from the wall and turn to face the newcomer, preparing myself for whatever I might find. I stop short when I meet his cold eyes. My breath stalls in my lungs, and I have to force myself to breathe through the sudden burst of fear.
Everything about him is unrecognizable. He’s not too tall or too short. While his body is broad, there’s a fluidness to him that tells me he could easily take to the shadows. His face isn’t jarring or scarred. He doesn’t have any visible tattoos. His hair is dark, but not black. His skin isn’t noticeably tan or pale.
The most notable thing about the man is his eyes. They’re icy blue, and with just one look, I can see every one of his demons.
Jesus fucking Christ. Who is this asshole?
“Go,” he murmurs, his voice quiet enough that I struggle to decipher his accent, but there’s something odd about it. My brows furrow. He flicks his chin at the other man. “Boss needs you in the big fuckers cell.”
Big fucker? Could it be Nyx?
The first man's shoulders drop as he huffs a sigh.
“What the fuck did he do now?” he practically whines. I don’t tear my eyes away from the newcomer, watching every nuance of his expression. “Kill another guard? Why do I have to go—”
“Cállate!”Quiet.
The dumbass freezes again, staring at the cold man for a long second before practically sprinting from the room. I nearly roll my eyes, but refuse to be vulnerable, even for a second.
Our eyes remained locked as the other man’s footsteps clatter down a metal sounding hallway. I take in every bump, every echo, every step, committing it all to memory.
“He was right.” The man before me cocks his head slowly. “You’re intelligent.”
It’s not a question, so I don’t answer. I do, however, finally detect the piece of his accent I’d been missing before. He’s Colombian.
The delineation between dialects is slight, whether because he’s spent many years blending in, or because he’s just that good. But now I hear it—the way his vowels linger a bit longer, softer, compared to the sharper, more clipped tones of the lackey. There’s a rhythm to Colombian Spanish, almost musical, where the words seem to flow together with a certain ease.
“And you’re more than you let on,” I state. If we’re making assumptions, I have a few of my own.
