21. June #2
That’s what I had threatened that man with before I asked if the guys thought I could cut his heart from his chest. Simon had been the first to step up and volunteer to do it for me. In the end, we never tested the theory, but I sure as hell would like to with this guy.
I continue to squirm and try to find some weak spot in this plan of his. But neither my hands nor legs budge at all. This fucker made sure to not make the same mistake as the other man who dared to take me hostage.
“You’ll fucking pay for this. You don’t know who you’re messing with.” I spit at the man when he gets close enough.
He hits me with the back of his hand and sends blood trickling down my nose and onto my chest. He trails the tip of the blade down and slices through the fabric on the front of my shirt, exposing more of me than was already out in the open.
“I will fucking kill you!” Simon yells at him. “Do not fucking touch her or I will snap every single one of your fingers off and shove them into your eye sockets.”
“Is that so?” He glances over at Simon and then at me. “What do you think?” He walks behind me and grabs a fist full of my hair, holding me securely in place with the blade poised to my neck.
“Look at me, love,” Simon whispers. “Just look at me. Keep looking at me.” His eyes shimmer the brightest green I’ve ever seen as he stares at me like my life depends on it. Because in a way, it does.
Maybe dying won’t be so bad when the last thing I see is him.
The one man who actually told me the truth and tried to do everything he could to protect me.
My men claim they do, but everything they’ve done has only hurt me more and more with each passing day.
Their deceit was what drove me out of the fucking house in the first place and led me and Simon to this fateful place.
If I die today, then my death is on their hands. Not this man’s. The men who claimed to have my best interest in mind yet pushed me away until I quite literally ran from them.
And here I am, staring into the eyes of their enemy and feeling nothing but fucking hatred in my bones.
Hate for the lies.
Hate for the distance.
Hate for making me believe they would be something they could never live up to.
And perhaps that was my fault for putting that kind of pressure on them or for having unrealistic expectations, but I made it known from the start that I didn’t want a relationship and they insisted.
They tricked me into thinking they cared enough to put me first and all they did was prove me right.
Coen did me a favor when he walked out on me a decade ago.
He reinforced my belief that nothing good lasts.
I experienced it first when my mom died and closed my heart off to ever being hurt again.
I was young but I knew I had to protect myself from the anguish her loss left me with.
But when I saw that broken boy in the cemetery who had the same trauma as me, I chose to give him a chance.
I let him in because I wanted to put faith in love—and when he disappeared in that truck and never came back, my heart froze over more than it ever had before.
I should have kept it that way. Hardened and guarded against caring and feeling and trusting.
I had for so long, but when they randomly stumbled into my life and brought my heart back from the dead, I foolishly put that same faith in those three men and gave them a gigantic opportunity to ruin me worse than I ever had been before.
I promised myself I would never hurt that way again, but I betrayed the only person who had ever been there for me through every bit of the heartache—me. Not only that, but I served myself up on a silver platter.
Part of me really does wonder what would have happened if I had met Simon first. Would I have given him the same chance I gave them?
Would it be me and him sitting on that throne, ruling the organization together, creating chaos in our wake and loving each other without conditions?
Or would I have shut him out? Would he have never shown interest because I wouldn’t have been some object he needed to take from Dominic in his attempt to overthrow him?
Maybe he only wants me because he cannot have me.
But when I look into his eyes, so frantic and desperate for mine to stay locked on his, it makes me question everything.
“Love, I’m right here.”
Simon's arms and legs are bound to a chair and somehow, it's like he's right with me, hugging me despite being restrained. So much of his love pours out and over to me that I wear it like a protective cloak, temporarily shielding me from the danger of this room.
“Love,” the man mocks. “Wah wah wah.” He drags the tip of the blade against my cheek and slices a thin layer of my skin. The blood trickles down, warm and sticky.
“Dominic is going to fucking gut you for this.”
He laughs. “I have protection from higher up. Dominic Adler cannot touch me.”
A phone rings, and I flinch at the sound.
The man shoves my head forward, releasing me and turning his attention to the chiming device. “Bronco, here.”
Who the fuck names their kid Bronco? Or is that some stupid ass nickname he chose for himself to try to be cool? Either way, it’s stupid as fuck.
“Love,” Simon calls out toward me. “I’m going to get you out of here.”
“If I could just get—” I struggle with my right hand and the rope binding it to the chair. It frays slightly but more than it had been before. Minimal progress but progress all the same.
Simon wiggles his chair, inching it toward me.
But when I glance to my side, I realize it’s not that he’s trying to get closer to me, he’s trying to reach the table full of weapons beside me. Knives of various lengths and sizes, two handguns, various tools that belong in a garage, not here.
If I could just free my hand, I could extend my arm and attempt to grab something, anything from this sick man’s arsenal. Maybe I’d have a fighting chance of getting us out of here.
I look behind me and try to settle my sights on our kidnapper. I can’t locate him, but I can hear his hushed voice floating back toward me. I twist my wrist back and forth, the rope rubbing my skin raw. I grit my teeth and power through the uncomfortable pain.
“I almost have a leg free,” Simon tells me. “Wait.”
I pause and watch him as he tilts his chair to the side, almost tipping the thing completely fucking over as he maneuvers his leg down and jiggles the leg of the chair out from the restraint holding him in place.
“I fucking got it,” he cheers quietly. “Love, I need you to do the same thing.” He starts to lean over to the other side, this time with the help of his newly freed leg, but he’s interrupted by the man sauntering toward us.
“Well, well, well. I’ve got new orders.” He sighs and glances between us. “I’m to kill the boy and have my fun with you.” He strolls over to the selection of weapons. “I guess a bullet to the head would be effective.” He latches onto the gun and pulls back the slide.
“Wait,” I call out to him.
He turns toward me and raises a brow. “Yes?”
“Let him go and I’ll let you do whatever you want to me.”