Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 69909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“No matter. I’ll take your head off before I put you in the ground. Easy to slide a collar off someone’s neck when there’s no head attached, huh?”
His phone rings and I exhale with momentary relief when he stands to pick it up. But he looks disappointed when he sees the screen. I watch him take a deep breath in before he answers.
“Mr. Girard,” he says, and takes a few steps away before turning to watch me. “Yes, sir. I have the girl. I’m trying to ascertain now where those files are.”
Mr. Girard? Was he the one-handed man.
“Levi should be joining me any minute. Once he’s arrived, we’ll bring her to you.” His eyes narrow. “Yes, sir, of course. In one piece. She’s put up a fight though. She’s got a few cuts and bruises that couldn’t be helped.” He grins for my benefit. “And of course, I’ll take what I’m owed but we’ll make sure she can talk.”
Girard yells something into the phone. I can’t make out the words, but I hear his anger and, surprisingly, see Wyatt blanche. He nods.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. I’ll be in touch ve—.”
He pulls the phone away. I guess Girard didn’t wait for him to finish. He mutters a curse at the phone. He can’t hurt me or at least he can’t kill me, it sounds like. Girard is his boss. He must be the man with the missing hand.
Wyatt dials someone but the call must go to voice mail again. “Where the fuck are you, Levi? Get your ass over here. Girard is getting fucking impatient.”
“Is Levi your brother?” I ask.
Wyatt looks at me, doesn’t answer.
“And Mr. Girard is your boss? Is he the man who hired my father?”
“Shut up, bitch.”
“Because I can give you the files and then he’ll owe you.”
“Shut it.”
“Did he do that to you?” I gesture with my head, and he knows what I mean. “My dad did this to me.”
Wyatt cocks his head to the side. He gestures from himself to me and back. “Are we connecting?” he asks, setting the phone down on the table beside the bed along with his hunting knife. “Because I’m not looking for a meaningful connection,” he says and begins to undo the buttons of his shirt. He sets the shirt over the back of a chair, and I take in his bare chest, stomach. He’s huge, not defined with muscle but strong and scarred like he’s been in a hundred fights. He pushes his shoes off, strips off his pants and drapes those over the shirt then he pushes his briefs down and off. Those he leaves on the floor as he stalks toward me. “All I’m interested in are those holes I mentioned. Raping them. Hearing you scream when I do.”
I yank at my restraints and his grin grows huge. He comes to stand by the side of the bed and there’s one thing I’m grateful for. Just one thing. He’s not hard. He can’t rape me if he’s not hard.
“But since you asked, I will tell you.” He crosses the room to the wall of whips, scanning his options as I struggle to free myself from my restraints. He makes his choice. A long, thin flexible rod which, when he tests it in the air, makes a whooshing sound that makes me shudder.
He turns back to me, looks me over. “You know, I think this may work better if you’re upright. Then we don’t miss any spots.” He grins, sets the rod down and undoes one foot. He grips the ankle and leans in close to my face. “You kick and I’ll fucking slice your clit off before we even get started. You hear me, bitch? You understand me?”
I nod. I both hear and understand him. And so, when he undoes my bonds then lifts me to stand and walks me to the center of the room, I don’t kick, but I don’t make it easy either. He’s going to whip me. I’ll have to take it. But it’ll buy time, right? I can take a whipping. It won’t do lasting damage. If he cuts me, I may not be able to run. I can take a whipping. I keep telling myself this as he lifts me by the waist and hauls my arms over my head to wrap the leather cuffs dangling from the ceiling around my wrists. They’re high and I’m short and when he releases me, I literally hang from my wrists. It hurts. It hurts a lot, and he laughs when he watches me trying to at least get the tips of my big toes to touch down.
“As I was saying,” he continues casually, picking up the whip he’d set down before returning to me. Standing right in front of me, inches from me. “Yeah, the scar was compliments of Antoine fucking Girard. Because a little girl made a clown out of me. So, I should look like one for the rest of my fucking life.” He grows more bitter as he says the words and I get it. “But now, that little girl is right here and mine. Mine to punish. Mine to rape. Mine to end.” He steps backward. “Ready?”