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I took a second to think it over. Thinking of all the things I wanted to do to him. All this time, I had envisioned his suffering for the past few days, but as the idea of Azrael taking his anger out on Freya washed over my thoughts, I knew itwasn’t a risk I wanted to take. Not rationally. Regardless of how much I loved the idea of making this room red with his blood as it splattered like confetti. Or like Fiona’s brains, which stuck to the floor like glue.
“Fuck!” I yelled, kicking the nearest table and the nearest chair. Hell, I even flipped over a few tables in frustration.
I put my face in the ancient’s face, brows furrowing and eyes flaring in anger as I said the only merciful words I intended to say to him. “You’re going to be able to live, but barely. You will return to New York and tell your brother I am coming for him. That I want Freya and my mother alive, or I will make it my life’s mission to hunt him down and make him wish he stayed in that damned mountain of his all these years.”
The ancient didn’t speak, he couldn’t. And even though he was captured in my charms, I could tell he was affected much differently. Not seduced but instead forced to just sit there hanging onto my words, waiting for me to tell him what he could and couldn’t do. “But I won’t let you leave without taking something from you. So, what should it be?”
I laughed as Oliver shook his head in disapproval. “Dustin, don’t play with this fire.” He warned.
“Oh please, he’ll return to his brother alive. Just not in one piece.”
“What are you going to do?” Oliver urged, and instantly, I knew.
I turned to the ancient with a smile on my face. “Rip your arm off.” My words felt like they cut through the air as it stilled. “Rip your fucking right arm off.Now.” I repeated for clarity.
The ancient’s eyes widened, but he obeyed, tugging on his arm each time, screaming as the bones in his arm crackedwith each heave. It took him several minutes of screaming painfully in my ear before the rest of his arm tore off, parts crumbling as if he had done himself a favor by peeling the skin from his ligament. His eyes swelled with tears from the pain, and blood spat from him as he fell to his knees.
Chapter 22
Freya
The last few days felt like a fever dream.
Everything swirled around in a blur while gaps in my memory clouded me, and I hated how damsel-in-distress I felt.
I remembered leaving the club or being tossed over Edward’s shoulder as I watched Dustin and Oliver limp on the ground.
I could still see Tina’s look as she laid there defeated. Saddened almost. That look replayed in my mind several times, sometimes even distorted, as if my memory had blended with a nightmare.
But everything else after was just movements, so quickly and warped that I couldn’t make out where I was or who I was with. All I knew was that it had been a day or two – even if it felt like weeks. I would wake randomly in a haze of strangers bringing me drinks or food. My captors were at least civil, though my mind was a foggy mess. Even their faces seemed to blend together as I thought back on it.
It wasn’t until now that the cloudy mind of mine finally began to function properly. I leaned up, realizing that I was ina bed. I could feel the plush white sheets cascading around me, and as I looked around the room, I recognized them strangely.
The rose-colored walls and gold shimmery floors were key enough to know that I was back in the hotel of hot people.
I couldn’t remember the name Dustin had given it. The estates, maybe? The smell alone brought back all my memories of this place, good and bad.
Vividly, I could see Stephan’s head sliding across the ground like a red streamer. I could picture Sasha’s body tossed to the ground as her pink tulle dress kicked up and people ran frantically around her. But with the bad came the good memories, the ones of Dustin petrifying me along the wall. The realization that I had become fascinated with him as much as he was with me, it would seem.
But regardless of how I felt reminiscing on the memories, I knew I needed to find a way out, knowing that I wasn’t supposed to be here.
I obviously tried opening the door, to no avail. It would seem that either a massive body was forcing the door shut, or there was some lock on the exterior, making it impossible to leave.
I went into the thinly framed bathroom, hoping a vent might be big enough to escape in. Of course, I watched too many spy movies because they were about as tiny as a cat. I wouldn’t even be able to stick my head through them.
The bathroom had no windows, and the sole window in the room was leveled on what looked like the second floor. Bars keeping the window in place, probably to account for jumpers? Or at least, that’s what I assumed as I realized the window wouldn’t budge.
In more or less terms, I was trapped.
And this time, I felt more claustrophobic than the first time I had been trapped here. Unfortunately for me, my captor, this time, was at least smart enough to lock the door to keep me from running.
I sat there for what felt like hours, but realistically, I wasn’t paying attention. Time drummed to the annoying beat of the clock ticking overhead. I had even grown tired of watching the wallpaper and finally scratched it to see if it was one of those sniff-and-scratch papers. It wasn’t.
When the door finally opened, I was sunk into the bed, half asleep. Mainly because I had tried to force my eyes open the entire time, but it felt harder and harder as the clock ticked rhythmically. So, when a few bodies came tumbling into the room, my mind had to snap back from its half-slumbered daze.
“Freya.” A tall man said as he stepped into view.
His shoulders were broad, and his silvered hair was long, pinned back in a ponytail. He was unmistakably a succubus; I could feel it. Feel the pull coming from him as his silver-bean eyes sunk into mine. His jaw was rigid and muscular almost. A single scar scratched across his chin up toward his left eye. His neck bulged as if the muscles in his arms were cascading up along his collarbone.
