“Isn’t it obvious?” Elijah asks. “You have a rat on the inside.”
Darian doesn’t respond. Instead, he stands and strides over to me, holding out the USB. “You conspired with Beaumont against me?”
Tears spill from my eyes as I shake my head, desperate to make him understand. “No…I came here to tell him I didn’t want any involvement?—”
In a swift move, he grabs my chin and sneers in my face. “I don’t want to hear your fucking excuses.”
“Darian, I—” I try to explain around a sob, but he won’t even look into my eyes.
He shoves me away, turns to the others, and gives Beaumont a disgusted once over before spinning on his heel and walking out. “Bring him.”
As soon as they’re gone, I break down.
Lauren pulls me into her gentle arms, whispering soothing words that do little to ease the heartache. If anything, I want to push her away and chase after Darian, but I don’t have the energy. My head is dizzy, and I’m trembling all over from the receding adrenaline rush.
“Sshh! You’re okay.” Lauren strokes my hair behind my ears. “He’ll come around.”
“He thinks I betrayed him.”
“He’s angry with Beaumont for hurting you, and he’s not thinking straight. He’ll come to his senses as soon as he’s had time to calm down.”
I sniffle pathetically and try to stand, but the lancing pain in my throbbing head is so bad that I wince and press my palm against my brow. I can barely stand upright, never mind walk.
Lauren slides her arm around my waist, taking the brunt of my weight. “Let’s find you someplace quiet where you can rest. You shouldn’t be up and walking with a concussion.”
“What if he doesn’t forgive me? After all, I did steal the information from his computer. I can’t talk myself out of this one. Regardless of my reasoning, it doesn’t look good, especially when I brought the USB with me tonight.”
We hobble toward the doorway. “He’ll forgive you. He’d be a fool if he didn’t.”
A fool or not. I’ve royally screwed up.
After stripping him of his clothes, they secure his wrists and ankles to a bed in one of the spare bedrooms upstairs.
He thrashes with renewed strength, covered in sweat and blood. Sinclair observes me, but I ignore his concern as I scan the room for ways to get creative. A chair sits tucked into a desk beside a mahogany bookshelf.
With a growing smirk, I cross the room, pull the chair out, and kick at the legs until one breaks off, resembling a stake that’s ready to inflict damage. The men in the room study me curiously, except for Elijah, who is watching something on his phone with that sadistic glint in his eye—and by something, my guess is torture porn. I might have suggested therapy to his father once or twice when Elijah was a kid. Back then, he enjoyed carving up living things, but Sinclair just shrugged it off and laughed. I used to join in because, let’s face it, we’re all fucked in the head. The Exodus made sure of it.
“I would start praying if I were you,” I say as I walk over to Beaumont.
He really is a pathetic sight, with his tiny dick and retracted balls seeking safety inside his body because he’s that scared.
Sweat pours down his temples as he lifts his head to look at the broken chair leg in my hand.
I’ll admit I haven’t improvised like this before. Usually, I let one of the Pawns do the torturing or simply shoot the motherfucker between the eyes. I rarely feel the urge to inflict damage or kill; such baser instincts are beneath me, but tonight is a completely different ballgame. Violence runs through my veins like a poison, and blood pumps through my arteries at a frightening speed.
As I watch him tremble with rampant terror, throwing furtive glances at the other men in the room, I imagine a million ways to slaughter him slowly.
Did Cecilia meet him in secret?
I swear my eye ticks when I think of him beating her and putting his filthy hands on her body.
“What are you going to do with that broken leg?” His voice cracks with nerves on the last note as he tugs on the restraints.
“What involvement did my wife have in your little plan?” My voice is so calm, even I’m surprised.
Elijah lifts his head in my periphery, mildly curious.
“What do you want me to say?” Beaumont asks, as I toss the wooden leg on the bed and fish out a Swiss Army knife from my pocket.
