Page 210 of Fatality

For a second, there's no reaction, then a sharp gasp cuts through the warehouse.

The gang laughs in anticipation.

“Wakey, wakey,” I whisper, leaning toward the hanging figure. “Feeling refreshed? Awake? Good.”

I kick his legs with my shin, sending him swinging.

He cries out.

It’s high pitched, but I don’t give a fuck right now.

“You have something that's mine.” I pause, my hands sliding casually into my pockets. “And I want it back. So, start talking.”

I grin, crookedly.

“Or I'll start cutting off your fingers. One by one.”

That little bastard looks at me with such profound hatred it actually amuses me. Really.

But he doesn't speak, doesn't even make a sound.

I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose.

“Fine.” A beat. “If you want to play it that way...” I pause. “Ren.”

Ren steps forward, a pair of side cutters in hand. The kind we use to cut copper wires in our engines.

The man's eyes widen.

He twists violently, making his body swing even harder.

I roll my eyes and cross my arms, watching Ren step behind him. He slips one glove off, grabs a finger, and positions the side cutters.

Ready to cut.

“No!” he shouts in utter panic. “Please!”

But that's not a man's voice, it's familiar.

Too familiar.

I throw a hand up immediately.

“Stop.” My eyes narrow.

Ren freezes without hesitation.

I don't ask questions, I grab the balaclava and rip it off.

The hair isn't short—long raven-black hair spills free. For a second, the fabric feels impossibly heavy.

That face.

Those lips.

That fire in eyes that aren't the ones I worship.

“Riven?” I whisper. My gaze sweeps over her.