Chapter 12
Mace
I clutch the mask in my grip and stare up at the brick building that’s so very familiar to me. I’m far from the worst thing to climb through her window.
The fingers of my right hand curl toward my palms. She isn’t safe here.
A distinct memory tries to claw its way toward the surface, but I squash it.
No one’s safe here.
Rough hands seize the front of my shirt and drag me to my feet. I sway in his grip. Matted strands of my hair stick to my forehead.
The guy, Thomas, I’ve heard his friends call him, is one of five men in the dingy living room. Broken beer bottles scatter on the floor while a bigger one with a dark liquid sits on the table crowded by the rest of the spectators.
We’re tonight’s entertainment. Dad handed us off to Ely for 24 hours.
“Hit him again,” a deep voice prompts, thick, white smoke seeping through his stained teeth as he removes the cigar long enough.
My wrists are tied behind my back, so are Ash’s, but even if they weren’t, we couldn’t put up much of a fight. We’re scrawny for 15-year-olds. Due to being malnourished, not because we lack the genetics.
Thomas draws back his fist, and in the next moment I feel my skull explode. White-hot pain flares across my cheek. My vision flickers.
He punches me so hard I stumble and collapse to the floor again, unable to catch my fall because of the cuffs cutting into the skin around my wrist. I’m pretty sure I’m bleeding.
He yanks me back to my feet. My shoulder screams with pain, and my ribs are bruised, but I hold my chin high. I glare up at him two feet above my eye level.
Black, merciless pits stare back, daring me to cry. But I won’t. I don’t make a sound. Not even when his fist retracts to deliver another blow to my gut.
I lurch forward at the impact. The only reason I don’t drop to my knees is his grip at the back of my shirt collar. He buries his knuckles in my stomach, making my teeth punch down on my tongue.
The taste of metal fills my mouth. When I swallow the bitterness, I feel the burn all the way down my throat, and it no longer stirs a repulsion.
I welcome it. I let the taste of my own blood fuel me.
“Stop it!” I hear Ash shout. “Don’t fucking touch him.”
But there’s a quiver in his voice. From the corner of my throbbing eye, I see his flailing shape, struggling against the hold at his shoulders. He’s on his knees, a guy named Jonathan restraining him as he’s forced to watch my turn to get beaten.
They all like to watch.