When had she ever really been allowed to rest? She had to always be working. Brain too big, too smart, had to work.
But not now.
Now she got to rest.
At least until the torture started.
“Not torturing you,” Blade snapped, like he was offended by the idea.
Which was stupid. That’s why he’d followed her there. It was what he’d been doing for almost a day now.
“Although this is going to suck. Big time,” he muttered as he wrapped an arm around her waist.
He felt nice. Warm. But then he lifted her body, and agony unlike anything she’d felt before tore through her shoulders, and she screamed, long and loud.
Hadn't he just said he wasn't going to torture her?
Moving her was torturing her.
“Leave me,” she begged as the pain worsened when he shifted her position a little. She’d rather hang there in her numb state and die than be moved and live. Messed up maybe, but honestly, she had nothing to live for other than the sake of being alive. And being alive was seriously overrated.
“No. It’ll get better in a moment,” Blade said, his voice tight, and she’d felt him flinch at her scream because he was holding her weight. “Tell me something.”
“Tell you something?”
“One of your random facts that you say when you're nervous.”
“Oh …” For once, her mind was blank. Nothing in it. That never happened, her brain was like a machine always running on overdrive. It was nice to have a break from that.
“Come on, Whitney. Tell me something,” Blade insisted. “This is going to be hell, but it’s going to be over soon.”
“You're going to kill me?” she asked, noticing the note of hopefulness in her tone. Right now, death seemed like a blessing if it stopped her from hurting like this.
“No,” he snarled the word at her. “Now start talking. I'm going to cut you down, then carry you inside. Your shoulders have dislocated from holding your weight for so long, but they’ll feel better when I put them back in. Inside, I'm going to clean you up, get you pain meds, and something to eat and drink. Warm you up as well. But this will all be easier if you distract yourself.”
Easier?
For her or for him?
Because from where she was standing—hanging—nothing about this was easy for her.
“Please, Whitney.” That whispered plea held more emotion than she would have guessed, given that she was his enemy and he wanted her dead.
Or didn't?
She wasn't sure whether that had changed despite the change in his attitude.
“The space between your eyebrows is called your glabella,” she started reciting meaningless facts. Maybe he was right. Maybe it would help with the torture. Because he could call it whatever he wanted, but being moved more would be torture.
“Good girl,” he murmured, and then she felt the nick of a knife, and the next thing she knew, her arms were dropping down.
Another scream was torn from her lips at the excruciating agony. The world shimmered again, and she didn't hesitate to let it tug at her consciousness.
“Talk,” Blade ordered, and the word seemed to have some sort of magical power over her, because she did.
As he carried her toward the house, she kept spouting off facts.
“That little bit at the end of your shoelaces, the plastic or metal bit, it’s called an aglet. When a newborn baby cries, it’s called a vagitus. The prongs of a fork are called tines.”
