The shame takes over.
“I know,” I whisper.
He angrily pulls away. Leaving me alone on the floor.
“Clean yourself up,” he growls. “And maybe, if you start to behave, I’ll let you get your next fix.” He opens a drawer and pulls out the secret vial I had hidden there, clutching it in his hand, his knuckles blanching an angry white as he threatens to break it. “Fuck with me, and I’ll make it so your veins never taste this again.”
“Y—You can’t do that!” I choke out, though my entire back feels like it’s on fire. “I need it.”
He smirks. “I know. Pathetic, isn’t it? Your whole existence revolves around this one tiny vial, and without me you may never see it again.”
“Arturo, please,” I beg, clutching the bottom of his slacks. “I need it.”
“No, Poppy, what you need is a wake-up call. Maybe even an intervention.”
He throws the vial up in the air and catches it. “Who’s bitch are you?”
“Yours…” I bite out, the words almost like poison on my tongue. “Now can I please have that back. I can’t survive this pain without it.”
“Not until you learn to be a good girl.” He pats my head condescendingly, then leaves, locking me inside so I can’t getout. “Only good girls get treats, my pet,” he shouts from the other side of the door.
“ARTURO!” I scream after him. “ARTURO, DON’T LEAVE ME LIKE THIS!”
But he will.
Because this is his way of breaking me.
And the sad part is, I’m too weak to stop him.
If Wesley was here…
The thought dies before it even has a chance to suffer.
I’m the one who called the hit—the arrow that marked him for death’s cold, greedy hands. Now he’s lying in some hospital bed. Broken. Defeated. Alone. And I’m over here bleeding out on a carpet, more focused on my stash being held captive than I am about the man who I marked for death.
Who the fuck am I?
Good Lord, what have I done?
Chapter Twenty
Wesley
My eyes blink blankly at the stark white ceiling above me.
Odd, I don’t remember my prison cell being this white.
When I try to move, a crippling pain ricochets up my spine, and I scream out in agony, limbs frozen in place. That’s when I realize that something is covering my face… an oxygen mask.
“Oh! Wesley!” a sweet voice exclaims, breaking the chaos going on in my head. “Please don’t move.” She stops me from pulling the mask off, just as her angelic face appears above me, and for a few seconds whatever fear I have eases.
My sister, Ashleigh, takes my hand, gripping it tightly as tears fall down her cheeks. “I can’t believe you’re awake.”
“Where am I?” I question, too broken to really move more than an inch. My voice coming out like some respirator breathing super villain.
“In a hospital. You were… beaten to death.”
“To death? But I’m still here.”
