This isn’t happening.
“Want me to suck that big cock of yours?”
I roll my eyes as the other guy crawls onto the bed. The sound of a zipper being lowered fills the silence, and then it’s heavy breaths, gagging, and slurping noises.
Just when I think they’re done, the springy mattress begins to squeak rhythmically, almost bumping my nose with every violent thrust, while the bedframe bangs against the wall. I have to turn my head to the side to stop from getting squashed.
This is how I die, crushed to death by two fucking men. Their wild, rough tryst dislocates enough dust from the mattress to make me waft the air, and my nose soon tingles as I fight the urge to sneeze.
I squeeze it hard as every muscle in my body stiffens. Luckily, my quiet sneeze is drowned out by the ruckus above—the carnal sounds of slapping skin, a banging headboard, and groaning.
It goes on forever.
Their boss will definitely be pissed. Very fucking pissed.
Have I ever seen Sinclair pissed? I’m sure it involves guns and torture weapons. If they’re lucky, it’s my husband they have to deal with. He’s efficient and quick, but where I’m concerned, I’m sure he’ll make them eat their own organs.
My back cramps. I think I fell asleep at some point.
Silence finally falls, and they return to their posts, thankfully fully dressed, though the peace doesn’t last. Hours later, I’m startled awake by shouting, panicked voices. The door flies open, and gunshots ring out.
POP. POP. POP.
Sinclair’s men collapse to the floor on each side of the bed, their dead eyes staring at nothing as dark red blood soaks through their T-shirts.
I cover my mouth with my clammy hand to muffle my surprised yelp, but it’s too late. A pair of shiny, expensive leather shoes stops in front of the bed.
The newcomer’s black trench coat creases on the floor as he crouches down and rests his leather-gloved hands on his knees.
“Hello, Cecilia,” he says, peeking beneath the bed with a curved, dark smile. “It’s been a while since we last met. Well,formallymet. Let’s ignore the fact that you were at the latest fundraiser. I didn’t know your real identity back then. Darian was tight-lipped on the details.” My stomach sinks as his eyes take me in. “Look at you, cousin. You’re all grown up.”
Handling a weapon is second nature to me. I could do it blind and still nail a bulls-eye every time. My father taught me how to load a gun before I mastered my shoelaces. Mom never approved, but my dad refused to budge, spending hours target practicing with me. Now that I think back on those summer afternoons, they’re the best memories of my dad.
But a gun won’t do now that my anger resembles a volcano about to erupt. I need something sharp. Something that’ll hurt like a motherfucker.
Sinclair enters the basement, looking sharp in a black tailor-made suit. He eyes the naked, sweaty man strung up like a slaughtered cow from chains attached to the rafters. I’ve already roughed him up with my fists a few times, my knuckles cracked and bleeding, but that’s foreplay compared to what’s coming.
“I can’t shake you these days,” I say as I inspect each sharp tool on the metal table. “Do you miss me already?”
“Well, you did threaten to murder the terrified doctor with his own stethoscope if he didn’t agree to discharge you before you were ready.”
“My wife was kidnapped. I can’t stay in bed all day while her captors touch what’s mine. It’s rather disrespectful of them if you ask me.”
“Have I ever told you that you can be a scary motherfucker when you get in these moods?”
“What moods?” I ask, inspecting a sickle probe.
“You’re looking at that tool, Darian, like you want to pop his eyeballs with it. It’s pretty self-explanatory.”
I hum an agreeing sound. “When in Rome.”
“And then there’s the language you use when you’ve passed the line of pissed off into nuclear angry. You almost sound like a duke from centuries past.”
“While this has been a pleasant chit-chat, Nathaniel, I have a man to prep for the reaper.”
“I think I’ll stay for the entertainment.”
With a scoff, I cross the grimy cement floor to where one of the Bishop’s Pawns dangles like a worm on the hook, his toes barely skimming the rusty metal drain. Locks of sweaty, blood-streaked blond hair stick to his damp forehead and his right eye is swollen shut.
