Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 106284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Jack shakes his head, vehement. “No, it wasn’t like that.” Denial spills from every pore. He’ll have to do a lot better than that if he wants us to believe him. You’re on fucking video, asshole.
“How was it then?” Monster intervenes, eyes blazing as he slips his Karambit blade from its sheath, twirling it skillfully around his finger.
“We…she…it was consensual.”
Callan’s fist rears back before swinging forward and clashing with the fucker’s jaw faster than anyone can blink. Spit tainted with blood flies from Jack’s lips, raining down on the concrete by my feet. “She’d have to have been awake for that to be true, you scumbag.”
“Who was filming?” Monster barks. When no reply comes, Monster’s menacing growl echoes through the air in a warning. The subtle gesture of his hand instructing us to step back gets obeyed without question. Callan is our VP and the authority in our ranks, but Monster is the executioner in this room.
We move back as Monster fills the space, grasping Jack’s hand and separating his fingers. Tense with panic, Jack tries desperately to free himself. “What are you doing?”
Instead of replying with words, Monster slices the skin between each finger using only the tip of his blade. One—two—three. Red liquid pours from each wound like mini waterfalls in slow motion. The action makes my balls draw up. “Please, I’m sorry. Please.”
Jack’s cries are immediately cut off by Monster’s cold command, “Get the pliers.”
“Wait,” Jack almost chokes on the word. “I’ll tell you.”
I stride over to the cabinet and collect the pliers from a hook inside the door.
“There was no one else. I filmed it myself by propping up my phone.” He wheezes, eyes alive with terror, pupils shot.
I hand Monster the tool, offering Jack a searing scowl. “The camera was jerking and the accomplice’s breathing can be heard, you moron,” I sneer. “Why are you protecting him?”
Taking one of Jack’s nails between the edges of the pliers, Monster yanks, tearing it out. “Name?” he demands, moving to the next without mercy. The howl of agony brings a callous, hard laugh from Monster. “You have nine more, then I’ll take the fingers.”
“He’s my friend.” Jack sniffles, a sob retching from him as another rip shakes his entire frame and the second nail gets placed in his lap like they’re trinkets to keep.
Tears and snot drip from his face. “Please.” He gargles on his own phlegm.
The pliers clank to the floor. “Let’s get him on the table and open up his chest cavity.”
My gaze slides to Callan’s. He raises a brow, his broad arms folded over his chest, feet braced apart, making no effort to move.
“No, no, his name is Steve—Steve Hudgens.” Sagging in the chair, sweat coating every inch of him, Jack repeats the name over and over. “It’s Steve. Steve filmed it.”
Monster retrieves Jack’s phone that we confiscated when we found him and brings up the contacts, holding it up to us on the name Hudgens.
“Send a text asking if he’s up for being the cameraman again. His reply will tell us if Jack is telling the truth,” Callan instructs.
“I am, I promise. Please, let me go. I need a hospital.”
“You need a priest.” Monster’s voice is a hollow whisper dripping with dark intent. Pacing the room, he types out a message before zeroing back in on Jack, who is struggling to stay conscious. Fucking pussy.
Without warning, Monster marches back up to him, the glint of his blade flashing in my eyeline. “Don’t go to sleep, motherfucker.” In one swift motion, Monster pinches Jack’s eyelid between his thumb and forefinger, using the knife edge to slice straight through the thin piece of skin. An unnatural screech splits the air. A river of blood fills Jack’s eyeball and spills over onto his cheek.
“Now, he doesn’t have a choice.” My chuckle is icy and mocking.
Fresh piss stains his pants and drips between his parted legs, puddling on the floor.
An alert pings from the phone tucked in Monster’s pocket. Yanking it free, he reads the message before tsking with disgust and tossing the phone toward Callan.
“That was quick.” Callan catches the device, blowing out a steady breath, and holds it up for me to read.
Hudgens: Maybe we take turns this time?
“If she was someone to you, I’m sorry.” Jack desperately tries his last plea.
Callan’s firm gaze stills on me. “She could have easily been Kitty.”
Unsheathing my Raven blade strapped at my ankle—a gift from Callan when I got patched in—I let Jack take in the six-inch steel blade that’s about to be inside him. It will never be Kitty. “Not while we’re breathing, brother.” Lurching forward, I aim for Jacks lungs with two sharp stabs, the knife piercing through the fabric of Jack’s shirt and into him like butter, sinking deep. His jaw drops, his pasty face frozen in horror.