Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 64147 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64147 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
“Safe houses?” I whisper.
“I’m sorry. Was your hearing damaged? I suppose I hit you harder than I intended.” He looks back at me over his shoulder, wearing a nasty little smirk. Like he’s enjoying this. He probably is. “Safe houses. Where are they? I’m going to need the locations.”
“No. I’m not giving you that.”
“Very well.” He steps away from the case, and the abundance of sunshine gives me a clear look at the gleaming metal tools on display. There’s an array of scalpels, knives, pliers. A hammer. And that’s only what I manage to identify within a few seconds before my gaze darts to him.
“I ask you again.” He runs his fingertips over the tools, his gaze trained on me. “Locations. You will give them to me, or I will give these to you. Make your choice.”
I wish I could tell myself he’s bluffing. He has no reason to. And the bullet he delivered to Mom’s brain leaves me with no doubt about his sincerity. He is going to kill me here, tied to this bed, and there’s going to be a lot of pain between now and the moment I breathe my last. Could I give him fake coordinates? Sure, but that would only prolong the inevitable.
He withdraws a knife—short, with a long, thin blade. “I’m waiting,” he murmurs, holding up the knife like he’s examining it in the light. Even though I’m completely sure this is theatrics, a means of panicking me, I can’t deny the terror soaking into my muscles, filling my veins.
“Go fuck yourself,” I growl.
He quirks an eyebrow, looking from the blade to me. “Fair enough. We’ll see how long you maintain this attitude.”
I can’t control my rapid, ragged breaths as he draws nearer, holding the knife up so I can see it. He takes his time lowering it, and the first touch of the steel against the delicate skin of my inner arm makes my body stiffen. He caresses me with it, dragging it along my arm. “I’ll ask you again. Locations. Give me locations.”
“I’m sorry,” I grit out. “I think I told you to go fuck yourself.”
His bitter chuckle rings in my ears in time with a white hot sizzle of pain, like a thin line of fire running along the underside of my upper arm. He drags the tip of the knife from my elbow almost to my armpit while I force myself to breathe slowly, to control my perception of the sensations threatening to make me scream. I will not let him break me. I will not give him the satisfaction.
“I hate to defile such smooth, perfect skin.” He even clicks his tongue like he’s genuinely sorry, though we both know he isn’t. “Truly, it does not have to be this way. Tell me what I need to know.”
“No.” I’m shaking, keenly aware of the blood dripping down the underside of my arm, but I will be damned if I give him what he wants.
When he repeats the same treatment on my other arm, I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, but it’s not enough to hold back a tear that trickles down the side of my face. It hurts. I can’t pretend otherwise. And to think, he’s barely touching me. I already know happens when he decides to apply pressure.
It’s like he’s reading my mind. “You know, it’s only going to get worse,” he murmurs. “I will turn your body into a mural. I will carve my name into your flesh. And I will do it slowly, making sure you’re conscious throughout.” He looms over me, staring down at me with the knife in plain view. “I think I will move to your face now.”
The knife comes closer, and closer. My chest is heaving, and a tiny whimper leaks out through my clenched teeth. He’s going to do it. He’s going to carve my face.
Until the sweetest sound in the world comes from outside the room. Gunfire.
His head snaps around, the knife forgotten. “The fuck?” he demands from his guard, who hurries out to see what’s happening. Who ruined their good time.
I know who it is and hope sweeps away the pain and dismay that were so close to destroying me seconds ago. The picture. I sent them the picture. They came for me. The shots are closer now, louder. My torturer bares his teeth in an ugly snarl, dropping the knife in favor of grabbing for the pistol in his waistband.
He doesn’t aim for the door. He aims at me, like he’s ready to fire, and I do the only thing I can think to do. I scream so the guys can find me faster. Wordless, but loud enough that footsteps start pounding our way.
I don’t know if they’re close enough when I meet the hate-filled gaze of the man standing over me. He’s going to pull the trigger. He’s going to kill me. I tried. I truly did.