His lips won’t move. His hand strokes, strokes, strokes Varn.
Frustration pushes tears from my eyes. My chin wobbles. “Why are you doing this?”
“Oh, you know.” It’s a whisper.
But Duncan’s lips don’t move.
“I don’t. What’s going on?”
Anger morphs into panic. Why won’t he answer? And why does my cheekbone throb?
“Please.” I hate how whiny I sound. How pitiful and scared. “Talk to me. Undo these binds and tell me what’s wrong.”
“You.”
That one word hits me harder than a physical blow would.
“You can’t mean that.” The pounding in my cheek is sharper. It stings. “Duncan, help me.”
“Jesus Christ, I’m done with this shit.”
Done? Done with what shit? Me? Why?
Cold water hits my face, tearing me out of what I now realize is a dream.
For a few moments, I can’t see anything. Fluorescent lights—not the sun—shine so brightly my eyes hurt.
I can feel everything, though. Like how in this non-dream, I’m not lying on my side. In this very terrifying reality, I’m not in the middle of a picnic with Duncan and Varn either.
I’m strapped to a wooden chair, arms behind my back, bound by a rope. Another one is laced around my waist, binding me to the back of the chair. My ankles are tied to the chair legs.
Instead of crisp air, Duncan’s cologne, or Mary’s cooking, I smell sweat. And smoke.
The fire.
I spit out the icy water, blinking furiously until the room comes into focus.
Three disgusting men surround me. Their coats are gone; all of them are wearing matching hoodies.
They’re too coordinated for it to be random.
They’ve been planning this attack.
Barclay claimed Jayden was only helping him look for me. I believed Jayden was innocent.
It had sounded reasonable.
Now I see the truth. He was working with my brother the whole time.
“Hello again, Sis.” Barclay walks over to me, stopping before the chair. He bends until we’re at eye level, the movement making him grimace. “Been fantasizing about your sugar daddy?”
“Jealous much?” This tone, the challenge in it, comes easily. After what he’s done, I can’t bring myself to coddle him anymore. He doesn’t get a free pass to hurt my loved ones and me because he saved my life once. “Is that it? Your best friend didn’t end up being a loser like you, so you’re throwing a tantrum?”
“Bitch.” He backhands me.
Crack.
On my wounded cheek, fuck.
