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Rex faced away, and my gaze fell back to the floor. His square-toed shit-kickers left my narrow vision as he continued, “These are her men. And I think she has a bigger problem with you than I do. Right, dear?”
“That’s true,” she said in her husky voice.
It sounded far away in my current prone state.
“However,” Rex said, “I do believe you’re the little bitch-ass cunt who might have something to do with Luke’s disappearance.”
That name pushed the breath from my lungs all over again, and my mouth worked like a fish gasping for water. I forced my back straight, glanced at Cook, who did nothing but watch, and cut my eyes over to Celt. My brother gave me a warning stare, his eyes turning into hard sapphires, when he saw that I was about to speak.
I ignored the caution and strangled out, “Luke... was a... fucking rapist.” I panted, gasped for breath, then ground out through gritted teeth, “I hope his body is fucking rotting in a hole.”
“Gag her,” Rex barked.
Not another soul in the room spoke as Cook came over, strung a cloth between my lips, and tied it behind my head. Betraying bastard! Where was his frilly apron now? The only sound was my rasping and grunting in pain to try to fight him off. That, and Celt’s hissing breath around his own gag.
Just as I was gaining a little breath, Rex rounded on me with a paper in his hand. He fisted it up close to my face. I recognized the drawing: Wilde’s father.
“You know this man?” he asked.
I glared at him and kept my head still. If he wanted answers, the idiot shouldn’t have had me gagged.
“Yeah,” he said. “Fucking figures.” He wadded the paper and threw it back toward the island. His hand latched on to the back of my hair and wrenched my head back so far I had to cast my eyes downward to see where he held his mouth close to my upturned chin. His breath reeked, and he spat, “You, Boudicca, and your piece of shit brother, are going to tell us exactly what we need to know. Is that loud and fucking clear?”
My mouth flooded as if I was going to be sick. I’d never felt hatred like I did with for this man. I thrusted my knee hard toward him. I missed the vital spot I was going for, but I caught my knee on his thigh, which caused him to stumble back.
Something huge, hard, and heavy plowed into my jaw. The pain seared, and I hung limply toward one of the thugs now acting as my crutch. The goon’s boots doubled, tripled, then merged. I saw a string of bright red spittle drip from my lips onto the floor just before everything blurred and went dark.
34
Wilde
When I came to, I was in the middle of the worst b-rated porn flick ever made. I was hogtied on one bed, my cheek pressed into a bedspread that smelled like stale cigarette smoke and old sex, facing the drama. Some man—older from the gray hairs on his chest and arms—was laying buck-ass naked on his back in the other bed. Two girls acted out the scene too. One rode his cock and another, his face. All the while, the girls were kissing each other and making exaggerated sounds like they were coming constantly, putting on quite the goddamn show.
“What the shit?” I barked and tried to turn over, but the ropes holding my ankles and wrists together didn’t allow for enough movement to escape the fuckery playing out in front of my eyes.
The man grabbed the girl on his face by the hips and threw her off. He bolted upright, shoving the other one aside, and threw on a pair of jeans. He grabbed the little bits of fabric that I assumed amounted to the girls’ clothes and threw them at one of them.
The girls mumbled and whined as they dressed. I was shocked when they spoke to him in English.
“You gonna pay us?”
“Hey, no need to be an ass.”
The man disappeared for a second and returned. I craned my neck to see him, but he stood so that I couldn’t get him in my line of sight. Tossing a roll of cash onto the bed where they’d been fucking, he commanded, “Now, get the fuck out. I got business.”
Half dressed, they scooped up the cash and scampered out of the room.
“Un-fucking-tie me, asshole.” I strained against the ropes. My leg and shoulder throbbed, presumably from being only partially healed and bound into an awkward position for—how fucking long?
The man walked between the beds and sat where they’d been acting out the threesome. Leaning forward, close to my face, he said, “Well, well. How’s it going, Jane?”
I smelled pussy on his goatee, and not the sweet kind. I was looking into a skewed mirror with the demon himself staring back at me, that goddamn scar marking the man who’d donated his cum to the process of making me. I wondered if it’d been a scene like the one that had just fucking played out. That I’d finally come face to face with my father made my stomach heave. My vision turned bright fucking red, and the only thought I could grasp in that haze was murder.
“Let. Me. The. Fuck. Up.”
Chuckling, he walked over to the beat-up dresser, lit a cigarette, and said, “Not so sure that’s a good idea, son.”
“I’m not your fucking son.”
