Page 48 of Savage Saint

The main corridor is narrow, nothing but unfurnished concrete and one flickering fluorescent light overhead near the incinerator. On the roof in the main area there are three large skylights, and right past them, the cells against the back wall. Steel fronted. Decaying. Each one is barely large enough to hold a man without giving him room to forget why he’s here.

No bed. A bucket. One small sink to drink from.

To the left, the incinerator. To the right, the work area.

A few thick poles are bolted to the concrete, while restraint hooks hang from the ceiling—a drain cut into the center of the floor for a chemical clean-up is conveniently beneath a long, hanging hose.

Henry screams again. Voice raw. “Please!”

Rizos is the first to reach the cell, and he unlocks it without a word. The scrape of metal sends movement crashing against the wall inside.

“No! No, please!” His fear is palpable—soaked into every inch of his prison—seeping from the bars and testing my control. It’s an unmistakable stench no amount of bleach or ammonia can hide. Not even the starting-to-decompose body beside him can mask what Henry feels.

Yet I’m not moved. No one is.

You cannot beg for mercy when you do not grant the same to those you hurt.

Innocent women. Girls just coming of age.

Fuck him.

The door is fully open now, and he screams again, hurtling himself against the wall, trying to blend into the stained concrete.

“Henry.”

At the sound of my voice he stops moving, his breathing growing choppier. “Saint?”

His ruined face turns toward my voice. There’s very little left of the arrogant man who walked into my club.

Sweat has turned the dirt on his skin into streaks; his shirt is torn and stiff with old blood and something that might be vomit. Then there’s the bruising covering his chest, neck, jaw, and arms in deep purple blotches that mark every earned strike.

The gash Kaos made over Henry’s brow is swollen and angry.

His shoulder wound is worse. It’s red around the edges, the skin puffing and shiny with heat.

Both eyes are gone.

He looks like the definition of a walking infection moving toward necrosis.

He’s also been busy adding to the list.

Both hands have new damage; almost every nail is broken or split—a few peeled back far enough to expose the flesh underneath. Behind him, I see the reason why. Blood smears down the wall; he either tried and failed to find an exit or was desperate to carve one out.

Either way, there is no way out.

Henry Diaz is filthy, and funnily enough, more so than the body beside him.

The shooter is still unidentified, and if my eyeless trafficker wants mercy, he will give me a name.

“Please get him away from me,” Henry rasps, voice shaking as he tries to move, but the shift only makes the body move with him. Tilt just enough that, their shoulders touch. Moreover, the way he recoils after is amusing.

I look over at Onyx; his hands are clenched, and a low sound escapes the back of his throat. He needs something to do. “Take him out.”

The club’s enforcer moves immediately; three long strides and he’s in front of Henry. The words let’s talk barely pass Henry’s cracked lips when Onyx’s hand shoots out and lifts him off the bed with ease. His grip on our guest’s neck is tight; he’d love nothing more than to snap his neck, but Onyx holds back.

He drags Mr. Diaz out but doesn’t let him find his footing, and the body beside him fully tips over. Dead, vacant eyes stare at us, and from the corner of my eye, I catch Flow give him a small wave.

His sense of humor special.