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I’m a murderer, a weapon honed and sharpened against the chips of years of abuse. I’m stalker and lover, I’m fucked up, arrogant, possessive, and smart. And I’m completely and utterly a fool for Atlas Ortega.
I underestimated him, but he underestimates just what I’m willing to do to get my woman back. I’d jump into the fire for her.
I’ve killed for her.
And now, I’m ready to kill Ed for her as well.
And I’ll bring the entire city to its fucking knees if only it means I’m going to get her back.
Twenty-Nine
Atlas
So many murder documentaries. So many podcasts. So many books and cases and reports. All for what?
Just so I can make up thousands of scenarios in my head of what’s going to happen to me as I’m hauled away by these bastards. Just so I can picture in my mind so vividly how they’re going to torture me, rape me, kill me.
All in the name of some hypocritical asshole with an overeager need to be mayor, governor, and president.
The ties bite into my wrists. Zip ties are easier to get out of than duct tape, at least. I would know. I practiced with Anna, after all.
I thank Anna now for forcing me to sit through her lessons. It wasn’t weird after all. It was productive. I also thank the podcasts I spent an unhealthy amount of time listening to.
Through a frenzy of anxiety, she’s all I think about when they bind my hands tightly together in my lap in the back of the van. They throw me against the far corner, slamming my head on the metal of something unseen. Pain stings into my skull, but I’m already testing the ties on my wrists. Tight, but doable. I just have to bide my time.
I’m acutely aware when they finally stop. My body lunges forward, but a hand stops me in my place, sending my nerves into overdrive from the palm against my shoulder. A door slides open, and someone hauls me out like a sack of potatoes, throwing me into someone else's arms as they drag me over gravel. Pain stings through my knees before cool concrete meets my skin.
My captors throw me down once we’re inside the space, and then a door slams shut behind me. I wait with bated breath for something more to come.
But I’m alone.
With a sack still over my head, I’m left to my own devices. My jagged breaths tumble from my lips, and my tears dry against my cheeks. Then I smile quietly to myself through it all.
I pull the bag from my head immediately, blinking through the darkness until my vision clears. I’m not sure where I am, but being alone gifts me plenty of time to think about all the ways these criminals will want to fuck me up.
They can certainly try.
But they’ve already made so many mistakes.
I take a breath, bring my bound hands over my head, and with a fast movement I didn’t know I was capable of, I crash it down in an arc, snapping my wrists against the top of my thighs.
Nothing.
Again, I repeat the movement. Over and fucking over until the zip tie finally snaps. Red lines encircle my wrists with pain. I’m a sweating mess. My curls are plastered to my cheeks and neck, and the dress is clinging uncomfortably against my frame. One boob is nearly out and roaming the room from all the chaos of the evening.
I fucking hate gowns. Let’s never do this again.
I give a cursory look around the room I’m in. It’s industrial, made of metal and wood. A factory? I’m unsure. Maybe one of Ed’s many properties.
Pain strikes through my knees when I stand. I lean into the wall just to make it to an agonizing crouching position. I push myself along the smooth surface until my head leans against the door, and I listen intently then. Voices speak low amongst themselves. Two men, I think.
Where’s Rowan?
I try to think if they captured him, too, but he wasn’t in the van, and I don’t know what they’ve done with him. That alone spirals a renewed wave of fury to course through me.
I have to get out of here.
I push open the heavy door a fraction of an inch, but two men are standing around a white table near a door that has a rustic Exit sign above it. Guns lie on the countertop. I peer away at the big windows up above that are too tented to see out of.
