The impact lands with a dull, cracking sound. Her wrist collapses sideways against the bar, bending at an angle it is not meant to bend. The joint gives under the force, bone shifting beneath the skin.
She comes awake screaming.
Her body jerks violently inside the crate, shoulders slamming into the sides as her legs kick against the floor. Her eyes snap open, spit gathering at the corner of her mouth as the sound tears out of her.
She tries to yank her right arm back through the bars. The zip tie holds.
The motion only twists the broken joint further. The skin around the wrist swells fast and mottles deep, and the hand hangs limp, fingers spasming and curling.
“What the fuck?!” she screams, voice cracking. “WHAT THE FUCK?!”
I ignore her. I shift my attention to her left wrist.
That hand still moves, fingers clawing at the air, nails scraping against the metal like she can find a grip where none exists.
“Stop,” she yells. “Stop, Brooke. Listen to me. You need me alive. I’ll call off Elliot. I’ll—”
I raise the hammer again, this time over her left wrist.
Her eyes lock on the motion. Terror finally replaces that smug arrogance.
“Brooke, wait, please!” she shouts. “You want Elliot, remember. You want him more than me. Use me. Use my access. Use my—”
I bring the hammer down.
The second impact sounds worse, because she feels every millisecond of it. Bone cracks under the blow, and her left wrist snaps sideways against the bar, matching the ruined angle of the right. The skin puffs up in an instant, veins standing out, the hand twisting as nerves fire.
Her scream goes higher, shredding her voice.
She tries to curl into herself, but the crate gives her nowhere to go. Her shoulders heave. Her fingers twitch and claw at nothing. Both hands now hang broken outside the bars, destroyed and useless.
I watch her fight against the restraints, watch realization hit her through the pain.
Those hands held me under water. Now they will never hold anything again.
Sophie curls inside on her side, wrists zip-tied and pulled through the bars, ankles bound, hair a mess around her face. Both wrists hang outside the crate, twisted at angles, and she screams every time the broken bones shift against the metal. She still manages to look smug through the tears and spit.
“You fucking bitch, you psycho bitch!” she cries, voice hoarse and cracking. “You think this changes anything. You’re completely fucked, Brooke. Elliot will check in. He knows my schedule. He’ll realize I’m gone, and he’ll come for me.”
I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms, watching her test the bars with her shoulder.
“Nobody's gonna come for you,” I say. “You belong to us now, Sophie.”
Her eyes flick from me to Seth, who leans against the sink with his arms folded. He watches her like he is waiting for something worth reacting to.
“You really think you’re safe now,” she scoffs. “Huh, Brooke?”
I say nothing.
She turns her attention to Seth and smiles. “Seth, you should’ve seen her at the manor. Did she tell you everything? Did she tell you how she begged for Elliot’s cock? Your precious little Brooke offered her pussy to him. She said she wanted to please him.”
Seth’s gaze slides to me for a second.
We already went through this. I told him exactly what happened in that room, how I planned to use Elliot’s ego and his body to get close enough for a knife or a distraction. I told him I was willing to make him believe anything if it meant getting out alive.
I hold Seth’s eyes and don't look away.
He pulls a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and places it between his lips. He lights it, takes a long drag, and then walks closer to the crate. Sophie tries to shift back, but the space is too tight. Seth exhales smoke directly through the bars into her face. She coughs once and glares up at him.
