CHAPTER ONE
After hours of carving him down to what’s left, we drag him into the auto repair garage.
His body bumps across the concrete behind us.
A thick trail of blood follows in his wake, streaking the concrete floor red and filling the air with the metallic scent of it.
He shouldn’t still be alive or conscious.
Yet every so often, a wet, ragged gasp chokes out of him.
His face is nearly unrecognizable now, swollen and slick with blood. What remains of his strength is long gone, but some stubborn, miserable part of him refuses to let go.
Instead, it’s just another reminder that monsters can survive far longer than they deserve.
I tower over him, head angled, with a disturbing fascination coursing through me.
Not of what I took but of what’s still intact.
He’s still breathing.
I haven’t taken that from him yet.
Tyler hauls the trafficker back, forcing him against the support pole. He cinches the ratchet strap tight around his waist, one pull, then another, the mechanism clicking, sealing him there.
The sound cuts through the garage, distinct and mechanical.
He jerks against it instantly, but he’s too weak from the blood loss. The strap doesn’t give.
“Go on,” I whisper, leaning in. “Fight it, I’ll tighten it again.”
Tyler mutters something behind him, his voice low and controlled. Then one hand clamps down on the back of the man’s neck, forcing him flush against the pole.
I thread another ratchet strap higher, across his chest this time, in line with his pectoral muscles, drawing it steadily to pin his shoulders back.
Click.
His breathing breaks, turning uneven until fear settles in, sweat already slicking his face.
Click.
The garage lights dangle and buzz, displaying strips of light across the oil-stained and scuffed concrete floor. A distinct smell of gasoline, exhaust fumes, rubber, and blood thick in the air.
I pace around him once, measured and deliberate, studying him from every angle. Satisfied, I drop into a crouch and secure the straps around his ankles.
He tries to fight me off, his hands lunging for me, but Tyler catches his wrists and yanks them behind the pole, stripping away any illusion he had of escaping. The man lets out a strangled curse as Tyler wrenches his arms higher. I rise and circle behind him, joining Tyler at his back.
“Stop” he croaks out. The word clambers from his throat in a blood-soaked gurgle.
I use another ratchet strap, locking his wrists tight.
Click.
I stand, taking my time as my eyes sweep over the straps, every point of movement contained. I stop in front of the man, my head only coming up to his chest.
Tyler double-checks all the straps, then tows a rolling garage stool and sits a few feet back.
The static in my mind stops, all that’s left is cold, perfect clarity and what comes next.
