by Renee Rocco
Behind him, Owen howls with laugher. “Look at the big, bad Unholy covered in puke.”
“Not tough now, are you, Atticus?” Lyle snickers.
I clench my jaw so tight I think I crack a few molars. “Fuck. You.”
Not the best comeback, but it’s all I’ve got. I hang there, hunched and heaving. Unable to fall forward without tearing my shoulders from their joints. I sway on my knees, my vision spotty. I’m pulled into an icy ocean and drown in an abyss of suffering and humiliation.
“Get the syringe.”
Lyle giggles like a little girl as he darts across the room. He’s the prick who spears the needle into my neck, sending a shitload of ket sizzling through me. I hiss as an influx of pleasure hits me a fraction of a second before the first bite of pain. The drug rushes to every wound, a lover’s caress, stroking each one to a fever pitch. Until I can’t see. Can’t hear. Can’t breathe without wanting to claw away my skin, reach into my veins, and pull the ket out of my blood drop by drop.
Crane comes into view. He moves in closer, his words quiet, but I hear him past the pounding of my heart and the rushing of blood as agony drops me down to a whole other level of existence.
“My wife visited you out of a distorted sense of sympathy and nostalgia.” When my eyes roll back, and I drift toward the edge of blackness, Crane slaps me back into the moment. “I need you here, Atticus. Listen to me. Jamie has a good heart. She believes she’s in love with you.” He gets in so close, his words are a whisper in my ear. “I should kill you for taking what should have been mine. You had no right to her virginity. She’s my fucking wife.” He leans away, and my head’s spinning for all the wrong reasons. The hell? Jamie’s not a virgin. Impossible. But I can’t think about that shit now because Crane’s not done. “This agony? Jamie will experience this, too. I’m going to fill her so full of ketaphrin, I’ll make what her father did to her seem like a daydream.”
Keep your fucking mouth closed, I warn myself. Let the jerkoff talk. Let him say any goddamn thing he wants. I won’t be baited. Words are all he’s got in his fight with Jamie and me.
Jamie and me.
As if we’re a thing.
We’re not. Never will be, even if we make it out of this alive. Jamie’s my means of escape. If she returned years ago, we might have had a chance. But she chose her path, and so have I, and those roads don’t run parallel.
So why is the image of her face giving me strength long after my body should have given up?
And since Crane’s determined to hurt us anyway…
I hock a mouthful of bloody spit at him.
Crane wipes the mess off his face with the hem of his shirt. “That was stupid.” His eyes are fixed on me, and I see the promise of a world of hurt coming my way. “Owen, bring me a needle and thread.”
And right here is where my brain has a semi-shutdown. Panic is a strange beast. Or is it the kick to the head that does it? Whatever. Don’t care. All I know is, I hope they kick me again, but harder. Hard enough to knock me the fuck out.
Yeah, no. Not happening. Crane wants me awake.
“Hold his head,” Crane instructs. Someone steps behind me and digs their hands in my hair to keep me still. “Tilt it up.” I’m readjusted. Ket’s a rolling thunder through my veins and repeated lightning strikes against my nerves. My vision clears, and I hyperventilate while I watch Crane thread a big-ass needle. “Yes, like that. Hold him just like that.”
At the first bite of the needle, a raging panic has me fighting against the chains again. Against the bastard who’s holding my head. The thread zips through my lips, and I lose it. Absolutely lose my damn mind.
Someone’s screaming so loud and so long, his voice goes hoarse. He’s begging Crane to stop. Brokenly pleading with the bastard, making desperate promises to do whatever they want if they just please stop. The rasping screams turn to muffled moans, and I come to the sick realization the someone is me.
I hang in a suspended state somewhere between being fully awake and floating into a painless abyss. I don’t move until my brain and body collide. Once they do… And oh my fucking God. Everything hurts. Literally. Every. Single. Inch. Of. Me. Feels as if my skin’s been peeled off and put back on all wrong. Like a jigsaw puzzle assembled by an angry toddler jamming together incorrect pieces.
Apparently, Crane continued the festivities after I passed out.
