James panics. “What?”
I straighten up, voice cold and final. “You’ll stay down there where we can keep an eye on you… until I decidewhatto do with you.”
The guys drag them away.
I’m still barely containing the rage. It’s boiling under my skin like molten lead, demanding an outlet, something to destroy, someone to hurt. But I can’t kill the brothers yet. I’m not a loose cannon, I’m smart and strategic; I need information first. I need to know where Finn is, where Kit is, before I paint the walls with their blood.
I look at Sam and Luke. They’ve seen violence like this a hundred times before… blood, screams, and broken bodies, but this is different. This is Kit; small, defenceless Kit who never deserved any of this.
Sam swallows hard and pats Luke on the shoulder, barely able to meet my eyes. “We’ll… uh… watch it again,” he says quietly. “See if we can find something to give us a clue to where they are.”
I nod, jaw so tight it feels like it might crack. I address the room in general as I turn to leave. “I’ll be in my gym.”
I head upstairs, not even bothering to change.
I slam the gym door shut behind me. The heavy bag hangs in the centre of the room, silent and waiting. I don’t wrap my hands; I don’t warm up…. I just walk straight up to it and unload.
The first punch lands with a dull thud that vibrates up my arm. Then another, and another, harder and faster. Grunt after grunt tears out of my chest as I rain blows down on the leather, sweat already beading on my forehead. Each impact helps for half a second.
Then Kit’s face flashes behind my eyes… innocent, terrified, and pleading at Finn to stop. My face crumples. I rest my forehead against the bag, breathing hard, chest heaving. One weak, broken sob escapes before I can stop it.
“Christopher…” I whisper to no one, voice cracking. “I’msofucking sorry, baby…”
The words hang in the empty gym, raw and useless.
I slam my fist into the bag one more time, but there’s no strength left in it. Just pain, guilt, and knowing that I failed the one person I swore to protect.
Chapter Twenty-One
~ Him or Me ~
Kit
I wake up slowly and painfully, consciousness dragging itself back like it’s fighting every inch of the way.
My face is onfire. The cut along my cheek and forehead throbs with a deep, stingingagonythat radiates all the way down my neck. Blood has dried in crusty streaks across my skin and soaked into the front of my shirt, stiff and itchy. My arms ache from being bound behind the chair for so long. My whole body feels battered, bruised, and heavy. I’ve never been thisangryin my life. A raw, burning rage simmers under the pain, I wish I were stronger. IwishI could takeeveryounce of hurt Finn has inflicted on me and shove it right back into him.
Last night, after he finished recording that video, I kept drifting in and out of consciousness. I vaguely remember Finn slapping what felt like butterfly strips onto the cut on my face. It could just be tape for all I know, but at least the bleeding finally stopped. My skinfeels tight and swollen now, pulling every time I move even slightly.
I still don’t understand why he hasn’t just killed me. Maybe that would be too merciful for him. Who the hell knows what goes on in that deranged head.
The old chair I’m tied to is even more battered and wobbly than it was when I first sat in it a week ago. One of the screws in the back leg has come loose from all the violent shifting and struggling. Honestly, I’m not even scared of hurting myself if the chair finally collapses. It would be nothing compared to what Finn has already done to me.
I know he left on the jet ski about an hour ago. Whenever he does that, he never returns for hours.
I look down at the loose screw and start wobbling the chair against its back leg, watching as the screw works itself looser with every shift. I don’t know how long I do it for; time feels slippery down here. But this new, stubborn determination keeps pushing me. Eventually the screw clangs to the floor. I laugh to myself, a weak, broken sound, at this pathetic little victory.
I wobble the chair harder until it tips, landing on my side with a grunt, the impact jarring every bruise. For a moment I just lie here, letting my head rest against the cold metal floor, imagining what it would feel like to close my eyes and actually sleep for a while. But no… I reach around behind me with my bound hands, muttering under my breath, “Come on…come on…”
My fingers finally brush the screw. I wrap them around it tightly and position the sharp end against the rope binding my wrists and start scraping. It’s going to take a long time; the rope is coarse and stubborn…butit’s already fraying in places from my earlier struggles. I have time. Finn won’t be back for hours. I keep scraping, slow and determined, the small metallic sound the only thing breaking the silence of the room.
I don’t know if I’ll get free. I don’t know what I’ll do if I do. But for the first time since I woke up on this boat, I feel something other than fear… I feelhope.
???
I’ve been working on this screw for at least five hours. The sun has moved across the small circular window in a long, slow arc, painting the metal walls in shifting shades of gold and orange before finally beginning to sink toward the horizon. I’ve watched every minute of it, using the changing light as my only way to track time. My stomach is beyond empty now, it’s a deep, gnawing void that’s moved past hunger into something worse. I gagged a while ago, dry-heaving violently over the floor, but nothing came up. Just painful, empty spasms that left me shaking and gasping.
Still, my grip on the screw hasn’t wavered. I’m pushing every last scrap of energy I have into that one small, repetitive motion… scraping, scraping,scraping. I don’t even know if I’m making any real progress. For all I know I’m just wearing down the screw and exhausting myself for nothing. My arm is numb from lying on myside for so long, shoulder aching, fingers cramped and slippery with sweat. My eyes are getting impossibly heavy. The exhaustion is pulling at me like gravity, threatening to drag me under again.
