Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sunny
Everything. Hurts.
“Well, welcome back to the world of the living,” a deep voice says.
My eyes snap open…and I immediately wish they hadn’t. A gruff, unfamiliar face looms over me, lined with worry and irritation in equal measure. I jerk back on instinct, and pain explodes through my ribs like fireworks behind my eyes.
“Don’t move, girl,” the very growly man warns, raising a hand. “If you injure yourself any further, your man’s gonna injure me. Well…he’ll try. ”
“Who are you?” I ask, voice hoarse, gaze darting around the room. “Why am I in Riley’s bedroom?”
“We didn’t want to risk carrying you down the bunker ladder,” he says, stepping back just enough to give me space. “We met on the plane, but I’m not surprised you don’t remember me. You were pretty out of it. Name’s Patch. Club doctor.”
“Oh…” I blink at him. “I’ve heard of you.”
I relax a little.
Then it hits me.
“I’m home,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” Patch says, his voice softer now. “You are. And so is Abby.”
“Where is she?” I ask quickly, my heartbeat picking up.
“At home. She needed rest. She’s fine.”
“And Jack?”
“He should be back any-”
“ Baby. ”
The voice is raw, cracking with relief. “Thank fuck. You’re awake.”
The second he reaches me and I see his face in full… I break.
Everything I’ve been holding back…the fear, the fury, the helplessness…it all crashes down like a wave I can’t outrun. My lips tremble. My chest heaves with a sob that rips free before I can stop it. And then another. And another.
Seeing him…really seeing him…shatters the dam I built to survive since Muerte’s men took me and Abby. His face is bruised with exhaustion, his eyes wild with concern, and in that moment I realize just how close I came to never seeing him again.
“I’m safe,” I whisper through the tears, like I still need to convince myself it’s true. “I’m safe.”
Jack drops to his knees beside the bed, one hand cupping the side of my face, the other gripping mine like a lifeline. His forehead presses gently to mine.
“You’re home, baby. You’re home,” he murmurs, voice breaking. “They’ll never get near you again. I promise you.”
I nod against him, sobs still wracking my body even as a strange, quiet peace starts to settle in. I’m not in a hole. I’m not alone. I’m not broken.
Not anymore.
Because I’m here. And so is he. So is Abby.
And that’s all that matters.
“Can I take her home?” Jack asks Patch as I work to get control of myself again.
“I’d rather she not be moved,” Patch replies. “At least not until I can get the scan done.”
Jack nods, then sits gently on the edge of the bed beside me.
“We’ve got Muerte,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “I’m going to make sure he never touches you… or anyone else… ever again.”
I know exactly what he means. He’s going to skin him alive.
“Do you ever make your victims eat their own flesh?” I ask, my voice still unsteady but curious.
His eyes widen, and it makes me smile through the haze of pain.
“Abby and I were hoping you’d make Muerte do that while we were stuck in the dark,” I admit.
“Dark and devious,” Patch murmurs. “I like it.”
Jack chuckles low, shaking his head. “Can’t say I have, baby. But I didn’t know that beautiful mind of yours could be so… creatively cruel. I’m impressed.”
“I’m full of surprises,” I murmur, exhaustion creeping in again. “So… will you? Make him eat himself?”
“With pleasure, Sunny,” he says, brushing a kiss to my forehead. “Now sleep, baby. You’re safe.”
“I love you, Jack.”
“And I love you too, wife.”
“We’re not married yet,” I mumble, as sleep tugs me under again.
“Soon, baby,” he whispers, voice steady and sure. “Very soon.”
I’m not sure what kind of magic Patch worked on me, but it wraps around my body like a warm blanket. The pain fades. The fear slips away. And for the first time in what feels like forever… I sleep.
Dreamless, painless, and safe.
***Bones***
The basement is quiet.
Not silent…his breathing is too ragged for that…but quiet enough that I can hear the drip of water from the rusted pipe in the corner. I made sure the lights were dim, cold, and clinical. This isn’t a place for fear. It’s a place for truth.
Okay, and maybe a dash of fear.
Luis, because that’s all he is down here, is strapped to the chair, wrists bound in steel cuffs, ankles bolted down. His clothes are long gone. His chest rises and falls, sweat already slicking his skin from the anticipation. Good.
Skip sits on a chair out of the way, a huge excited smile on his face. I usually like to do this alone…no distractions…but sometimes the guys like to watch. As long as they’re silent, I allow it.
I don’t speak at first. Just let Luis sit there in his own tension. Let it build. Let it eat at him.
Then I roll the metal tray forward. Every tool laid out in a neat line. Scalpel. Hook. Pliers. Stitching thread. One of Skip’s small bone saws. Razor. Flame. Ice.
Then, of course, my fillet knives.
I finger the blade of my favorite one before picking it up.
Luis flinches. Not much. But enough.
“I’m going to ask you questions,” I say calmly. “You’ll answer when I want you to. Not before. Not after. If you lie, I’ll know. If you hesitate, I’ll assume it’s a lie.”
“Fuck you,” he growls, already trying to spit blood and venom.
I don’t react. Just step forward and press the blade to his collarbone.
I don’t press hard. Just enough to kiss the skin. “This knife,” I murmur, “can skin a deer in under three minutes. I’ve shaved paper-thin slices off a flank so clean the meat didn’t even know it was gone.”
