I jump a mile when a woman’s voice is in my ear. “Twice, you’ve taken from me.”
And perhaps because it’s a woman’s voice, I’m completely thrown. Which is stupid on my part—women are no less dangerous than men. More so in a lot of ways because they’re often better at hiding their deceit.
“What have I taken?”
The answer I get isn’t spoken; it’s delivered with the fucking taser again. At least they’ve dialed down the voltage, but once again, the pain is all-encompassing and leaves me pleading at them to stop. I wish I had the ability to be quiet, but survival is more important than saving face. I’ll scream if I need to.
“It’s time to pay up.” She’s got an accent, and not one that’s easy to distinguish. It’s not Irish, Scottish, or English, since the heavy brogue is missing.
I don’t say a word or really respond in any way. But she does. Or someone else on her behalf. There’s a stirring of movement, and I brace for the taser, but a gun fires. I scream because it literally scares the crap out of me, as it wasn’t at all what I was expecting.
With the light in my eyes, I can’t see who got shot, but the pained groans coming from the far-left seat suggest it’s the older man. The soft click of the gun’s safety echoes through the room, and it’s an easy assumption the others have already learned not to make a sound or move a muscle, or they’ll pay the consequences.
I haven’t been taught that lesson yet. I was taught to gather as much information as possible, using whatever means. If I’m trapped here, and if I can divert the focus of my captors to stay on me, then I’m kicking goals. No martyrdom here, just my competitiveness and stubborn career aspirations.
“What do you want? I can give you money. Let them go.”
The woman comes in close again, her feminine giggle blowing the hair off my face. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”
Game on, bitch,I scream back. In my head.
This time when she speaks, I’m objectively focused on her accent. Her English sounds expensive; it’s not native tongue. And the more she speaks, the more she reveals herself, but I start to realize I’ve heard her voice before. Perhaps she’s been on theradio or television. “Pack her up only. The others stay here. We leave for our next destination in a few hours.”
I want to rake my fingers down her face and slap her stupid before getting the other victims to safety. Perhaps someone sees my hands curling into fists and they see me as a threat, despite the fact I’m tied down, or they're just sadists because I get another zap of the taser. My muscles spasm and tears track down my face until whoever is holding it lifts it off my body.
“She’ll be covered in burn marks and bruises if you keep that up, probably making my job that much harder,” another female voice echoes from behind me. This one more timid and younger, but still confident enough to speak up. Which is interesting.
“Bullshit,” a man says behind me, although Black’s voice is easier to distinguish, and as he steps past the shadows and where I can see him, there’s little surprise. “She’ll be snapped up in a second for no other reason but to offend the Irish. If you’re worried about your time, don’t be. I’ll wear any costs associated with her recovery or convalescence. The pleasure of seeing worse for wear is… priceless.”
“Black.”
He grins when I call him out. It’s one of those forced smiles full of cold maliciousness too. He holds my gaze as he answers her. “Olga, take whatever it costs to have this one looking more presentable out of my cut. You keep telling me Catalina is your best at primping them up, so let’s see if what you say is true.”
To make a point, he unties the restraint holding my wrist on top of the armrest. His hand on mine feels worse than the shocking pain from the taser. Bile in the back of my throat rises in warning at the how close he is. All I can breathe is his horrid scent, even over the astringent peppermint they tried to blitz my senses with.
He dips low to make sure I can’t mistake his expression for anything but spiteful. But at the same time, he’s making a large statement about how involved he is, in this whole setup.
“Even if you did keep your mouth shut, you would have ended up here. Such a pretty thing. Stupid too. But I guess you’ll be realizing yourself that perhaps you should have bonded with them. If that was the route you chose, you would have been bleeding out like—” He flicks his head towards Eloise’s relative, grinning my way before going on. “Now you’ll be get bonded by a pack not yours, and against your wishes, which I guess will be equally difficult for them to process, Mrs. O’Connor.”
Dragging the table closer with his foot, he reaches past me into the shadows. As soon as the glint of the knife comes into view, I decide there and then, no matter what he does, I will not give him the satisfaction of screaming.
After another bitter smile, where he draws the drama out even more, he pulls my hand until it’s resting on the tabletop. Then he moves at the speed of light.
Throwing his arm as high as it can, he swings back down and slams the butt of the knife onto my wedding ring finger. The pain is indescribable. Vomit immediately fills my mouth, and no matter how hard I try not to make a sound, I whine in agony while starting to heave. Someone slaps their hand over my mouth, stopping me from vomiting on the floor. Black’s not finished his twisted torment, and the person keeps their hand over my mouth. I’m not sure what’s worse—feeling like I’m suffocating on my own sick, or getting down to the second knuckle on my ring finger hacked off.
Eventually, after I keep vomiting into my closed mouth, my head gets wrenched back. I cover myself in the sick before they shove my face forward. Humiliation and pain burns. I can barely stop myself from hyperventilating.
He waits, enjoying my struggle too much to interrupt it before he leans closer. “Don’t say I didn’t help you out. Sean wanted you to drown in your own chunder.”
I shake my head like a wet dog. He jumps out of the way. I try harder, especially when he leans down with a tissue to pick up my finger. Getting evidence on him, or any of them would be incriminating, irrespective if I survive or not. And it’s the only reason I do it.
Black stays just out of reach, close enough to taunt, though. “At least now you have a valid reason for not being able to wear your wedding ring. All your wise-arse analogies and your holier-than-thou attitude, thinking you were a queen. But you’re nothing but a feckin’ pawn in a game you know nothing about. It’s my intention that your name will be forgotten as quickly as the O’Connors’ legacy is wiped out.”
He spins on his heel, making his jacket flare, showing off his police badge and gun, both attached to his belt. I suspect it’s his version of a power play. His reminder he’s the one holding all the power, even though he clearly is, since I’m tied to the chair, bleeding and covered in spew, in a room full of other prisoners. I’m happy for him to think and do whatever the fuck he wants because his ego will undoubtably be his downfall.
“I’m set to make a pretty pound when Catalina takes you to market. It seems there’s a thriving market for unbonded Omegas. But you’ll never be as popular as the wee-ones. The other good thing about the leanaí—they don’t give me fucking lip.”
He grips my chin with one hand and slaps his hand across my cheek with the other, leaving me with bright fireworks going off in my eyes. The pain doesn’t stop, someone does something to my finger and I scream in agony. Before I can right myself, someone puts something over my head, plunging me into darkness again. A moment later, headphones are droppedclumsily over the top. One ear is deafened by violent death metal, while the other ear is only partially covered, which will be great later. For now, a wave of fear and adrenaline pull me into a different space to give my mind a break.
