Chapter Twenty-Four
This is hardly a fresh experience for me. Locked up, roughed up. Six years later and this is still Damon’s grand performance? Same playbook, same energy, same old Damon. You’d think he’d spice things up for the sequel. Honestly, it’s almost insulting how little effort he put in.
He hasn’t even bothered with an actual cage, which is honestly a rookie mistake. If he wanted to make my escape tricky, a few iron bars would have done the trick.
Of course, men like Damon are so deeply misogynistic that they’d never expect me, a mere woman, to stand up for myself. Nope. Women are just weak, fragile creatures in his eyes. Men are the all-powerful gods we should bow to whenever they demand it.
I gag at the thought.
No, thank you.
Tomcat in that mask, that big dick energy coming off him…okay, I might hesitate. Might. There's at least a fighting chance of getting me on my knees for that man and I'm not ashamed of it.
Oh, let’s be real. I’d absolutely be on my knees for my man, no question.
Even after I nearly killed Damon and slipped through his fingers years ago, he still underestimates me. Proof? He’s got me tied to a rickety wooden chair in a deserted warehouse, using nothing but cheap rope.
Total amateur move.
By all logic, I should be shaking in my boots. Damon’s supposed to be the underworld’s ultimate nightmare, after all.
But I don’t know…
I tilt my head, sizing him up as he lurks in the shadows. All I see is a weak, pitiful excuse for a man. Especially when I think of my Tomcat.
“Take a picture. It’ll last longer,” I quip smoothly, the jagged cut on my lip cracking wide open again and leaking a fresh trail of blood down my chin.
I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been his captive.
Time here is slippery, bending and blurring at the edges.
My head throbs with what’s probably a nasty concussion, courtesy of his boot and my helmet smashing the pavement, but I grit my teeth and force myself to stay sharp, refusing to let the world slip away.
I know what happens when I go under around this man. I know what the darkness costs me.
Not again.
This isn’t my first time tangled up in his games. But I’m meaner now, sharper, and I’ve been quietly sharpening my claws for this showdown. I will leave this warehouse alive, even if I have to gnaw my way through every inch of him to make it happen.
I glare up at him, baring my teeth with a feral snap and letting out a guttural growl, already picturing the scene.
He’d taste vile, no doubt. The poison in his soul has seeped straight through to his skin.
Just my luck that I’d finally take him out, only to drop dead from the taste of his corruption.
“You have bad thoughts in your eyes, flower,” he says, smoothly slipping into our native Greek as he steps out of the shadows and moves closer to me. “That will not do. You have turned into an uncouth heathen without my guidance.”
He halts inches from me, so I do what any well-behaved hostage would. Flash a wide, fearless grin and spit a mouthful of blood straight at him, bursting into wild laughter as it splatters across his arrogant face.
“Score!” I crow, triumphant, half-raising my fist before the ropes bite my wrists and remind me I’m still tied up tight.
The heavy back of Damon’s hand cracks against my jaw, the violent force sending my vision all wonky again.
“If only I had Jack the Dripper right now, you’d be in a world of trouble,” I mutter, shaking off the stars and lazily licking blood from my lip.
Behind the chair, I keep wrenching at my bindings, frustration clawing at my chest as the stubborn fibers refuse to budge.
But then determination drowns out the panic. There’s only one way out of these ropes, and I’m ready to take it.
“You dare speak another man’s name in my presence?” Damon spits, the veins in his forehead protruding as his composure begins to crack.
“Obviously. They’ve both pleased me a hell of a lot more than you ever could.” I work my jaw, testing the ache from his blow. “You still hit like an absolute bitch, Damon.”
“I will have to teach you all over again,” he purrs, his voice dropping into that slick, terrifying rhythm. “I will need to completely break you down and rebuild you from scratch.”
“Yeah, that’s not going to fly for me. My schedule’s packed.”
I wrinkle my nose and twist my wrists, letting the rough hemp bite into my skin. This time, the knots shift just a hair, and it takes everything I have not to squeal or kick my feet in triumph.
Damon’s laugh is low and twisted, sending a cold shiver racing up my spine. That sound has haunted my nightmares for years.
“My darling flower.” He tsks softly, running the tip of his finger along my bruised cheek. “It is almost cute that you think you will have a choice in the matter.”
Oh, this bastard.
I lunge forward, clamping my teeth down on his probing finger until I taste blood.
He rips his hand free with a howl, face twisted in rage, and backhands me so hard the flimsy wooden chair explodes beneath me as I crash to the concrete.
Perfect.
There’s my way out of these ropes.
Here’s the secret about surviving under a monster’s thumb.
While he’s obsessed with crushing you, you’re quietly memorizing every flaw, every crack in his armor.
Damon’s humanity is long gone, but his ego is a parade float—huge, loud, and begging to be popped.
Poke at it just right, and he’ll unravel in seconds.
And just like that, his oversized ego takes a hit. He lashes out, sending me sprawling. Suddenly, freedom is within reach, and so is a weapon, practically begging for my grip.