He sneers. So, I slice.
Not deep. Not even bloody. Just the first layer. A whisper of flesh peeled away from his collarbone. His eyes go wide. Not in pain. But shock.
“Feel that?” I ask. “That’s what precision feels like.”
He jerks against the cuffs. “You’re insane.”
I smile.
“No, Luis. I’m practiced .”
Another slow stroke. This one angled just under the first. A sliver of skin lifts like it wants to curl. Still not enough blood to drip. Just enough to sting.
“I’ve always liked shadows more than ghosts,” I say conversationally, moving to his ribs. “Ghosts… they’re noisy. Full of moaning and wails. Shadows? They don’t make a sound. They just… move in.”
I make a cut under his left pec. This one’s deeper. He hisses through clenched teeth.
“You came into our territory. Took my woman. Hurt her. Hurt my sister .” My voice drops as I bend close to his ear. “You made her afraid of the dark again.”
His chest heaves. Sweat pours.
“So, you’re going to pay for that. Then, you’ll pay for tormenting my woman. Then for Max and his mom. And when I’m done, you’ll tell me who your partner is. Because if you don’t…”
I slide the blade along the underside of his forearm, so delicately it looks like I’m painting him.
“I’ll just keep carving you into ribbons. Little thin layers. Until there’s nothing left but bones.”
“Go to hell,” he rasps.
I straighten. “Already been there,” I say. “Now I’m the one giving tours.”
And then I fillet a perfect ribbon from the side of his thigh. This one bleeds.
He screams.
Finally.
“Who’s your partner, Luis?”
Still nothing.
“Good,” I nod. “We’ll keep going.”
I grab a clean cloth and wipe my blade. Then I slice another layer from his stomach…just under the ribs. This one’s thick enough to weep, blood beading along the edge like dew on raw meat.
He thrashes, but the cuffs hold. His chest is heaving now. Panic’s setting in.
“You know,” I say, reaching for the alcohol, “my woman and sister had a wish while they were rotting in that pit of yours.”
He looks up, wary. Sweating. Breathing ragged.
“They hoped I’d make you eat yourself.”
A small noise escapes Skip, but I simply smile. I had the same reaction.
I pop the cap on the bottle. The scent of antiseptic and torment fills the air.
“They joked about it, at first. Delirious. Scared. But they meant it. They wanted you to suffer. Not just die. Suffer. ”
And then I pour.
The alcohol hits the fresh wounds and he screams , jerking so hard the chair rocks with the force of it.
“Stop… fuck, stop !”
“You’re gonna want to conserve your voice, Luis.” I lean down again, calm as ever. “This is only round one.”
Another slice…this one off his bicep. A twitch of the knife, practiced and clean. Then more alcohol.
More screaming.
More flailing.
I go lower. A strip from his thigh. A line from his shoulder. A sliver from his side.
And again… the alcohol.
It becomes a rhythm.
Cut.
Pour.
Scream.
Repeat.
When he starts sobbing, I know we’re getting close.
“You feel that?” I whisper, crouching to meet his bloodshot gaze. “That’s the weight of consequence. The sound of skin remembering every wrong.”
I set a silver tray in front of him. Lay one of the larger, blood-slick strips across it. It’s still warm.
“You’re going to eat that.”
He spits at me. “Fuck you!”
Another cut. A scream. More alcohol.
I press the blade to his cheek, just enough to sting.
“Eat it, Luis. Or I’ll start on your face. I’ll leave nothing behind your mama could recognize.”
He hesitates. Chest heaving. Mouth twitching.
Then… shaking… he nods.
“Very good,” I say. “Look, I’ll even cut it up into bite-sized pieces for you.”
I slice the strip into thin squares and, one by one, place them into his mouth. He gags on the second. Nearly vomits on the fourth. But I grip his jaw tight, force his mouth shut, and wait. His eyes roll, but eventually, he swallows.
Piece after piece disappears, his own flesh sliding down his throat.
“There you go,” I say softly. “Good boy.”
Then I lean in again, blade resting gently over his heart. I press, just enough to make the skin dimple.
“Now… let’s try this again. Who… is… your partner?”
His head lolls, sweat dripping from his brow. He’s pale now…shock settling in…but he’s not unconscious yet. Not lucky enough for that. His eyes lock on mine, and behind the pain, I see it. Fear. Real and raw.
Delicious.
“Fuck…you…” he rasps, but it’s weak. Slurred.
“Did you forget?” I smile, voice low. “That’s alright.”
I stand, dragging the tray to the side. “Maybe I’ll let Skip take over for a bit. He’s been dying to try out that new bone chisel. Real artist, that one.”
I crouch again and look him right in the eye.
“But I’ll be back, Luis. And when I return…” I drag the tip of the knife down his chest, slow and deliberate, until it rests just below his belly button. “I’ll start on your dick.”
His breath hitches.
“You’d be amazed how many layers of skin it has.”
I tap the blade against the inside of his thigh…just once. A warning. A promise.
“And I’ll keep carving…” I murmur, letting the edge whisper across the sweat-slick skin, “until you remember .”
Then I stand, clean my blade off with the rag, and walk out without another word.
Let him sit with that. Let his fear finish what the knife started.