Chapter 25 #2
The taller man grinned—slow and satisfied, like I'd just given him exactly what he wanted. "Then they're yours."
My throat tightened until breathing felt like swallowing glass. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed too loud in the sudden silence.
"Please—just leave."
He stepped closer. One step. Then another. Each footfall deliberate, measured, designed to make me understand how small I was. How cornered.
"We gave you time. We warned you."
My legs shook so violently I pressed harder against the counter just to stay upright. The wood grain bit into my palms. Grounding. Real. The only solid thing left in a world that had suddenly tilted sideways. "Don't do this—"
"Sweetheart," he murmured, voice dropping to something intimate and vicious, "we're done asking."
His hand shot out. Grabbed my wrist before I could pull away.
The grip was iron. Bruising. Final.
I gasped—not screamed, not yet—just a sharp intake of breath that wouldn't form words.
The shorter man moved behind me.
I felt him there—close enough that his breath ghosted across the back of my neck, close enough to smell cigarettes and old leather and something metallic that made my stomach turn.
"You're gonna learn real quick," the taller one said, twisting my wrist until pain shot up my arm, "what happens when people don't pay their debts."
I tried to jerk away.
His grip tightened.
"Let me—"
"No." He pulled me forward, dragging me halfway across the counter. Books scattered. The register beeped once, sharp and panicked. "You're gonna tell Gideon Jones exactly what happens when little girls play games they can't win."
The shorter man's hand landed on my shoulder.
Heavy.
Possessive.
Wrong.
I slammed my forehead into his nose.
The crack echoed through the bookstore—wet, sharp, satisfying.
He roared, stumbling back, hands flying to his face. Blood poured between his fingers.
I didn't wait.
I ran.
Behind me, chairs crashed. The shorter man cursed—loud, vicious, promising violence.
"Grab her!"
My sneakers slipped on the hardwood. I caught myself against a shelf, books tumbling in my wake. Pages fluttered like dying birds. Spines cracked against the floor.
I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry—
But I couldn't stop.
Heavy footsteps pounded behind me. Closer than they should be. Too close.
I shoved another shelf sideways. It tilted, groaned, spilled decades of carefully curated fiction across the floor in a cascade of paper and binding glue.
My chest burned.
The back office. The desk. The—
The bat.
I'd bought it years ago after a late-night scare. Kept it tucked behind the filing cabinet where customers wouldn't see.
I crashed through the office door, lungs screaming.
There. Wooden. Scuffed. Real.
I grabbed it with both hands, whirling just as the shorter man filled the doorway.
His nose was a mess. Blood streaked his chin, dripped onto his jacket.
Pure rage twisted his features into something barely human.
"You little bitch—"
I swung.
The bat connected with his shoulder. The impact vibrated up my arms, rattling my teeth.
He staggered sideways with a howl.
I raised the bat again, muscles screaming in protest.
But before I could bring it down—
The taller man appeared. One hand shot out. Caught the bat mid-swing. Ripped it from my grip so easily I nearly fell forward from the momentum.
"No—"
He tossed it aside. The clatter echoed like a death knell. Then he grabbed my throat, holding me there against the wall, letting me feel how strong he was. How powerless I'd just become.
"That," he whispered, voice deadly calm, "was a mistake."
The shorter man straightened, clutching his shoulder. Blood still streamed from his nose. His eyes burned with something that made my bladder threaten to let go.
"I'm gonna make you regret that."
My fingers clawed at the hand around my throat.
Useless.
Pathetic.
The taller man's grip tightened just enough to make breathing difficult.
"Should've just called your boyfriend," he murmured. "Would've saved us all some trouble."
Darkness crept at the edges of my vision.
My lungs burned. My nails dug into his wrist, drawing blood I couldn't see.
The shorter man stepped closer, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. Smiling.
"Now," he said softly, "we do this the hard way."
I didn't know what "the hard way" meant, but I knew it wouldn't be good.
The hand around my throat loosened just enough for me to gasp—one ragged, desperate breath that tasted like copper and fear.
The shorter man stepped closer, blood still dripping from his ruined nose.
"You're gonna make a phone call," he said. "Tell Jones you need help. Tell him to bring cash."
My voice came out broken. "No—"
"Or," the taller one murmured against my ear, breath hot and rancid, "we make you scream loud enough that he hears it, anyway."
His free hand moved to my hip. Squeezed.
Oh God.
My vision tunneled. Everything narrowed to that single point of contact—his hand claiming territory it had no right to touch.
"What's it gonna be, sweetheart?"