Ket’s not helping the situation. Shit’s amplifying the pain radiating from the damage.
And what the fuck is that annoying noise?
Thomas.
What’s he saying? Why can’t I open my mouth?
I crack open an eye. Thankfully, I’m in my cell facedown on my filthy mattress. Not in the torture room. Never thought I’d live to see the day when I consider this ten-by-ten coffin a safe space, but here I am, grateful for the familiar prison.
I’m on my stomach, and by the feel of it, there isn’t much of anything left to my back. Swear to God, I wouldn’t be surprised if my spine hasn’t been ripped clean out.
Shivering, I see something silver move across my line of sight. Can’t make out what it is, but I hear a little snip.
Another.
And another.
There’s tugging around my mouth. A tightness, and then loosening. Still can’t move my lips, and whenever I try, Thomas scolds me like I’m a kid picking a scab.
“Stop trying to talk.” Thomas gives something a gentle tug. It lifts my lips away from my teeth. Snip. “They gave you as much noz as your body can handle, but even with the max dose… Anyway, there’s going to be scarring. I doubt it’ll keep the women away.”
I’d grunt out a bitter laugh at his pathetic attempt at humor if I could, but I can’t, because honestly if I make a sound, I’m going to bawl like a fucking baby.
I’m so friggin’ pathetic. What kind of man cries because he can’t deal with some pain? Okay, this is more than some pain, but still. I’m an Unholy—an enforcer. My name alone makes grown men shit themselves. Usually, all it takes is the threat of me to impact anyone stupid enough to cross our gang. But here I am, with fucking tears in my eyes.
Hell, I don’t even put up that much of a fight anymore. The guards hurt me? Okay, hurt me. When I fight, they hurt me worse. So, I let them do their thing because it’s over quicker that way. But Crane mentioned Jamie, and I broke. He did things to me in the torture room today that had me begging. Fucking begging. An Unholy never begs. But there I was, on my fucking knees, ready to do anything to stop what they were doing.
Now I remember why I can’t open my mouth.
Christ.
Crane sewed my mouth closed.
Another few snips and the tightness eases. Thomas sits back on the heels of his feet and assesses his handiwork with a somber nod. A rush of air follows, flowing past my teeth. He sets aside the scissors, and I think about grabbing them to use as a weapon. Good luck with that. I can’t move, and we both know it.
Thomas reaches for a syringe, and my muscles tense in anticipation of more ket. “Antibiotic,” he says, then picks up another. “Morphine.”
I relax and ride the warm wave that comes after the pinch of the needle. Thomas is suddenly a distant face on a fading horizon. I try to mutter my thanks, but I can’t. Everything is fantastically fuzzy. In the haze, nothing matters. Yeah, I hurt, but who gives a shit? Not me. I’ll live to fight another day. I always live to fight another day.
I tell myself one more. One more day. One more night. Hell, one more minute.
It’s how I keep surviving.
As many minutes as it takes to make it out of here. This place won’t beat me—and I won’t let it beat Jamie.
I want to tell Thomas that Crane threatened to kill her, but I can’t speak. All I can do is lie here and roll on the tide, thinking about the girl with the damaged soul who grew into a woman who never let a man touch her body. That’s what Crane said, right? I didn’t imagine that shit. It’s why he’s pissed enough to kill us both. Because he
thinks she gave me what she refused him.
My drugged-up brain can’t wrap around the fact that Jamie’s a twenty-four-year-old virgin. Not in today’s world. Not someone from Mayhem. But she left Mayhem. God only knows what her life’s been like if marrying Crane was the least of all evils. I plan on living long enough to find the fuck out. But I can’t think about any of that right now because the wave is pulling me under. I close my eyes and float away on agony wrapped in bliss, unable to drown because a girl with captivating green eyes and soft pink lips keeps me afloat.
6
Jamie
I run the perimeter of Gomorrah’s courtyard with the sting of David’s slap still raw in my mouth a day later. The evidence remains on my swollen lip and in the cryptic warning festering in my brain. He gave me Wraith, and now I have to give him a new beginning. If ever there was a time to flee, it’s now because I can never be the wife he wants.
