“Good to see you made it. My lads are a lot better at going overboard than they are at exercising restraint.”
I sway, even with one hand pressed flat against the garage for support. My mouth tries to work out how to form words and, before it’s halfway through, a cough takes hold. Blood spurts from my mouth, my chest feels like broken splinters of my ribs are piercing my vital organs.
Red falls over my vision as I struggle to curb the impulse; for each failure, a cough tears off a new piece of my lungs and throws it onto the driveway.
Finally, the urge passes, and I can stand at my full height again. Braxen immediately crowds me, gripping my jaw in his pincer fingers, digging straight to the bone.
“I want you to deliver a message,” he whispers to me even though his men don’t care. They’re waiting back in the car, ready to drive away. “Tell Emily if she doesn’t get her arse back where it belongs, I’ll follow through on my threat. Do you understand?”
I want to hurt him so badly. My hands clench into fists but it’s a joke. I can barely support myself, throwing a punch falls in the realm of dreamland.
A gurgle comes out of my mouth. Not the word I sent up there, but it’ll have to do. Braxen certainly takes it as a sign of agreement, relaxing slightly and tilting me a nod.
“I left you alive this time so you can pass on my message. Next time, they won’t stop.” He gives a soft snort. “You can tell Emily that too if you think she’ll care.”
He releases his grip on my jaw, slaps me lightly on the side of the face, and strides to the waiting vehicle. The goon behind the wheel speeds him away. I blink and they’re long gone. Blink again and the position of the sun has changed.
My legs don’t want to move, even when I point them in the right direction. My brain thumps like it’s trying to squeeze out of my skull, fed up with living in such a fragile container.
I try to yell. Not even making a full word, just the noise. Just to attract someone’s attention.
My brain doesn’t relay the message to my vocal cords any better than it sends instructions to my legs.
I sway back and forth, back and forth, the message flashing in my brain.
He’ll kill me next time.
Em’s in danger. You have to move.
Yes.
I stagger away from the garage and the only blows I can feel are the ones she delivered while I cuffed her to the bed, telling her lies about how I’d return soon.
I hang onto the gate for long seconds while I try to remember how the latch works and the difference between up and down.
Once through, I stagger up the path and raise my hand to knock on the door.
Then the world disappears, swallowed up in black. My mother’s scream the last thing I hear.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX
EM
A cramp strikes me a half hour after Caylon leaves the house, twisting the muscles of my shoulder into a tight ball of raging hot pain. I can’t even stretch it out. My arm is already extended. I just have to clench my teeth and wait for it to be over.
Eventually it is.
I understand why he trussed me like a turkey ready to pop into the oven on a family friendly holiday. The gun was shocking to find; what my brain did with the knowledge afterwards even more distressing.
Understanding that Caylon is protecting me against my worst decisions helps but it doesn’t erase my discomfort. The tape across my mouth is the worst. Not even because of how it feels to have my favourite weapon sheathed but because my lips already hurt from where he pulled the tape off yesterday. I am not looking forward to getting a second helping today.
Once only a few twinges remain of the cramp, I twist myself around until I’m in a sitting position, my arms still secured behind my back.
Poking my tongue out, I wet the tape and try to ease it away from where it’s pinching my sensitive skin. The plasticky taste isn’t my favourite. It turns my stomach.
Yesterday, I barely ate a thing and still ended up getting sick. Now, I have the same problem again. The same problem except now it could kill me.
The irony isn’t lost on me. In fact, the deliciousness of Caylon tying me up in order to keep me from killing myself and accidentally setting the stage for my demise—choking to death on vomit I can’t clear from my mouth—gives my brain something to do while the rest of me fights off the nausea.
