“You’re fucking freezing,” he growls, whipping off his jacket off, helping me slide my arms into it and zipping it up until the zip jams under my chin.
As soon as it does, I’m back in his arms. Saint presses a harsh kiss into my matted hair, holding the back of my head. It causes a yelp from me as his palm pushes the injury Morgan caused.
And then I feel it.
The hell fire raising up inside him, scorching his flesh and taking my own as collateral.
He steps back enough into the darkness that I can still see him, and slowly, the zip of his jacket comes down.
He tugs the phone out of the jacket I’m wearing. The light from it scans every inch of my still trembling body, and when his eyes look up at me, his pupils have blown so much, the whites of his eyes are almost non-existent.
All I see is death looking back at me.
His voice comes out as a strained whisper, the anger pulled so taut, his throat works overtime to get it out as gently as he can. “Did they—”
“No,” I blurt, rapidly shaking my head as I look at him, and his eyes land on my face. He gently looks under my hoodie as he secures my button for me, all the bruises and cuts standing stark against my skin.
I glance down. My clothes are torn, dirty and bloody. I hadn’t even noticed they’d gotten caught when I slipped from the cage.
Shivers find their way back onto my skin as he bites through every word. “Who. Did. It.”
Themorningsunhangslazily in the sky, bobbing up and down as Saint carries me out the tunnel, arms never loosening their hold, despite the distance we’ve travelled.
Greg and Holly are behind us, Greg dragging a frantic Morgan by the ankle. He’d zip-tied his bloody hands that are now clutched to his chest and mouth taped shut.
I think he’s vomited into the self-made gag five times. Now it just sounds like retching since his stomach contents lay scattered through the tunnel.
Each time he sounds like he is choking, the guys stop, replace the tape, and carry on as if Saint hadn’t forced him to swallow the fingers he removed before we made our way out.
When he shone the torch on me, looking at the arm with the angriest of bruises forming, that was the hand he decided Morgan would lose first.
I don’t even know if he caused them in particular, but it didn’t seem to matter to Saint. Greg reminded him that removing the fingers meant he could then remove the hand later—double the pain.
Listening to their tone when they discussed Morgan’s torture, it was the same as I imagine you’d conversate with a friend on which flour was best for a recipe.
I’m surrounded by bloodthirsty psychopaths, and yet, I’ve never felt safer in my entire existence.
Though Conrad managed to escape through one of the doors scattered through the tunnel, and it was locked when Holly searched the rest of them.
He doesn’t have anywhere to go, seeing as Saint’s people have moved in on the home above us, but we’re yet to find out the outcome of that.
Saint sets me down on the small half wall before we make the inclined trail up to the top of the cliff, kneeling down whilst Greg drops Morgan’s leg, Holly kicking him somewhere I can’t see as his figure is swallowed behind Saint’s broad shoulders.
“You okay?”
I glance back down at him, and a faint smile tilts at my lips. “Morgan’s getting the shit kicked out of him behind you, so, I’d say I’m feeling a little better.”
His hand comes out to rest against my cheek, stroking along the sensitive skin under my eye.
It hurts like a bitch, but I don’t care.
“You know you can talk to me if they…” His voice travels off, gaze hitting the ground as his jaw works.
My dirt-and blood-caked hands intertwine with his. “I know. It was close, but they didn’t.”
The fact that I’m free is making me feel too wired to even let my mind slip back to my earlier thoughts. I know as soon as I crash again, the aftermath is going to drag me under.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, head dipping between his shoulders. “I’m so fucking sorry, baby.”
