And he’d wanted her.
“Does it really matter who I am?”
When she’d first met him, the deep voice reverberating from his chest had drawn her in. Hearing it now, like this, made her want to throw up.
She supposed he was right. His identity didn’t matter. Not when she had no chance to escape.
Still, it would’ve been nice to know the name of the man who was about to kill her.
This is your fault.
The small, chastising voice in her head was right. She’d chosen to run away from home six months ago, despite knowing the risks.
Growing up, Kennedy had heard horror stories of runaways winding up dead in a ditch somewhere. Not that her family would’ve cared.
She’d grown up poor only to end up poorer. So desperate to find the greener side of life, that she hadn’t bothered to worry about the darker side. Theevilside.
The side she was experiencing now.
“Are you ready to play, Kennedy?” He got nearer. Using the slightest of touches, the sick freak brushed his fingertip along her cheek.
She would’ve cringed away from the contact, if she were able. But her wrists and ankles were cuffed to the hard, metal table.
There was nowhere to go. No point in wasting senseless energy on the impossible.
Fate had dealt her a shitty hand the day she was born, and an even shittier one on the day she was going to die.
And Kennedy held no illusions to the fact that her time on Earth was coming to an end. She’d heard the stories about monsters preying on the less fortunate.
Had even caught herself wishing, from time to time, that someone would putherout of her misery. But not like this.
Careful what you wish for.
The lyrics from one of her favorite songs began to play in her head.
Isn’t it ironic...don’t you think?
Itwasironic. Because this guy...the one who’d ripped her from the streets and brought her here...was supposed to be her last.
After months of begging and selling herself just to survive, Kennedy had finally come to her senses. She’d realized a shitty home was still better thannohome. But she’d needed bus fare in order to get there.
So she’d taken one last John. Just one. Just so she could make it back home.
Isn’t it ironic...?
The mental music started again, and Kennedy’s lips curled in a humorless smile. It was the absolute wrong thing to do.
“You think this is funny?” the man growled.
His attractive features became hard and angry as he reached for the tray to her left. It held two things...a scalpel and a thick rope.
He grabbed a scalpel.
Kennedy’s lips fell flat Her pulse raced as her gaze fell to the shiny blade in his hand.
The cold and sterile room she’d been held in the past three days looked like an operating room. And the way he stood, along with the manner in which he held the surgical instrument, reminded her of a doctor.
Maybe he is a doctor.