My past with my father left scars on my mind that wrecked me for years. By the time I worked through what he did and my actions that came after, I was already an adult. But as a teenager, I was the damaged girl with daddy issues all the boys thought would be an easy lay. Wrong. Then I was homeless, and people assumed I was a druggie who would do anything for a fix. Also wrong. On the occasions when I had an apartment, I was too busy struggling to maintain a roof over my head to have a social life.
Then David came along and offered me what should have been an ideal arrangement. All the perks of marriage without the complication of intimacy. He wanted a wife for appearances sake. I needed shelter and a full stomach. Perfect. Unfortunately, I realized too late that my husband is a deranged piece of shit. One who is willing to kill to protect the secret of his sexual disability. If he even thinks I’ll tell anyone of him impotency, he’ll do things to me that will make wish I was dead.
And now Wraith is caught up in my mess of a marriage.
Wraith, who is still as gorgeous as the day I last saw him in Mayhem. No, that’s not accurate. The years have treated him well. He’s matured into a work of art, his body sculpted, and his face chiseled to perfection. Even when he was spitting fire and fury at me and I was scared to death of him, my body came alive the moment he touched me. Every nerve sparked when he pinned me against that wall.
What does that say about me?
That I’m not the cold bitch I’ve tried to turn myself into, that’s what it says about me. That even after a lifetime of hiding behind a defensive wall, I can still feel.
As I begin the second lap of the perimeter, I ignore the armed guards roaming Gomorrah’s courtyard. They ignore me right back. I’ve accomplished my goal of becoming the invisible Mrs. Crane. But where they dismiss me, the cameras miss nothing. They see everything, watching me as I try in vain to outrun my demons.
I drown in the shadow of the Coliseum, heartsick, knowing Wraith is suffering inside of the red-brick building. But I shove the worry aside because now is the time for action. I’ve always had a talent for compartmentalizing, and currently, it’s working to keep me from losing my shit as I forge ahead to get us the hell out of here.
To keep my mind busy, I tick off what we need to gain our freedom.
Trizapam to slow Wraith’s vitals.
Thomas and Roger must be on duty.
Transportation to Mayhem.
But those three items alone won’t be enough. We need a perfect storm. A manufactured miracle and I do mental gymnastics trying to work the problem. First, there’s getting us out of Gomorrah. We need a distraction for that. With David in Miami, now would be the perfect moment. The problem is, we don’t have the means to get Wraith out of the dungeon or a way to get us to Mayhem. Public transportation is out—too many cameras along the way. Facial recognition is an issue. Anyone from Gomorrah who is sitting in the driver’s seat will be flagged. We need someone unrecognizable, and that limits our options given our resources and the time crunch.
But where these is a will, there is a way.
Always.
It’s just a matter of working the problem until we get it solved.
I finish my run after the second lap. The huge Mediterranean-style house is quiet this early in the morning, especially with David away. My palm grazes the mahogany railing of the wrought iron banister as I trek up the grand curved staircase. When I reach my room, I lock the door behind me, securing myself inside the only haven I have in this lavish prison. I make a beeline to the white maple dresser and drop to my knees, feeling around under furniture for the burner phone Thomas smuggled in for me.
This is my go-to hiding spot not only for the phone but also a TAC Force folding tactical knife that I stumbled across when a guard left his bag open and unattended. And let’s not forget the thumb drive Roger managed to slip me. That’s the key I need to take down David’s precious empire.
I peel back the duct tape and let the cell fall to my hand. While the phone powers up, time feels suspended. Please, no new notifications. It’s a silent chant screaming in my mind. Roger, Thomas, and I have an agreement that we only communicate when there’s trouble. The less contact between us, the safer we are.
When the screen comes into focus, I sit back on my heels. My stomach drops, and I fall farther back. I sweep my legs out from beneath me as one text notification glares up at me. My index finger moves as if on its own, inching toward the phone. I tap the icon, and a new prayer whispers past my lips.
“Dear God, please let him be alive.”
Roger: It’s bad.
