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A muscled twitched in Kitsch’s jaw.
The satisfaction didn’t last for long, since he nodded once to his goon, who then stepped forward and punched me square in the face.
The pain was immediate and blinding. The goon had put all of his weight behind it. My cheekbone screamed, the entire half of my face felt shattered.
My stomach lurched and vomit worked its way up my throat.
With effort, I tilted my chin upward in defiance, making eye contact with Kitsch.
“You really think you’re going to be that cliché?” I asked. “You think that having your steroid-freak beat the shit out of me while I’m tied to a chair is going to make you seem scarier? Make you tougher?” I laughed. “You are really just doing what generations of weak, scared men have done before you. You’re not original, strong, or powerful, and you don’t scare me.”
It was now that Kitsch grinned. The gesture chilled me right to the bone. “Ah, but I will.”
No one punched me again. I was waiting for it. I didn’t know whether it was my words stopping him from doing it or his plan all along.
He did have his goon use the knife strapped to his belt cut through all of my clothes until I was sitting in tatters in my bra and panties.
Yeah, that scared me.
It all scared me. The prospect of more violence, more pain, of death. I was terrified of it all. All of my words and bravado were nothing but lies—good ones, excellently delivered, to be sure.
A little bit of stubbornness helped them along. I refused to let them see the fear, refused to give them that mental power over me. Kitsch was trying to demean me further, not just by beating me, but by brutally bringing the prospect of rape to the forefront of my mind.
In truth, that prospect never left a woman’s mind. It was a ghost that followed her as she walked to her car late at night, stalked her when she was out with friends and a stranger offered her a drink, and taunted her as she broke up with a violent or unpredictable boyfriend.
There was never a moment when a woman forgot the tool men used to fool themselves they had the power.
Kitsch was watching me, waiting for the tears, the pleading. He was experienced in it, after all.
I refused to give anything to a man who thought he had the right and ability to take it by force.
So I didn’t lower my gaze. Nor did I speak. I didn’t trust myself to. I only had strength in silence, because I feared if I opened my mouth, I’d beg. I’d turn myself into a weak woman. I couldn’t die like that.
He smiled after a few beats. “Ah, you’re not the pampered princess I pegged you for. That’s interesting. Impressive.” He stepped forward to brush the back of his hand over my jaw. It took everything I had not to flinch. That caress was more disturbing than the punch to the face delivered minutes ago.
“It’s a shame, really,” he said with a sigh, stepping back. “I would’ve liked to keep you. But you’ve got yourself some impressive friends. Which is ironic, because without them, you might’ve lived a long life—with me.”
I narrowed my brows. “As horrifying as that prospect is, I’d much prefer death.”
Kitsch smiled. “Well, I’ll be able to oblige you on that.” He glanced to the goon, who took his gun out of the shoulder holster. Then back to me. “Goodbye, Ms. Edwards.”Despair crawled up my throat as Harriet’s words echoed through my brain.
“Grief is a funny thing, sweet girl,” she said. “It is about the worst thing a human can feel but it springs from the very best thing we feel…love.”
I thought about what I was leaving behind, which was ironically so much more than it ever could’ve been had I not witnessed the murder in the first place.
Life worked in mysterious ways, apparently.
Death, on the other hand, didn’t. Death was simple. And it was staring me in the face. I stared at the barrel of the gun and my last thoughts were of Duke.
Duke’s very blood felt like acid, coursing through his body, melting, cell by cell.
He’d arrived at the Sons of Templar compound around the same time as the rest of the team, right about the time that most of the bikers had just set out on a rescue mission.
A fucking rescue mission.
For Anastasia.
Duke had been driving for almost an entire day. He hadn’t slept, had barely eaten. He’d sped through the fucking interstate and somehow managed not to run into a cop. He’d wasted too much time when he’d woken up to the empty bed, hadn’t trusted the pit in the bottom of his stomach, the fear. He’d convinced himself that Anastasia had crept out to make coffee, maybe to have breakfast with his mother and grandmother. He told himself not to panic, even when his phone was missing from the nightstand.
