I gasp as the memories come flooding back, the pictures dropping from my hands.
Dakota stands in front of me, arms crossed, her sleek braid swinging as she tilts her head.
“They really haven't done much to you.” Her voice cuts through the haze like a blade. “Good thing it's my turn.”
“Hey, no one's trying to step on your fun, sweetheart.” Butch raises his hands in mock surrender.
“Then get out.” Dakota's tone snaps like a whip. “Unless you want to explain to Gideon why his favorite little weapon suddenly went rogue.”
Dakota pulls a knife from the holster at her thigh and holds it out.
Butch backs away and mutters under his breath. “Psycho bitch.”
“I heard that,” Dakota calls out without looking back.
The metal door shuts.
“Aw, look at poor Isobel, all pathetic and alone.” Her voice almost sings with glee.
“Go to hell.” I rasp.
“We're already there, sweetie.” Her smile is dark.
Dakota takes her knife and drags the edge lightly along my arm. “You know, Daniel taught me about anatomy. Where to cut to send a message. Where to cut so someone bleeds out fast. Where to cut so they don't.” She twirls the blade in her hand, watching it glint in the light. “So I learned how to take people apart. Inch by inch.”
I clench my jaw as steel kisses skin, not deep enough to wound yet, but enough to make my body coil in dread. My wrists strain against the tight restraints.
Then, without warning, she moves.
Pain flares down my ribs. I bite on my lip hard enough to taste blood. I refuse to cry out and give her the satisfaction.
Another cut, lower this time, just above my hip.
“You know what I think, Isobel?” Dakota's voice as she leans in. “I think you've done this before. You grew up in pain, didn't you? Maybe you love it.”
I don't respond. I can't.My mind is somewhere else.
Somewhere cold and distant. While my mother looked the other way, while Daniel's fists came down on me like a storm I had to weather. A quiet room in my head where I counted seconds between hits. If I stayed there long enough. Nothing touched me.
Dakota continues. Her cuts are clean, controlled, and designed to hurt.
“Daniel told me you would retreat.” Her breath is warm and vile against my ear. “He told me how to spot it. I wonder if there's a way to get you out of there.”
She stands suddenly, walking over to grab a bottle off a table that seemingly apparated.
How did I not notice that?
A clear glass bottle, with liquid sloshing inside. As she gets closer, I smell it.
Alcohol.
Dakota smiles and uncorks it. “Let's see how retreating goes for you.”
Then she pours it over me.I scream.
The pain isn't even pain, it’s fire under my skin. An eruption of agony that sears through my nerves like lightning. My body arches and thrashes, trying to get away from the burning. But there is no getting away.
Dakota steps back, watching with clinical detachment.
