My brain finally settles down on one thought at a time.
She saved us—runs through my head again, unbidden. Kiara saved us from that fucking car. And now I’m not capable of saving her.
?
The stink of dead bodies and blood lingers in my nose, not making me sick anymore, instead, it’s the only thing calming me down. Seeing the trail of blood we leave behind.
I want him to be scared. I want him to pray we never find him.
The silence down here is heavy, wet and calming, as I sit on the cold metal chair.
Why is he not doing anything? Why is he letting us kill his people?
Why does nobody know where he is?
A tremor goes through my fingers, not fear, but the opposite. My instincts are scratching at the inside of my skull. I’m missing something. This is not right.
It feels like he’s hiding. Like he wants us to suffer.
The wheels in my head are spinning at a normal speed since Adrien gave me something to calm my brain again.
Four fucking weeks.
Whatever she’s going through, she’s going through it for four fucking weeks.
Sudden grunting wakes me up from the trance and I shoot my gaze back to the guy in front of me, tied to a chair covered in blood that is not his. Not yet.
Good, he’s waking up.
The chair under him creaks softly as he shifts, the sound runs a spark down my spine. I lean forward slightly, breath held without noticing. His head turns to the side, probably the smell of the bodies draws his attention. He slowly turns back to me, his expression confused, tired, exhausted. He probably expected this. His brows furrow in disgust and fear combined.
I stare at him, my eyes lit up, and I feel it. This rush again. The feeling of hope every time someone wakes up in our basement. The familiar fear in their eyes, filling me with this spark of chance that this one is going to tell me where he is. It’s like someone cracked a window in a room I’ve been suffocating in. A thin, fragile breath of air, nothing more, but enough to keep me from collapsing.
And once it’s just another useless person, useless body to rot in my basement, the hope twists back into a painful despair.
He blinks slowly, finally seeing me, and something shifts in his expression. Recognition. And dread. He knows me very well. We used to be almost friendly.
I don’t move, just wait for him to look around and take in the surroundings, to make himself comfortable. His breathing gets faster when he sees the smear of dried blood and brain on the wall behind me. Good. Let him be afraid.
I really hope he’s going to give me what I want, cause I feel a glimpse of sentiment toward him since I actually liked him in a way. But not enough to keep him alive if he doesn’t.
His throat bobs. He knows that too.
“Kas,” he starts, his voice hoarse from whatever drug Adrien pumped him up with. “I will tell you whatever you want,” his words are cut off by cough, “I want both young and oldDevereaux dead the same as you do,” he gulps, “Let me help and I will tell you anything.”
His voice cracks on the last word, and that’s the first real thing I’ve heard from anyone in weeks.
All muscles in my body suddenly relax, the tension gone as I shoot up from the chair. Hope fills my body as if someone just injected it into my vein. A clean, electric hit straight to the chest.
“Talk,” I snap at him.
“Promise me, you’ll take me in. I have my own revenge to take.”
He lifts his chin an inch, like he’s trying to hold on to some scrap of dignity.
Jackpot. Fucking jackpot. I always knew Marko was my blood type. I fucking knew it.
I take the knife from my pocket and flick it open, circling his body tied to a chair, and cutting the zip tie, freeing his hands. The blade clicks shut like a promise.
