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Offering him no more than a polite smile, I dash up the stairs and wash up for dinner. I’m hungry again. Jana left early, but there’s a casserole on the hot tray in the dining room. As I sit down at the table, I swallow a sigh of disappointment when Zane walks through the door. Anne follows, wearing a wrap around her bikini.
“What’s for dinner?” she asks. “I’m starving.”
Zane gives me a hostile look while his sister piles her plate high with rice and meat. After we’ve served ourselves, we eat in a strained silence. We’re halfway through the meal when the front door flings open. Damian walks through it with big, angry strides. His face is dark, his anger barely contained.
Two men drag a third over the step. Damian doesn’t stop to acknowledge us through the open door. He heads straight down the hall toward the kitchen, the men following. Russell shuts the door with a stoic face, staring straight ahead.
What’s going on? I push back my chair, but Zane grabs my wrist.
“It’s not your business,” he says.
“Let go.”
For once, he obliges. His smile is sardonic. “Suit yourself.”
As I stand, Anne follows. Rushing through the house with Anne on my heels, a terrible urge to get to Damian drives me. Something bad is happening. I have to stop it.
The kitchen is empty, but the backdoor stands open. A light comes on in the storage room across the courtyard. The room is windowless, but a sliver of light seeps underneath the door. I hurry toward it, vaguely aware of Anne telling me not to go there. My hand is on the doorknob even as Anne jerks at my arm. Shaking her off, I turn the knob. The corrugated iron door swings open with a squeak. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t the man Damian’s guards dragged into the house bent over a worktable with his wrist clamped in a vice. The world seems to stop turning at the same time it falls away from under my feet. Damian is holding a meat axe, and contrary to earlier, his demeanor is disturbingly calm.
Chapter 7
Lina
“No,” I scream at the same time as Damian brings down the axe.
His eyes widen in alarm when he notices me, but it’s too late. The momentum carries his action forward. Various sounds mix in a terrible orchestra of horror. A dull thud falls on the wood. The man’s howl tears through the room. Blood spurts from his knuckle. His finger rolls to the edge of the table, and my scream continues silently in my chest.
“Close the fucking door,” Damian barks.
I’m shaking in the frame, my gaze frozen on the scene. One of the guards steps forward and slams the door in my face. I can’t move. It takes tremendous effort to shift my feet, to lift my hand back to the door to help the poor man my husband is torturing.
“No.” A hand locks around my arm.
I look up at the owner to see Russell at my side.
“You can’t change what’s happening.”
Panic squeezes the breath from my chest. “I have to.”
“He deserves it.”
Terrible screams come from inside.
I’m lightheaded, as if I can’t drag in enough air. Resisting the urge to press my palms over my ears, I say, “Nobody deserves that.” I should know.
“It’s over,” he says in a placating tone. “Go back into the house.”
I free my arm. “I don’t take orders from you.”
Coldness settles in his eyes. “Whatever you say, Mrs. Hart.”
Anne shakes her head when he’s gone. “You should listen to him.”
Stress makes me snap at her. “To do what? Finish dinner while a man is losing his fingers?”
She cocks a shoulder. “Damian will be upset about your interference.”
I can’t believe how blasé she is about this. “We need to help that man.” I go for the door again, but her words stop me.
“You’re only making it worse for the guy.”
“What?”
“The more you plead his case, the more Damian will make him suffer. He’s jealous that way.”
“Jealous of what?” I exclaim.
“Of a woman’s concern.”
“If that’s true, he’s a monster.”
Another scream. Am I the only damn person in this house who wants to stop this?
“You can’t handle Damian, Lina, but don’t worry, not many women can.”
Leaving me with the insinuation of that statement, she saunters back to the house. Russell’s form is visible through the kitchen window. She stops in front of him. I can’t make out what they say to each other, but they’re both tense. It takes me one second to decide on a course of action. I grip the knob firmly. Before I can turn it, the door swings open and none other than my husband stands before me. Spots of blood cover his white shirt and a lock falls over his forehead, but other than that not a strand of hair is out of place. His face is composed.
