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“I wanna go home,” she grumps as I pull the blanket over her.
“And you will… tomorrow. Doctor’s orders.”
I pull the bottle of pain pills out of my pocket and tap one into my palm to hand her. “I’ll grab you some water so you can take that.” I rush into the attached bath and fill a Dixie cup with water from the tap before returning to her. “Here.”
She takes the cup and washes the pill down with a grimace. “Damn, that hurts.”
“I know. But the pain meds should help. For now, why don’t you try to get some sleep? I’ve gotta run to the clubhouse to handle business, but I won’t be gone long. Maybe we can watch a movie tonight or something, if you’re feeling up to it.”
“Business?”
“Bryce,” I clarify.
“Okay.” She snuggles into the blanket. “Wake me when you get back.”
“No more arguments?”
“No point.”
Leaning over, I press a kiss on her forehead and then leave the room, pulling the door shut behind me. I haul ass to the shed in the woods at the back of the compound, rage fueling my every step. As I go, I send a quick text to Sami, asking her to go and sit with Kennedy until I get back.
“‘Bout time you got here,” Magic states when I walk through the clearing of trees. “I don’t like having to wait to dole out punishment.”
“I know, but he’s mine,” I snarl as I lift the wooden latch barricading Bryce in his death chamber.
When I push the door open, the stench of piss and fear immediately assaults my senses.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter. “You couldn’t hold it?”
“Let me outta here,” Bryce demands, more confidence in his voice than there should be for a man hanging from chains bolted to the ceiling. “If you let me go, I won’t tell nobody.”
“Apparently torture chambers scare proper grammar right out of a guy,” Magic quips.
“T-torture chamber?” Bryce stutters with wide eyes, all confidence disappearing.
I glance at Magic and point to the chains. “I don’t think he got the memo. Maybe we need to step up our game.”
“As you so helpfully pointed out, he’s yours,” Magic says casually as he leans against the wall. “So, what do you have in mind?”
I shift my stare to Bryce and tilt my head as if studying him. “I don’t know. Whaddya say, Bryce? How should we torture you?”
“You shouldn’t!” he wails. “Don’t torture me. You don’t have to. I swear, I’ve learn—”
I whirl around and deliver a roundhouse kick to his gut, and he grunts with the force. Watching as he swings from the chains, I grin. Damn it feels good to hurt someone.
“The time for groveling is over,” I snarl when he stops swaying. “You’ve got two choices, Bryce. One, you can tell me how you think I should torture you which gives you some control over your death. Or two, I can do whatever twisted shit comes to mind and send you to meet your maker however I see fit.” I shrug. “Doesn’t make a difference to me.”
“I-I don’t kn-know,” he stutters.
“Twisted shit it is then.”
I stroll to the wall where all of our instruments are kept. After looking through them all, I decide on the pickaxe. When I lift the T-shaped weapon from its hook, Bryce’s whimpers fill the shed, and I laugh maniacally.
Turning around, I plaster a shit-eating grin on my face. “So, Bryce, you like to hit women?”
He shakes his head, and I stalk toward him, the pickaxe dangling from my hand.
“Yet you hit Kennedy,” I say. “Why?” When he doesn’t respond, I shout, “Answer me!”
