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He laughs again. “Yes, I’m his brother. I see Scar’s still crying about what happened. He always was a soft little whiner. Or maybe your mother told you all about me. We knew each other well too.”
Hearing that turns my stomach. I don’t want to imagine this guy anywhere near my mother—that part of the story of how my parents met I willfully keep blocked and never think about beyond the bare facts.
“You’re a sick fuck and you’re gonna die now,” I hiss at him.
He laughs again. “You’re such a little spitfire. But you’re wrong, I won’t die just yet. Maybe after I give you back to your daddy a little less pretty than I found you, but I doubt even that. He really should learn to take better care of his women.”
He starts walking towards me again, since he stopped to explain everything. Clearly, he’s too dumb to walk and talk at the same time.
As he pulls the huge hunting knife with a serrated edge from the sheath on his waist much of my angry defiance leaves, just blows away like smoke in the wind, and gets replaced by stomach turning fear.
I can’t back away any further and he walks right up to me, grinning, then lifts the knife and runs the tip across my cheek. I don’t dare move a muscle.
“Maybe I’ll give you a scar to match your dad’s,” he muses, something in his eyes moving in rapture as though they’re a pit filled with snakes.
“Or maybe I’ll extend your smile,” he adds. “You have such a beautiful smile, why not make it bigger?”
I can’t breathe. Let alone answer.
He suddenly moves back and sheathes the knife again. “But not yet. First, I’ll let the guys have you. Lots of them want to send a little message to Scar through you. Maybe they’ll even have better ideas on what to carve on that pretty face and body of yours. Get some rest now. You’ll soon have visitors.”
He laughs again, probably at what must be an utterly shocked look on my face. I wish I could breathe then I could scream all the nasty things I want him to hear.
“You sick asshole,” I finally manage once he’s already by the door.
Not nearly nasty enough, and it just makes him laugh again.
“Good night, sweet Harper,” he says and leaves the room.
The lock turning feels like a punch to the stomach.
But I’ll get free. I’ll chew my own arm off to free myself. I’ll jump out the window. I’ll use the chain to strangle anyone who comes near me.
I will not be raped. I will not be cut up. I will die before that happens.
But even in my head all that sounds like the ravings of a woman condemned. A cornered animal. Someone with no future.
But that doesn’t mean I won’t try all those things and more to get free.
* * *
Jax
The first time I woke up, I wasn’t strung up yet. I was tied, wrist and ankles all together in some weird way that made the pain in my side explode the second I tried to move. I was in some sort of a black cave, except the cave was moving and I wasn’t alone. As the boot to the side of my head let me know right before I lost consciousness again.
The next time I woke up I was already strung up, coarse rope cutting into my wrists, causing hot blood to run down my arms since it was the only thing holding me up. My toes barely reached the ground, my head was pounding, my side throbbed in burning agony and the bright reflector shining directly into my eyes wasn’t doing me any favors either.
I wanted to pass out again. All the pain would’ve made it possible. If not for the bucket of ice-cold water thrown in my face, it would’ve happened.
Instead, it cleared my mind. And made me remember everything. Harper, most of all.
Men are moving beyond the bright light, three of them at least, just black shadows to me.
They’ve already taken off my shirt but left my jeans and the room is freezing cold.
“What the fuck do you want?” I mumble.
“He’s awake,” Snake says in an excited, happy voice.
