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Whiskey Burn

Page 172

by Ava Hunter

It’s a video call, and I accept.

A man in a black suit appears onscreen. Bloodlust fills my veins.

“Where is she?” I growl. Rage burns a path through my muscles.

“No pleasantries? Straight to demands?”

“Where. Is. She.” I grip the phone so tight it could shatter.

“Of course you’d be worried. You’re missing something that belongs to you.” He grins. “Sorry to say, Mr. Weston. This perfect, pretty creature of yours is now mine.”

“Show her to me,” I demand.

There’s a soft hum, the jerk of the phone as it moves, and then the screen fills with Delilah’s tearstained face.

“Cole?”

Terror and relief hit me in one fell swoop at the sound of her shaky voice. Relief because she’s alive. Terror because she’s tied to a support beam with thick ropes. Her brown eyes are wide, her silken hair swims around her shoulders.

I fight to keep calm, fight not to lose it right then and there. “Hey, darlin’, how are you?”

Though her voice is light, it’s thin. “Oh, you know, just hangin’ around.”

I stifle a chuckle. Kidnapped, hurt, she’s still a force to be reckoned with. Awe-inspiring beauty, my girl with the soft heart but a spine of steel. She fought for Hassie, for Evangeline, and now she has to fight for herself.

“You okay?”

Her eyes tick to the left, telling me someone else is there in addition to Please. “I’m okay.”

“I’m comin’ for you. You hear me? You understand?” I search out Delilah’s gaze, and she finds mine back.

“I know,” she says, no tremor in her voice. “I know you will, Cole.”

Goddamn, her trust. Her strength. I don’t deserve either of them.

I stare at the phone, straining to fill in the missing pieces of what I’m seeing. But Delilah’s surroundings are faint, dim. A glow of lights, candles, maybe. Wood beams. A cement floor.

Please’s voice fills the speaker. “Maybe we should give him a sneak peek of what’s to come.”

Bells chime. Footsteps sound off camera. The phone shakes as it’s passed off to someone. Delilah’s terrified gaze ticks back and forth. Her whole body trembles.

“No,” she whimpers, trying to shrink away from Please—but unable to, thanks to the ropes wrapped around her body.

“I will tear you apart if you touch her,” I growl.

“See that’s the thing, I’m here and you’re not.”

Delilah whimpers as he slides a finger over the front of her dress, tilting it down to expose her black bra. Gaze locked on me, he kneads her breast. Rage quakes through my nerves, my bloodstream.

You motherfucker.

She doesn’t say a word, staring at me with a lifted chin. Strength burns in Delilah’s eyes. I use it to temper my rage, remind myself what’s at stake.

Both our lives.

“Now that’s no good.” Please looks at the camera, at me. “She’s a fierce one, isn’t she?”

I take calming breaths, barely hanging on to the last threads of my sanity, and growl, “You’re a dead man.”