I close my eyes, and for a moment, my heart slams against my sternum. My eyes spring open. I read Roger’s text twice more. Those two simple words hold a world of substance. Then I’m powering off the phone and hiding it back under the dresser.
I shove to my feet, but my legs give out, and I stumble backward. I reach behind me and grope for something tangible. My fingers graze the yellow-and-white duvet, but I miss the bed by a mile and crash to the floor. I slap a hand over my mouth to muffle my whimper.
Oh my God, what has that sonofabitch done?
A hundred horrific scenarios trip over themselves in my mind. None can compare to the reality of David’s cruelty. I console myself knowing that if Wraith were dead, Roger’s text would have been much different. Instead, it’s bad means he’s hurt but alive.
But how high is the price Wraith paid for my visit to his cell?
Guilt tears me apart as I shoot to my feet. I hiss out a curse that would make an Unholy proud when I glance down at myself. All my life, I’ve relied on pretense, and today can’t be any different. It will look suspicious if I rush down to the dungeon fresh from a run. I may not deck myself out, but nor do I go around in sweaty athletic gear. It would raise suspicion if I went tearing into the dungeon looking like this.
Breathe.
I race around my room and grab blindly for clothes. After a quick shower, I don a simple green dress and twist my hair in a bun. All the while, I struggle to slow my frantic heart and stop the terrible images running wild in my head. I need Wraith to be okay. Need him to hold on a little longer. This place can’t be where he…
I will not finish that awful thought.
Gomorrah isn’t where Eric ‘Wraith’ Shaw’s story ends.
Roger’s text drives me forward. My fingers fumble with the bedroom door’s lock, and it takes two tries for me to get it open. As I hurry down the hallway toward the staircase, I hear sounds of activity from below. The house is stirring to life, and I pause at the top landing to settle myself behind a mask of serenity. It’s the face I show the world—my fakest face. I’ve reserved my real face for one person, and he’s in a dungeon because of me.
I’m not stupid. I know exactly how David found out about Wraith. Why he went to such lengths to bring him here, and why my husband is so damn jealous. One day I’m going to have to ask for Wraith’s forgiveness. I doubt, after everything he’s suffered, he’ll give it. But I’ll ask it because I’m selfish—and then I’ll leave Mayhem so he can live his life and put this pla
ce, and me, behind him.
I retrace my steps back through the house, my limbs numb and my stomach in a knot. My heart is pounding so hard I’m afraid it’s going to break right through my chest. The aroma of brewing coffee and bacon waft from the kitchen, raising bile in my throat. I keep my pace casual, slow, as I walk by staff, who greet me with murmured good mornings as they rush to finish the first wave of chores.
And then I’m out the front door, slapped by a blanket of humidity. I stroll across the courtyard as if I don’t have a care in the world. Guards give me a passing glance before returning to their usual business. Patrolmen march by, leashed attack dogs at their heels. Cameras, like one-eyed gargoyles, glare down at me as I near the Coliseum. I suppress a chill that works up my spine. The grim building is a source of entertainment for most, and a tomb for those of us who know the truth.
The first obstacle I encounter is the brawny guard standing sentry at the Coliseum’s ominous entrance. He’s dressed head to foot in black tactical gear, with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder. The weapon doesn’t bother me. The nasty sneer he gives me as I approach does. He won’t shoot me, but he can prevent me from entering the dungeon, and right now, that’s more dangerous than the bullets in his rifle.
I keep my expression neutral as I approach. “Good morning, Nate.”
I take Sun Tzu’s words to heart. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.
I know myself, and I damn well know my enemy.
Nate, with his stoic expression and impeccable military buzz cut, doesn’t reciprocate the friendly greeting. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Crane?”
For starters, you can fuck all the way off.
I look Nate right in the eye. “Standard visit.”
He gives me a once-over from behind mirrored sunglasses. I don’t need to see his expression to know he finds me lacking. Everyone here does. Being pitied, considered an object of morbid fascination, and dismissed as trash my entire life gave me thick skin. Nate can glare down his condescending nose at me all he wants. Doesn’t bother me. All I care about is him moving aside so I can get to Wraith.
