Grievous (Scarlet Scars #2)(66)

“Would you like a sandwich?” the Cowardly Lion asked, but he wasn’t talking to her. One of the newcomers stood in the kitchen with him.

“No,” the man answered. That was it. No.

The Cowardly Lion laughed at the man’s clipped tone. “It’s only PB&J. You have eaten it before, no?”

The man didn’t answer.

“I have been in America since I was sixteen years old, but it wasn’t until recently that I tried one myself,” the Cowardly Lion continued. “They are not bad. I’ve come to enjoy them, especially—”

“I don’t want your sandwich,” the man said, cutting him off.

“Ah, well, your loss,” the Cowardly Lion said. “There is no reason to be so uptight. Your boss is fine. Relax.”

“I’ll relax when this is all over,” the man said.

The Cowardly Lion sighed. “It will only ever be over when my brother gets what he wants.”

There was a commotion in the house then. The little girl squeezed her eyes shut, trying to not listen, singing softly to herself... the song from Toy Story. It wasn’t until the pantry doors moved that she opened her eyes again, coming face to face with the Cowardly Lion just as the front door to the house slammed.

The Cowardly Lion knelt down, setting a small plate on the floor, a sandwich on it. He was squinting, his eye watering, puffy and swollen, like he got poked in it. He said nothing to her, nodding in silence, before standing back up just as the Tin Man stormed into the kitchen.

“Follow them,” he barked.

The Cowardly Lion was gone in a blink.

The little girl sat up, grabbing the sandwich, her gaze shifting to the Tin Man.

He stood there, watching her.

It was the first time in weeks he’d so much as even looked her direction, since the morning he’d picked her up at the police station. The attention made her queasy, or maybe that was the hunger. She took a small bite, chewing slowly.

“You do not like me,” he said, almost a sad note to his quiet voice. “I do not know why.”

The little girl stared at him. She wasn’t sure what to say. She was even queasier now, as she set the sandwich back down. It was true, she didn’t like him. She hated him so much. But he should know that, she thought. He should know why she didn’t like him. “You’re mean. I want Mommy.”

“And you think it is my fault you do not have your mommy?”

The little girl nodded.

He stared at her... and stared at her... and stared at her some more, before he let out a deep sigh. “Your mother’s birthday is soon. Maybe I will let you talk to her. You can ask her to come home yourself.”





Chapter Seventeen





There are countless ways to torture someone. Whips and chains, fire and water, fists and kicks and unwanted touches... sleep deprivation, starvation, dehydration... branding and cutting and suffocating... you could rip my fingernails out with a pair of pliers, but none of it would ever be as tormenting as being sealed away in the darkness with nothing.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been here. Sleep has been my enemy. It twists time, manipulating the universe, strangling me with confusion. Nothing has made sense since the first moment I succumbed to it. I fall asleep in a black void and wake up again the same way, in and out of consciousness, exhausted and aching. Resentment flows through me, filling my battered body with indignation, the finger-shaped bruises covering my skin rooted so deep I can feel them even on the inside.

My soul hurts.

Wincing, I stretch my legs out, sitting along the basement wall, propping myself up against the cold metal cabinet. I’m wrapped up in an old blanket, the material rough and scratchy, but it’s thick enough to keep me from violently shivering. I huddle here in the corner, swaddled like a goddamn burrito, awaiting his inevitable return.

Kassian took my clothes with him when he was through the first time, leaving me lying on the concrete floor. I passed out, waking later to find the ratty blanket on top of me, the chain around my neck once more, a pack of crackers nearby. Dinner.

He’s returned a handful of times since then, in and out, disturbing the little bit of rest I manage to get. He asks if I want the mattress yet, if I’m ready to accept his generosity, and each time I refuse, he gets rougher.

And rougher.

And rougher.

A blast of light tears through the room as the basement door opens. I squeeze my eyes shut, pulling the blanket further up, shielding my face. Footsteps descend the stairs, slow and methodical, like a restrained march toward an execution chamber. Fitting.

I don’t look, keeping my head down as I hear his approach. I don’t want to see him, nor do I want him to look at me, but I know that’s wishful thinking. He’ll do what he wants.

Dried blood and dirt cakes the side of my face, the skin rubbed raw, scrapes all over my body. He stormed out last time, losing his temper, leaving me to wallow alone for far too long in the darkness.

“You are hiding from me now?” His voice is calm, so close... too close. “Does this mean you are done fighting?”

I don’t respond.

I have nothing to say.

He laughs at my silence, the sound running through me, making me shiver beneath the blanket. I can tell he’s crouched down, can feel his warmth disrupting the air, his cologne wafting around me, suffocating my senses.