THEA
“I’ve always been fascinated with redheads,” Henry says, reaching through the bars of the cage. He pinches a lock of hair between his wrinkled fingers and pulls it to his nose to inhale. I wince as the uncomfortable tug grows into pain. Hot tearing across my scalp makes me cry out, and tears well in my waterline, blurring my vision.
He steps back with the chunk of curls tangled in his fist and grins. “Apparently my grandson shares in my fascination.”
I turn away, allowing my chin to fall to my chest as the tears dripping down my face splash onto the floor. My body aches from being strung up in this cage. The chains bite into my wrists and ankles as they pull me taut, twisted like a marionette. The weight of being suspended for the past—I don’t know how long I’ve been here—makes my shoulders burn with each shallow breath, but if I move, if I twist or squirm for relief, the cage sways enough to make my stomach launch into my throat.
The air is stale with something sour, but it’s not the damp dungeon-type smell I’d expect after being hauled into a strange home and downstairs somewhere. I was blindfolded, but this isn’t EV. The air isn’t saturated with rich cologne or cigarsmoke. It’s clean, almost sterile, and this sadistic man has a cage identical to those at EV in his basement.
My steel bindings rattle as I tremble. Toes unable to touch the floor, I’m vulnerable in a whole new way, hung like a prize, or worse, hunted prey. My fingers flex against the restraints as I work to keep the blood flowing while watching Henry move about his workspace.
The lights are dim—dark even—but I can still make out the oak cabinets lining one side of the wall in the murky bleed of candlelight. Smooth drywall painted a soft honey brown, recessed lighting, hardwood floors—meticulously designed as a clean version of a man cave. A Persian rug with hand-knotted fringes lies beneath the walnut table he leans over.
Henry pours himself a glass of amber liquor from the crystal decanter in front of him. He swirls it around in his hand and stalks toward the cage again. I’m grateful to be inside. Though I know he has the key, the idea of his having locked me up instead of murdering me brings with it cruel hope.
“What did you share with Piper Reeves?” He sips his drink, smirking at me over the rim. Then he licks his lips.
It’s the third time he’s asked me. The first was in the car. When I didn’t answer, he slapped me and then blindfolded me. My swollen lip still tingles with the ghost of his hand. The second was as his goon was stringing me up.
I stare at what looks to be an expensive candle flickering on the low marble table in front of two leather chairs and ignore him.
He lifts his glass to take another sip, his jaw shifting the liquid around in his mouth. Then, with a sniveling curl of his lip, he leans forward and spits it in my face. The scent of whiskey hits me first, followed by the splash. It catches me across the cheek, drips down to my jaw, and stings the cut on my bottomlip. Spider-like chills run down my spine, and I spit, disgusted. I can taste the fire of his drink on my tongue.
“Tell me what I need to know and this will be over. Or do you enjoy being strung up like a piggish harlot?”
It’s easy to almost forget I’m chained here. Between the plush academic space, Henry’s expensive suit, and the soft instrumental music lulling me into a false reality.
I smother a laugh. I’m so messed up. Months. It only took months for my sense of morality to shift.At least I’m not buried in a concrete box at EV. These are my thoughts while I’m chained to psycho grandpa’s cage like the bird he’s ready to stuff. I’m going to vomit.
The normality makes it worse. I’m worried more about Piper. Did she get away? Even if she did, they’ll go after her now. My goal was to help free the girls, not to add more to the mix.
A knock sounds at the door, and my heart leaps, adding to the pulse pounding hard in my ears.
“Not now, Sam!” Henry shouts. He moves to one of the drawers among the many lined in the wall of cabinets.
There’s a muffled sound I can’t make out, but Henry, who’s much closer to the steel door, must. He yells back. “Send them in.” He sets a brown rolled pouch with frayed edges on the table and moves to the door as it opens. “Senator, Mr. Vignola, Cleaner … come in. I have her here.”
I squint the best I can, but they’re shadows until three of them step closer to the cage. One stays back, and the only visible part of him is a fist decorated with tattoos.
Graves drags a solo finger along the table, his index finger drifting along as he walks toward me. When he approaches the cage, he lifts his hand, studying the faint gray smear on his skin before running it between his thumb and forefinger. His gaze snaps to mine as he speaks to Henry. “You really should have Sam clean this better, DuPont.”
Henry’s face screws up in confusion, but Graves just studies me. I meet his gaze. I’m not afraid. I never really had a plan for my life; maybe this was it. Maybe I’m meant to die in the basement of an ex-congressman whose grandson I love, all so Piper has a chance to shed light on this vile organization.
“What does she know?” Again, Graves doesn’t address me, but his eyes bore into mine, wicked and abhorrent. It’s odd—almost fascinating—how Henry DuPont is less intimidating in Graves’s presence. Like when the rat snake looks better than the viper slithering next to it, despite the fear of them altogether.
“She hasn’t said,” Henry says, tapping a knuckle on the canvas roll.
“Hmm. And Slade?”
I jerk, my spine straightening the best it can hung up in this position.
“Ahh,” Graves says, reaching into the cage. “She reacts to him.” His fingers graze my cheek, and every heavy bone in my body demands I recoil, but I shut it down. His grip lands and pinches the tip of my chin. Tilting my head from side to side, he inspects me, invades me. “Vignola. What are your thoughts? I’d like an update.”
A middle-aged, bald man steps forward, the candlelight dancing off the rolling sweat beads on the smooth skin. The whites of his eyes are pooled with red veins, and when he looks at me, there’s a callousness. He rolls his shoulders. “All the girls from Market have been relocated.Ifany information is leaked, we have cleaned out the barracks. However, nothing has been reported.”
Relocated. Cleaned out. Nothing reported. His words are chopped into bite-sized chunks my brain tries to reconcile. My mouth drops open, and I shake my head ever so slightly.
Graves stops me by clamping his fingers on either side of my mouth and nodding my head for me. “Oh, yes, my dear. Did you think you were going to save your friends?”
