Sin & Suffer (Pure Corruption MC #2)(3)

My knuckles met flesh.

A bellow sounded in the square, white room. “Christ, man!”

The incessant beeping sliced through my eardrums turning my headache into a brass f*cking band of horror.

I’d never been one to panic but I couldn’t control the overwhelming sensation that something awful had happened.

Something I needed to fix straightaway.

The door suddenly swung open.

I paused just long enough to take in the balding man with a stethoscope around his neck and baby-blue scrubs, before struggling with renewed determination. “Damn bastards. Let me up!”

The doctor inched warily into the room. “What on earth is going on in here?”

“He’s just woken up, Doc,” Hopper said, trying to grab my shoulders but unwilling to risk another fist to his jaw. “Ain’t got his bearings yet.”

“I’ve got my f*cking bearings, *. Let me up!”

“You gotta do something, before he makes it worse,” Mo growled. His lip was bleeding, his nostrils flared in pain.

Did I do that?

The headache turned feral, crumpling me in its agony as if I were nothing more than a sardine can. Clutching my skull—finding bandages instead of hair—I bellowed, “What the f*ck is going on? Someone tell me before my brain explodes out of my goddamn ears!”

My heartbeat clanged to one name. A single name siphoning through my blood over and over again.

Cle … o.

Cle … o.

“You’re in hospital, Mr. Killian. I need you to relax.” The doctor used his calm-the-unhinged-patient-down voice as he crept closer. Grabbing the chart from the foot of the bed and scooting backward as if he would get bitten or infected by being too close to me, he flipped the pages and scanned the notes.

I couldn’t breathe properly.

I couldn’t see anything in my peripheral vision, and that damn f*cking beeping was getting on my nerves.

“Someone shut that thing up!”

Grasshopper ignored me, coming to the side of the bed and bravely laying a hand on my chest. “Kill, you have a concussion. Doctors said if you move too much before the swelling goes down, you might do some serious damage.”

My headache came back with ten-ton pressure.

“Concussion? How the f*ck did I get a concussion?” My eyes flew around the room.

I wasn’t in my bedroom, that was for f*cking sure. White morbid walls looked like a bleached coffin, while an outdated television hung like a spider just waiting for death. The entire place reeked of antiseptic and corpses.

Hospital.

I’m in the f*cking hospital.

Clutching my head, I tried to gather my temper and relax. Screaming only drove pins of agony through my eyeballs and terrified answers away. “Speak. Tell me.”

Mo looked at Hopper, unsuccessfully hiding the nervousness in his eyes. They waited for me to explode again. When I didn’t, Mo admitted, “Eh, you were struck in the head.”

My headache tripled its efforts to turn me into a vegetable almost as if on cue.

Then … everything came back.

Finding Cleo after all this time.

Loving Cleo after all this time.

Holding Cleo after all this f*cking time.

She’s not dead.

She was never dead, just missing.

They took her!

I soared out of bed. The wires, the sheets—nothing had any power to hold me in my wrath. “Where is she?!” Shoving aside Grasshopper with superhuman strength, I swallowed hard as the room spun like a fun house. “They have her! Goddammit, they have her.”

Grasshopper, Mo, and the doctor sprang on me, each grabbing an arm or a leg. I grunted, buckling beneath their weight. In ordinary circumstances, I would’ve let them win. I would’ve been rational and collected and listened to what they had to say.

But this wasn’t ordinary circumstances.

This was motherf*cking war!

My father and brother had broken into my house, got past security, and taken the only thing of value I had left.

They’d stolen her from me all over again.

“Shit!” I screamed. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“Kill, calm down!”

“Let us explain!”

“Get the f*ck off me.” No amount of arms could hold me down. Adrenaline tore through my blood, giving me a merciless edge. My vision might be faulty, my head might be broken, but I still knew how to fight.

They weren’t listening to my voice. Perhaps they would listen to my fist.

With no effort at all, I punched the three men in a connecting roundhouse, and tore at the IV in the back of my hand.

Yanking it out, blood spurted over the white sheets and linoleum floor. The stark crimson spread macabre patterns, whispering of murder and revenge as I launched out of bed, battling sickness and vertigo. “Someone better start talking.” I breathed hard. “Now. Right f*cking now.”

Mo and Hopper stared transfixed at my bleeding vein. “We should patch you up, dude.”

Waving my hand, splattering the bed with more red droplets, I snarled, “Leave it. It’s not important. I don’t even feel it.” Strangely, that was the truth. There was nothing that could overpower the pain of knowing they’d taken Cleo. That agony was enough to drown me. Over and f*cking over again.

I groaned under my breath as scenarios and horror-filled daydreams tormented me.