Page 47

Inside, I’m fucking terrified. But I keep my composure, head held high. Nobody in this room deserves to see me scared. Especially not the masked bastards who clearly get off on it.

Christian looks at me for a long moment, probably calculating where to strike, and I search his face for something. Regret, guilt, anything. But there’s nothing there.

Then he moves.

The screwdriver drives into my side, just below my ribs.

Pain explodes at the point of entry—pain like I’ve never felt in my entire fucking life.

“Aaugh!” An abstract, unintelligible sound manages to slip through. “Shit!” I clutch the wound. Warmth spills fast, wet, sticky.

I’m… bleeding.

“Blair!” Dimitri’s voice cuts through the haze as I hit the ground. He’s beside me in an instant, gently patting my face. “Hey. Look at me.”

I barely have time to lift my head before something socks against the side of Dimitri’s skull. The sound is sickening. A dull crack that echoes through the room, followed by the thud of his body hitting the floor right beside mine.

God, my head is thumping.

I can just make out Cage off to the side, holding an extra brick to the one he threw at Dimitri. Calm as a fucking clam, like he didn’t just knock out a guy.

His masked face cuts to me, then to Sloane. “Help her.”

What? I don’t want that bi—

“Now,” he growls.

That must be his favorite damn word.

Sloane springs into action, hurrying over and dropping beside me way too eagerly. Her quick movements make my head spin.

Before I know it, her mouth is at my ear, her voice taking on a venomous edge. “I can’t lose him. You should’ve died outside.”

“Fuck you,” I snarl through gritted teeth—mostly at the pain, just loud enough for her to hear.

Does this harlot not understand that they can’t both win? There are only two options: she’ll lose him, or she’ll die. Either way, she’s losing him.

“Ahhhhh, fuck!”

No, she didn’t…

Her hands have found the wound Christian left, pressing down into it hard. Hard. Too fucking hard. Agony rips through me so bright I see white, and on pure instinct, my hand rears back and collides with her cheek.

The next second, she’s on me. Nails raking, weight slamming me back against the cold, hard floor. We thrash in a tangle of limbs and hissed curses. Her knee drives into my side, and I cry out, my bruise screaming for mercy.

I feel d… dizzy. A black, nauseating wave washes over me, making the room tilt.

“Enough!” a rough, maddened voice thunders from somewhere in the distance, seeming to bounce off the walls and wave back to me.

Sloane stills at my side.

“Now… Blair, you’ll be pleased to know it’s your turn. Would you rather—”

“Would you rather cut off Christian’s dick or Sloane’s foot?” Cage’s voice cuts off whatever Archon was about to say.

“What?” Sloane shrieks, scrambling to sit up.

“My… dick. You guys are sick sons of bitches!”