No one in history has ever hated someone the way he hates me. His hate for me is a living, breathing thing. It’s the monster under my bed, the boogeyman in my closet, and the dark phantom in my nightmares.
“Good choice,” Zeus rumbles. “Coming back that is. My boy was prepared to mount a full-scale search for you in the morning.”
Of course, the great tattooed leader of the Gods has two scantily dressed women perched on his beefy thighs. At least there’s no funny business going on this time.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You turned him into a monster.”
Zeus flashes his teeth at me. “Sweetheart, he was already a monster. He just needed a little nudge to reach his full potential.”
Before I can unleash my sarcastic tirade on him, I’m sailing through the air at breakneck speed. I hit the wooden floor with a bone-jarring thud, knocking the literal wind out of me. My teeth stab into my tongue, filling my mouth with blood. Though my head is spinning and my vision is blurry, there’s no question about the identity of the shadowy figure looming over me.
“Sandman,” I croak.
He hauls me up by my throat and slams me on top of a nearby table, sending the occupants scurrying. Beer bottles crash to the floor, sending shards of broken glass flying in every direction.
“You don’t know what real pain is, Zilphia,” he sneers in my face, so close his lips brush against mine. “Real pain is felt here.” He jabs a finger against his temple. “It’s wanting a person that you can never have more than your next breath. It’s when that person lives in your fucking head twenty-four-seven. It’s when that person stabs you in the fucking back and twists the blade so goddamn deep it pierces your heart.” He runs his nose along my cheek. “Physical pain can leave scars, but mental scars run deeper. That’s why I take immense pleasure in mindfucking you. Ineedyou to feel the same mental anguish I felt.”
The anguish I still feel.
The last part wasn’t spoken out loud, but I swear I heard him say it in my mind. It’s a universal truth that hurt people hurt people—and his hurt simmered for three long years, slowly reaching a boiling point. This time, I’m the one who’s going to get burned.
Sandman’s steel hand squeezes tighter around my neck, slowly draining the life from my body. I release my hold on his forearm and accept what is. No one bats an eyelash at the crime taking place, the music doesn’t stop, games are still being played, and conversations continue. Murder is a trivial thing in the outlaw biker world, as mundane as brushing one’s teeth.
Sandman jerks me forward, lifting me to the tips of my toes. His grip loosens just enough for me to pull oxygen into my starving lungs. “Did you kill my baby?”
I say nothing. I’m just so fucking tired. Tired of him. Tired of my mother. Tired of everything. He launches me over the table, and once again, I find myself on the dirty floor. I stay where I land and close my eyes. I have no more energy left in me.
“He’s going to kill her,” I hear Jigsaw comment.
Zeus chuckles in response. “Nah, he won’t.”
“Uh-huh. If you say so,” he replies, skepticism clear in his voice.
“Zilphia is his favorite toy. He may bang her up a little bit, leave a few cuts and bruises, but he won’t kill her,” Zeus states matter-of-factly. “That would mean no more playdates, and where’s the fun in that?”
“Get the fuck up,” Sandman snarls, seizing my hair and bringing me chest to chest with him. “Did you kill my baby?” he asks again and again, but my lips remain sealed. His wild blue eyes bore into me, promising retribution and blood. “Many horrors await you, Zilphia. Many, many horrors.”
He drags me to a metal door at the back of the bar and presses a button on the intercom attached in the center. A camera is built into the small electrical device, ensuring only authorized persons are granted entry.
“Open the fucking door,” he growls impatiently. “It’s Sandman.”
Click.
We step into a security room, evident from a control panel and the row of monitors lining the wall above it. Sandman drags me past two prospects, and we’re buzzed into a lounge-style recreation room. Laughter and conversations abound—club members, their old ladies, and even children enjoy the first-class amenities.
Overstuffed sofas, chairs, and bean bags provide ample sitting for anyone looking to kick back and relax. Bowls of popular brand-name snacks sit atop a stainless-steel island with plush bar stools on either side. A matching refrigerator is positioned in the corner behind it. Beyond that, an arcade can be seen behind a glass enclosure. A fireplace is situated beneath one of eight huge flat-screen televisions mounted to the taupe-colored walls. The Gods must pull in a ton of money to be able to afford such luxuries.
Sandman rounds a corner and bounds up a curved staircase to the second floor. I struggle to match his long strides, my scalp throbbing from his rough fingers. He shoves me into a room, his hand still tangled firmly in my passion twists, and flings me ontothe bed. I flip onto my back and quickly scramble against the headboard.
“Come ’ere,” he growls, capturing an ankle and yanking me across the mattress. I instinctively kick out at him with my free foot, connecting with his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe, my stomach roiling with fear.
Sandman swipes his tongue over the bead of blood on his bottom lip. “You’ll be far sorrier by the time I’m finished with you.” He roughly strips the lower half of my body bare and spreads my legs wide. A long laceration covers my left hip from where my panties dug into my skin.
His searching gaze studies the feminine folds between my thighs.
“No blood?” he bellows and shakes me so hard my vision goes black for several seconds. “Did you get an abortion? Were you ever pregnant?” He plucks my ruined panties off the bed beside him and examines those too. “Is there a baby?” He shakes me again. “Speak!”
