Chapter 7
Seven
Blair
Still on my knees, I stared at the man tied to a chair. Blood covered him, smeared across his skin, soaking his clothes, and dripping slowly from his fingers to the floor.
It wasn’t until he raised his head that I realized who he was.
The guy from the library who’d warned me about the Night Sons.
A single spotlight shone above him, revealing his every injury, like he was on display in some morbid museum.
His eyes were swollen shut, bruised and purple. Dried blood streaked across his face, cracked in the cuts carved into his skin. Fresh blood trickled from his crooked nose onto his shirt.
The white button-up he’d worn earlier was torn and stained with blood and dirt. It looked like they’d brought him here the same way they brought me, except they didn’t give him the dignity of walking.
Instead, they had dragged him.
As if my appearance lit a fuse inside him, he fought against his restraints. His screams were muffled beneath the tape stretched across his lips. He threw his weight around, trying to tip the chair, but it didn’t move. The metal legs were bolted to the concrete floor.
A rancid taste filled my mouth.
I’d been so wrong about the Night Sons.
They weren’t some entitled frat boys who hazed, bullied, and committed petty crimes to pass their time. They were darker than that. Crueler than that.
They inflicted pain not for their survival but because it made them feel alive. Because watching suffering made them feel powerful.
And worst of all, they knew no one could stop them.
With their stature and money, they were untouchable.
The windowless room’s air was damp and reeked of blood and sweat. We hadn’t walked far enough to leave campus, but this place wasn’t on the map in Arisono’s welcome packet. That was the kind of information they should include.
Not curfews or dress codes.
But places where you could be taken hostage.
Since we walked down steps, not up, my guess was that we were underground.
Breaking my gaze away from the chair, I desperately scanned my surroundings. A metal table stood beside the chair, with a variety of instruments—pliers, knives, hammers—meant for tearing into flesh and causing pain.
Rusted nails littered the floor, some of them nicking my feet.
I fought back the tears stinging my eyes when my gaze landed on something a few inches from the table.
Is that a … finger?
It was most definitely a finger.
Severed clean at the knuckle with the nail still intact.
My heart spasmed, exhausted from tonight’s endless plot twists.
I gulped as Enzo appeared at my side like death itself.
The urge to swat him away like a gnat swept through me. He loomed over me, like a guillotine ready to fall. I lifted my chin, glowering at him in defiance.
I refused to beg or plead.
I’d rather choose decapitation.
Lower the guillotine, asshole.
I wouldn’t die as someone’s Fawn.
Wouldn’t die a helpless creature.
Red Mask stepped beside the chair. Like Enzo, he wore all black. A hoodie hid his hair. He was tall, leaner than Enzo, with a long, narrow frame. Nothing about him was recognizable, which was the point.
I clenched my teeth as Enzo stroked my hair.
It wasn’t gentle. It was possessive in the way he did it.
He gestured toward the chair, jerking his chin toward Red Mask.
Red Mask ripped the tape off the guy’s mouth. His busted lip split further with the motion.
Without wasting a second, the guy tried to scream, “You fucking assholes,” but his words came out in tiny gasps. One of his front teeth was gone, and the other hung cracked and crooked in his mouth.
Red Mask dragged a hand slowly down the front of his mask before suddenly driving his elbow into the guy’s face. The crack echoed through the room.
The guy’s head snapped back, barely missing the concrete wall behind him. When it lurched forward again, more blood poured from his nose like a faucet.
Enzo stopped his creepy petting to advance toward the chair. I chewed the inside of my cheek as he drew back and spat in the guy’s face.
The guy cried out words I couldn’t understand.
Enzo grabbed his face with both hands, then slammed his forehead into the guy’s. I winced when I heard bones crack.
While Enzo focused on him, my gaze drifted to the door.
The unguarded door.
Still on my knees, I carefully inched toward it while Enzo punched the guy.
A dark laugh ripped from Enzo’s chest. A roar so dark that it could snuff out every star in the sky.
I froze, my head slowly turning to look at him over my shoulder.
“Now, Blair,” he said with a soft tsk, “why would you leave before the fun starts?”
He crossed the distance between us in two long strides.
I screamed when his hand dug into my hair, jerking me to my feet. Pain ripped through my scalp. He released me, shoving me forward, and my body crashed into the chair.
I stumbled into the guy’s knees before collapsing at his feet.
Enzo’s hand twisted into my hair again, wrenching my head backward. “Blair, meet Jett.”
I didn’t say a word.