I am absolutely going to drive this stake through that rotten excuse for a heart, vampire-style. Maybe I’ll even keep it as a trophy, a twisted little keepsake for my mantel.
I don’t know.
Definitely somewhere everyone can see, a bold reminder that this time, I was the real monster in the room.
A ghost of old fear flutters in my chest as Damon grabs a fistful of my shirt, yanking me off the floor. The fabric protests, threads snapping under the strain.
As I’m dragged through the rubble, my hand closes around a broken chair leg. A jagged nail jabs my palm, its rusted tip promising violence.
Oh, hell yeah.
What a perfect little tool for gouging out your eyes, darling.
Stay stone-faced, Mari. Don’t let him catch the thrill lighting up your eyes. Now is definitely not the time for a victory jig.
Damon rants at the top of his lungs as he drags my body across the concrete floor of the warehouse, but I completely tune his voice out. My gaze darts through the gloom, cataloging beams and exits, wrists twisting against fraying ropes.
“Do you not understand that you are mine? You belong to me. Me. My little flower,” he screams, his grip tightening on my shirt. “You will listen to me. You will submit to me. I will make you see that I am the only one on this earth who truly loves you.”
A wild cackle bursts from me. Not just at his pitiful words, but because the splintered wood has loosened the ropes. Blood slicks my wrists, letting my hands slip free, warm drops pattering onto the cold concrete.
Damon is so completely lost in his own unhinged villain monologue that he completely misses the faint sound of the rope falling uselessly to the floor.
Lucky for me, he ordered his men to guard the main exits and leave him undisturbed.
Not because he thought I’d break free, but to keep out any would-be heroes.
Not that I’m sweating it. My guys could wipe the floor with his hired guns any day.
Besides, the real danger isn’t lurking outside.
It’s right here, sharing the same stale air as him.
Honestly, I’m amazed he let that slip his mind.
Last time I escaped, it was nothing but dumb luck.
Back then, I was just a trembling, shattered kitten.
Now, I’m a whole different animal. Maybe there’s still a flicker of fear in me, but then I look at him and see nothing but a fragile man desperate to feel big.
I’m a baddie in love with an even meaner biker who always has my back. That thought alone fuels every ounce of grit I need to rescue myself and claim my own hero moment.
“Damon,” I sing out, my voice a sweet, mocking melody as I finish wiggling the rusted nail entirely free from the shattered wood of the chair leg.
I wedge the nail between my middle and ring fingers, pressing the blunt end into my palm so the sharp tip juts out like a punch-dagger. In my other hand, I grip the last sturdy chunk of chair leg, ready to swing it like a club.
With everything in place, I drag my boots across the concrete, letting my body go limp in Damon’s grasp. He falters on his next step, his pricey shoes skidding on the boards, totally blindsided by my sudden dead weight.
“Damon,” I say again, raising my voice just enough to cut cleanly through his unhinged ranting.
He jerks his body around to face me, a vicious snarl completely disfiguring his features.
I shoot my right fist forward, fast as a lightning strike, giving him zero time to process the shift. The rusted nail buries itself deep in his socket with a wet, stomach-churning squelch. He lets go of my shirt, howling in agony so loud it rattles the walls.
Without hesitation, I grip the chair leg with both blood-slick hands, wielding it like a bat. I swing with everything I’ve got before he can claw at the nail, aiming to drive the spike straight through. The wood cracks across his nose, slamming the nail’s edge with a nauseating jolt.
My hips instinctively move in a celebratory, happy little wiggle right there in the dirt. “Swing, batter, batter. Swing!” I chant at the top of my lungs, a wild, manic laugh bubbling up from my chest.
I manage to drive the wood into his face one more time before the cheap timber completely shatters into splinters against his skull.
Thick, dark blood completely coats the right side of his face, the rusted nail sticking out at a horrific angle from his mangled right eye.
His teeth are bared in a desperate, animalistic snarl, hot spittle gathering at the corners of his swelling lips.
There’s a fresh, bleed-through bandage wrapped around his left arm where I tore that chunk of flesh out earlier, and raw pieces of skin hang uselessly from his right finger where I bit him.
In this exact moment, he finally looks a hell of a lot more like the toxic monster he is on the inside than any sort of human being he once pretended to be.
But then the blood vessels in his remaining good eye burst, turning his gaze into a solid, terrifying sheet of crimson. Looking at the sheer malice rolling off him, I realize that if I don’t take the microsecond of a chance I have to run right fucking now, I might never live to see my Tomcat again.
And that just won’t do for my schedule.
So, I do exactly what any perfectly sane, well-adjusted girl would do in this scenario.
I proudly flip him a double bird, look him dead in his face to tell him he’s a weak-ass bitch, and take off sprinting toward the exit.
But as the sound of his furious, heavy footsteps echoes right behind me, I realize I should have known better.
That's the thing about running from demons.
You can be fast. You can be smart. You can stab them and set their house on fire.
You can even put a nail in their eye and flip them off and mean every second of it.
But they always, always catch you.