Tears of Tess (Monsters in the Dark #1)(18)

The woman forced a hairbrush into my palm and I took it hesitantly. Was this it? Was I being moved?

I worked through my messy tangles before handing the brush back. My skin smelled of cheap soap and my hair was brittle with no conditioner, but I felt better. More prepared to face whatever came next.

My new tattoo itched beneath the bandage, and I wanted to rip it off to see the barcode in more detail. Could they scan me now? What details were imbedded in the mark?

They hadn’t asked any personal information. They didn’t care who I was. Only what I was becoming.

Something to be sold.





Owl



Three days ticked past.

Our little cell, the routine of food twice a day, and hushed conversations helped numb me into some sort of acceptance. My body was bruised in places I’d never seen and my rib ached. After everything we’d been through, I loathed just sitting there.

Every passing hour, I grew angrier. Sitting on the moth-riddled bunk bed, I welcomed the heat of temper. I wanted something to happen. Regardless of what it was, waiting silently killed me. Boredom itched worse than the new tattoo.

The flickering bulb clicked off, and I stared into blackness. A lot of my roommates drifted into vacancy—conversations few and desolate. I refused to partake. I didn’t want to reminisce about the situation; I wanted to focus on a future less bleak. To try and keep hope alive in my heart, even as it was suffocated by anger and rage.

The moment I found a situation where I could run, I would. No hesitation. No second thoughts. I’d shoot and stab. I’d kill to escape, and the knowledge I was ready to spill blood, shed a life, filled me with power.

Brax may have died fighting to save me. Now, it was my turn. I’d find him somehow. I’d find him and all of this would be nasty history.

A sliver of light, then a scuff echoed around the black catacomb of our prison. I froze beneath the musty sheets.

A footstep, then another.

My hands clenched, ready to pummel. It wasn’t a woman tiptoeing through the night, heading to the bucket in the corner. It was a jailor. I’d paid attention to their mannerisms and noises. The last week taught me how to use all my senses.

I knew with horrible clarity—Leather Jacket had come for me.

A hand patted my thigh, creeping, trying to locate me in the darkness. I stiffened, letting him grope his way, biding time.

When a hand found my breast, I sucked in a breath. Not yet. Wait. I pretended to be dead with terror, letting him think I wouldn’t fight. Idiot. My mouth watered to make him bleed. Retribution was a fine thing.

Leather Jacket’s pungent breath wafted as he pressed one knee on the bed, moving to straddle me.

I burst upright.

My punch flew wild but connected with a hard jaw. My other fist landed where I wanted: right in his balls. Victory was righteous in my veins and I smiled.

He squealed and rolled off, landing with a thud on the floorboards. Cries and rustles erupted around the room. We’d never had an interloper in the night before. Stupidly, we thought we were untouchable, our virtues kept for our new masters, whoever they would be.

I shot out of bed, kicking in the direction I thought Leather Jacket was. My foot connected but not hard enough. Hot hands grabbed my ankle, twisting. I lost balance and fell, landing in a heap half on top of him. My rib screamed, making me woozy.

Horrible groping trailed up my legs, reaching my hips, waist, and chest. I wriggled and kicked. “Get off me!” I bit his ear as he managed to haul himself on top.

He bellowed, and a flare of metallic rust filled my mouth. I’d drawn blood. It was a flag to a bull.

I went berserk. Everything I’d dealt with swarmed into cataclysmic rage. I screamed and attacked. Nails, teeth, knees, and elbows. I didn’t care where I struck, or where it landed. I became nothing but claws and fangs.

Leather Jacket scooted away, leaving me fighting air.

“You want to rape me, you bastard?” My voice wavered with tears and violence. “Come and get me.”

Women shouted encouragement as I charged into nothing. I found Leather Jacket stumbling for the door. I caught him and grabbed greasy hair. With strength I didn’t know I had, I slammed his nose against the wall.

He screeched as something crunched. Adrenaline drenched my limbs, turning me into a wet noodle, slippery, shaky, but I fought to stay strong. Stay vicious.

The light bulb flared on, blinding.

Ignoring the burn of my retinas, I grabbed Leather Jacket’s finger and twisted with all my might. He struck out and punched me in the chest. My lungs collapsed; I couldn’t grab a breath.

The door wrenched open and a barrier of men marched in, pointing machine guns in my face. Sucking in what air I could, I jumped back, holding up my hands. A trickle of blood ran from my temple and bruises added to bruises, but satisfaction was a welcome bloom when I looked at Leather Jacket.

Stringy hair was all over the place, a cut oozed on his cheekbone, and he heaved as if he’d been beaten by a gorilla. He snarled, “Vete a la mierda, puta.” He nursed his finger and shoved aside a man with a gun, reaching for me.

I didn’t think. My body just reacted. I slapped him as hard as I could; my palm burned, but it was nothing compared to my happiness at the red handprint I painted on his cheek. I’d caused grievous bodily harm and enjoyed it.

I was more dangerous than I thought.

He glared. “Estás muerto.”