Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I can’t pinpoint exactly where Holland is in the building, given there are multiple levels, but I have an educated guess.
My heart is pounding all the way to Oakley’s room. I’m pissed, and all I can see is what’s directly in front of me, my focus lasered in on my target.
“Hurry up!”
It sounds like a real voice, and I startle, glancing around. No one is in the hall.
“Shut it up.”
It takes me a minute to realize a memory is creeping into my consciousness. Suddenly, it feels like I’m fourteen and back on the stairway in my childhood home. I pause, screaming breaking through the quiet.
“Shut up,” my brother hisses.
The sound is a mix between a hawk’s screech and a baby’s cry. My heart races. What the hell is that? Why is it coming from my room?
The sound silences.
“You’re doing it wrong,” my brother’s voice snaps.
I stalk up the steps, heart racing. There’s the sound of ripping, then more hushed voices.
I’m not supposed to be home yet. I was supposed to be staying with a friend, but I was actually boxing in a fight club. What are those assholes doing in my room? Rage flushes my system until I forget the throbbing in my nose, and I burst through the door.
My brothers stand over my bed, looking at…something. They turn at the same time, and I notice a knife in my brother’s hand.
“The fuck?” I snarl. I ought to deck them for coming in here, but that knife makes me pause.
And that’s when I notice what’s on the bed. Blood. Lots of it.
“Hey, fag.” My brother grins. “All done fucking your twinks? Come to see if Dad wants to take you next?”
I ignore his words, seeing the body of…something on my bed. It’s an animal.
There’s a roaring in my ears, and I launch forward, slamming my fist into Wesley’s face. He stumbles back, and I’m gripping the fist he has around the knife in a flash.
Then my brother is on my back, ripping my head and neck violently to the side.
I don’t care. They’ll win this fight. They always do. All I care about is taking care of the roaring in my ears and the burning hatred in my veins.
I’m snapped back to the present by the elevator dinging.
Right. The villa. The game. My game. I’m in control.
That quiets the roaring in my ears just a little as I stalk up to Oakley’s door. It snicks open with my master key, and I shove my way inside, bringing my pistol up to eye level, taking back control.
Oakley isn’t right behind the door. Clearing the bathroom quickly, I sweep the corner where the bed is, immediately seeing that Oakley isn’t here.
But Holland is.
She sits up on the bed, confusion in her eyes morphing to fear.
Hot rage burns down my arms. This is my brother’s pawn.
I grab Fourteen, flinging her over my shoulder.
Her added weight makes my chest ache, which just pisses me off.
Hauling Holland’s thrashing frame out of the room, I move to the stairwell.
She screams, and it echoes off the walls, sounding hauntingly similar to the screech of a dying fox.
Goosebumps prick up my arms, and the pit of my stomach freezes.
No. This isn’t happening again.
Bursting out of the stairwell, I make it to my room, hand shaking as I unlock it.
When I finally get inside, I slam the door behind me, snatching my bag from out of the closet and throwing Holland down on the bed.
She bounces, and I’m on top of her before she can move, whipping her hands behind her back and zip-tying them together.
When I have her secured, I expect that horrendous rush in my ears to go down. I wait, chest heaving, while I hold down her tiny, traitorous, thrashing body. It’s now that I realize that Holland is doing more than screaming. She’s spitting obscenities and threats at me.
“I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking kill you!” Those fiery blue eyes are staring up at me in hatred so strong I can almost taste it. “Get the fuck off me, I’ll fucking slit your throat.”
Almost on instinct, I back off of her. As if staying there will morph her into the mutilated fox from all those years ago.
That same frantic humming is in my veins, and as Holland struggles, I picture her slamming her head against the nightstand, skin splitting open and blood going everywhere, soaking down to the box spring.
No.
Snatching up another pair of zip ties, I grab her feet and tie them together.
“Let me go!”
I have to hold myself back from obeying. Normally, when a woman is below me, she’s telling me what to do, and I’m fucking listening.
But this isn’t normal.
Bending her at the knees, I hogtie her hands to her feet to restrict her movement. Snatching a pillow, I jam it between the bed and nightstand. Only then do I stand back, surveying my work, heart racing.
Holland’s breathing is fast, her chest rising and falling quickly, much like an animal.
Slowly, reality settles back in like a welcome friend.
She’s working with my brother.
The thought of my brother only makes my heart race more until I feel like I can’t breathe, and I dart to the bathroom, cranking the hot water on and sticking my hands under it.
That was then, this is now. I’m in control. He’s playing my game. The roles are reversed.
Looking up in the mirror, I don’t look like me. This version of me is older, with tattoos covering my skin, scars all over, and lines around my eyes. But there is one thing that’s the same, and it’s the cold hatred lurking in the depths of my eyes. The hatred that kept me alive.
Slowly, my heart rate lowers, and I can start to feel the burn of the water against my skin.
I’m in control. I have my brother’s fox, and this time I’m going to win.