His grip tightened. “Apologies. I forgot that an introduction isn’t necessary. You two were spotted getting cozy in the library, gossiping like two bitches in a locker room.” He sounded pleased, all sadism, at the thought of Jett telling me his secrets.
My throat still burned from the rag as I glared up at him.
Enzo reached down and grabbed my jaw, pinching my lip painfully between his fingers. “Don’t worry, Blair. I really am a feminist at heart.” He pressed a hand dramatically to his chest, right where I was certain no organ existed.
I couldn’t stop the scoff that slipped from my lips.
Jett jerked violently against his restraints. His arms strained against the ropes as broken words bubbled through the blood in his mouth. “Let me … fucker …” The rest dissolved into a hoarse choke.
Enzo savored Jett’s agonized pleading as he stroked my cheek with a disturbing tenderness. “What did you and Jett talk about in the library?”
I kept my eyes forward, hating that his touch warmed my insides. “He asked me what book I was reading.”
Enzo chuckled softly. “She makes jokes.” He clamped his hand around the back of my neck and shoved my face down until my nose nearly brushed the bloodstained tarp lying under Jett’s shoes.
I gagged at the smell and the sight.
“I’ll ask you one more time,” Enzo snarled, tugging my head up from the plastic, and I inhaled a deep breath as I came up for air.
My jaw, face, everything ached.
My plan for not fighting fell apart with every second.
But I’d try one more thing. I shoved my elbows back, blindly aiming for his groin. Every miss earned chuckles from him and Red Mask.
“He didn’t tell me anything I hadn’t already known,” I spat. “That you’re a fucking psychopath.”
“Psychopath?” he scoffed, sounding almost amused. “Surely, you can be more creative than that.”
I curled my hands into fists as he reached into his pocket and pulled out scissors. My heart lurched, and I prepared myself for another haircut.
Why did he carry scissors around like I did my favorite lip gloss?
I made a mental note to brainstorm insults worse than psychopath.
But right now, I had bigger problems, like being trapped in a murder room, a severed finger lying inches from my knee, and a lunatic twirling scissors like someone would show off a luxury bag.
He stepped around me and drove the scissors into Jett’s hand. The metal punching through his flesh made a wet sound.
Jett wailed in agony.
“Stop it!” I shouted, my voice cracking. “Just fucking stop it!”
Enzo ignored me, but his eyes never left mine as he forced the scissors deeper into Jett’s hand, like he wanted to hit every nerve ending.
“Do you know what I hate, Blair?” he asked casually.
I didn’t hesitate to reply, “Sanity. Empathy. Being a decent human being?”
He laughed under his breath and flicked the scissors handle. “Liars.” He pushed the blade deeper into Jett’s hand. “I despise liars.”
“He didn’t lie.” I rubbed at my wrists, the zip ties making my skin raw every time I moved. “You killed his sister.”
“Ah.” Enzo made a light-bulb-moment gesture. “You believe I gave Clarissa the window treatment.” Not one scrap of empathy was in his tone, only humor. He whipped his venomous stare to Jett. “Is that what you told her, fuckface?”
Jett struggled to suck in air and speak through the blood clogging his throat.
“Blair, do you believe Jett is a victim?” Enzo asked me.
“You murdered his sister and also have him tied to a chair,” I shot back. “Pretty clear who the victim here is.” My voice grew colder. “He’s the victim, and you’re the tormentor.”
Deep down, I hated that I couldn’t see Enzo’s face.
I wanted to see his changing expressions as he spoke.
The shapes of his smirks and frowns.
That stupid mask hid too much.
“You believe Jett is an innocent man, then?” He circled me slowly.
Red Mask scoffed.
“More innocent than you,” I bit back.
He shrugged. “I won’t dispute that.”
“Then let us go,” I said around a sigh of exhaustion.
“Unfortunately, I’m not in the business of catch and release.”
He mimicked casting a fishing line into the air, flicking his wrist, as if sending it flying over water. Then he pretended to reel it back in. When the imaginary line returned to him, he slammed his hand down onto the scissors embedded in Jett’s hand.
The blades sank in deeper—so deep that I was certain they’d pierced the chair.
Enzo stood tall before slowly pulling the scissors out. Blood burst from the wound.
Jett tried to scream, but it came out wet and broken. His jaw trembled as blood spilled from every corner of his mouth. He attempted to clamp his jaw shut in a useless effort to stop it.
He spat blood. The only words that made it out were a garbled, “Who … my father … is.” His neck veins bulged as he struggled to speak.
Enzo turned back toward me.
I swallowed when he slid the scissors beneath my chin, lifting it, and I had no choice but to meet his scolding stare.