Firestorm (Sons of Templar MC #2)(35)
“Yes,” Garrett sighed. “The last video we got.” He paused, not wanting to choke up in front of these men. He cleared his throat. “The last video has led me to believe Clark doesn’t intend on letting Amy go anytime soon. Nor does he intend to keep her in one piece.” He played the clip that had broken his heart.
He watched the men instead of the video. He didn’t need to look at the computer screen; he saw it every time he closed his eyes. They all stilled at Clark’s voice.
“Open your legs.”
“No way in hell.” He heard Amy’s strong tone.
He was so proud of how brave his girl was.
Brock’s hiss and Cade’s curse informed him they were watching a gun being held to Amy’s head. They kept their eyes glued to the screen until it abruptly turned off the moment Amy did as she was asked. The clip then jumped to Amy being carried out of the room with blood staining her thighs. He had lost his lunch upon seeing that, and had barely been able to eat since.
A loaded silence followed the end of the clip.
Abruptly Brock pushed out of his chair, his face blank. He picked up the chair, walked to the wall and smashed it against the concrete. It shattered into pieces.
He paused before walking back over. “He’s f*cking dead,” Brock declared flatly.
For the first time in six days Garrett smiled.
I awoke to fire. My legs, they were burning up. The pain was so intense I was afraid to move. What I was feeling was on par with how bad it was when I sustained these injuries, when Rafe’s knife had torn through my skin. At first I was relieved when I had discovered he wasn’t planning on raping me. But after he had sliced the skin on my inner thigh, down through the muscle, I found myself wondering whether I would have preferred it.
He had slid the knife up my thigh and I had been terrified, horrified at the prospect of what he might do with it.
“Do you know that one tiny incision, deep enough in this exact spot—” I felt him dig the tip into my leg, just enough to break the skin. “It can cause you to bleed out in a matter of minutes. Unfortunately, the reason I know this is from experience.” He smiled at me in a way that made me want to vomit. “Don’t worry though, sweetheart, I’ve had enough practice. You’ll live through this. Not like the others.”
Then he began cutting. Running the blade lightly along at first so I felt a sting, and a thin trail of blood marked his progress. Then the next time he went deeper and I struggled not to cry out, not to move. He was slow, drawing out the agony of having the steel rip open my skin.
Rafe glanced up. “I wouldn’t squirm if I were you, Red. One wrong move and I might nick the artery. We wouldn’t want that.” His hand ran lightly, almost gently up my thigh in a caress, lapping up the blood. I was sickened to see the hard line in his slacks. The f*cker was getting off on this.
“Someone really did a number on you, huh, Rafe?” I bit out through clenched teeth. “Your mom never hug you enough? Or your dad just a little too much?”
The hand on my thigh tightened on my wound and I whimpered despite myself. “You won’t be quite as mouthy once I’m finished with you,” he sneered, turning his attention downward.
It turns out Rafe was right. I had no more sarcastic remarks, no words at all actually. All of my focus was on not screaming, not pleading, not begging for him to stop. I guessed it didn’t actually last for long but it felt like hours with no respite, only increasing amounts of agony.
When he was done I was close to passing out. Clark, who had been watching intently from his spot at the table, was in front of me all of a sudden. “You’re strong,” he remarked, stroking my cheek. I still had enough energy to flinch away from his touch.
“I apologize for that, Miss Abrams. As I said, it was necessary. You continue to surprise me, though—I have had grown men reduced to tears from similar experiences.”
“Well, maybe you need to get yourself a new torturer,” I answered faintly. “This one’s getting a bit soft.” I gestured with my head to Rafe who was cleaning my blood off his knife, still sporting a hard on.
Clark chuckled. “I might just have to keep you, Miss Abrams. You interest me.”
On that disturbing note, he left. Upon his departure two men approached me, with blank faces and carrying what looked like first aid kits. At that point I passed out.
Which brings me back to now. I gingerly lifted the blankets to reveal my legs. My inner thighs were bandaged, and I pulled back the coverings with a flinch. Three cuts were stitched closed and they looked angry and red. They were also long, about six inches. I checked my other leg which sported identical incisions. Only six? When it was happening I was certain he made half a dozen incisions on each leg, not in total.
“I wouldn’t move too much if I were you. Those incisions are dangerously close to your artery—one wrong move and you could tear it.” Rafe stepped out of the shadows and I jumped. The pain that blossomed in my legs caused me to regret that sudden movement.
“Oh look. Jack the Ripper’s back for round two,” I muttered sarcastically. It sounded sad even to my own ears; fear saturated my tone.
Rafe gazed at me with an emotion I couldn’t place. It couldn’t be regret. Sociopaths weren’t capable of that.
“It had to be done, Amy. I won’t say I didn’t enjoy marking your milky white skin, but I did wish I could have been doing it to someone else.” He reached the side of my bed and pushed the hair off my face tenderly.