Thirty minutes later, I'm back at our place, changing into black jeans and a dark hoodie. I grab my duffel from the closet—the one Reese thinks holds gym shit. Inside is chloroform, zip ties, duct tape, plastic sheeting, and a set of hunting knives I've had since I was sixteen. Other little odds and ends as well.
The drive to Harmony College gives me too much time to think. My knuckles turn white on the steering wheel as I picture that fucker's hands on her. The way her lip split when he hit her. The bruises on her wrists. By the time I hit the campus, I'm vibrating with rage.
Finding him is easy. I've been tracking his phone since the night he hurt her. On Friday nights, Justin Chambers drinks at a shithole bar just off campus called The Pit. Every fucking week, like clockwork.
I park two blocks away and pull up my hood. The bar is packed with college kids, music thumping so loud I feel it in my chest.
I spot him immediately—holding court at a corner table, surrounded by his douchebag friends, a bottle of cheap vodka between them.
I hang back, nursing a whiskey, watching. Waiting. Three shots later, his friends start to drift away, heading to the dancefloor.
Justin stumbles to the bathroom but it’s full, so he heads outside to the alley. I brush past him, deliberately bumping his shoulder.
"Watch it, asshole," he slurs, grabbing my arm.
Turning slowly, I let him see my face. His eyes widen, recognition and fear washing over him.
"Blackwood?" His voice cracks. "The fuck are you doing here?"
"Looking for you," I say, smiling. It's not a nice smile. "Reese sent me with a message."
His face twists. "That frigid Blackwood bitch?—"
That's all he gets out before my hand clamps the rag over his mouth and nose. He struggles, arms flailing, but I've got a hundred pounds and years of fighting dirty on him. His eyes roll back as the chemical does its work, and he goes limp against me.
"That's it, night night motherfucker," I mutter, catching his dead weight.
I drag him to my truck, pop the trunk, and dump him inside like the garbage he is. I zip-tie his wrists and ankles, slap duct tape over his mouth, and slam the trunk closed.
The drive to Old Man Blackwood's property takes another thirty minutes, down winding back roads where no one ever goes. The old hunting lodge sits abandoned, surrounded by acres of dense woods. My great-grandfather, Clark, was a sick fuck who liked his privacy for his…hobbies. Like grandfather, like grandson, I guess. It seems to be a running fucking family trait at this point. For fucks sake, I hope Riot and Ransom don’t inherit all of our fucked up qualities.
I drag his unconscious body from the trunk, hefting him over my shoulder in a fireman's carry. The cabin door creaks as I kick it open, revealing the sparse interior that Great-Grandpa Clark left behind. It's perfect. Just a metal chair bolted to the floor, an old examination table with leather straps, and a workbench along one wall with tools arranged in neat rows. The single bulb hanging from the ceiling casts harsh shadows across the concrete floor.
"Home sweet fucking home," I mutter, dropping Justin onto the chair like a sack of shit.
I secure his wrists to the chair arms with zip ties, cinching them tight enough to cut into his flesh. His ankles get the same treatment, fastened to the chair legs. The plastic bites into his skin, and I feel a rush of satisfaction watching red marks form around the restraints.
He's still out cold, head lolling against his chest. I grab the smelling salts from my duffel and wave them under his nose. His head jerks back, eyes flying open as he gasps and coughs.
"Rise and shine, motherfucker," I say, grabbing his jaw and forcing him to look at me.
His eyes dart wildly around the room, panic setting in as he realizes his situation. He tries to speak, but the duct tape muffles his words into pathetic whimpers.
"You know why you're here?" I ask, circling the chair slowly.
Ripping the tape off his mouth in one swift motion allows his screams to tear from his throat, more from fear than pain.
"Blackwood, what the fuck? You can't—this is kidnapping!"His voice is still slurred from the booze, high-pitched with terror.
I laugh, and it sounds unhinged even to my own ears. "Kidnapping is the least of your worries right now, Justin."
I grab a knife from the workbench—nothing fancy, just a hunting knife with a six-inch blade. I test it against my thumb, drawing a thin line of blood.
"You know what I can't stop thinking about?" I twirl the knife between my fingers. "How you put your fucking hands on her. How you marked her perfect skin."
"She's not even your girlfriend!" he spits, tugging uselessly at his restraints. "You're fucking obsessed with her, man. It's sick!"
"Obsessed?" I press the flat of the blade against his cheek. "Indeed, I fucking am. If I could stitch her to me, I would. I would sew her right here." I beat a fist against my chest.
