Slow Agony (Assassins, #2)(64)

*

We were moving. It seemed as if we’d been in the back of that van for years. There had been no way to measure time, however. We couldn’t see the sun. We didn’t have our phones. But now we were being hauled out of the back of the van.

Strong arms had lifted me. I was being nudged along with the barrel of a gun.

I called out for Griffin, because I didn’t know where he was, but a harsh voice told me to shut up. I’d see Griffin soon enough.

They marched me down a hill. I noted that the temperature here was cooler than it had been in Texas. The inside of the van had been temperature controlled, but out here I could feel that the air was different. It was muggier too.

I stumbled blindly ahead of the gun in my back until the person forcing me forward made me stop.

I heard the creaking of a door opening on its hinges, and then I was shoved inside someplace dank and cool.

I stumbled again, and this time I couldn’t keep my balance. I went face down on the floor. Cold concrete. Hard. It hurt. I made a little noise in the back of my throat.

Someone ripped off my blindfold.

I looked around. I was in a basement somewhere. Not a nice, finished one like Griffin’s family’s either. This one was bare except for a pile of broken-down boxes in one corner and a washer and dryer in the other. There were steps in front of the washer and dryer, which probably led up to the top of the house. In the center of the floor, there was a drain.

It smelled musty. Cobwebs clung to the top of the ceiling. It wasn’t a pleasant place.

Griffin was next to me. They’d removed his blindfold as well.

The door at the top of the steps opened, and Marcel came down the stairs. “Oh, they’ve arrived. Excellent.” He came down the last step and surveyed Griffin and me. “Hi, there, Griffin. Did you miss me?”

Griffin glared at him. “Would it hurt your feelings if I said no?”

Marcel snickered. “Well, I missed you at any rate. Hope you had a nice trip.”

“Oh, it was great,” said Griffin. “We were completely comfortable tied up in the back of a van for hours on end. Thanks.”

“You do look a little worse for wear.” Marcel eyed me especially. “Your girlfriend’s a bloody mess. From the gunshot wound and from, um, looks like feminine issues.”

Griffin stalked forward. “I swear to God, Marcel—”

But the two men who’d brought us into the basement leaped out and restrained Griffin, holding him back.

“Oh Griffin, you’re so grown up,” said Marcel. “I remember how adorable you used to be all those years ago. But now here you are with your own little girlfriend and everything. You must really feel like a man now.”

Griffin closed his eyes.

“I know better, of course,” said Marcel. “I know deep inside you’re the same squealing little *.” He nodded at me. “Strip her.”

I felt like someone had reached into my chest and closed a fist around my heart. What had he just said?

I got to my feet, looking around. There had to be somewhere I could run.

Griffin’s head shot backwards, smashing into the face of the man who was holding him.

The man howled, letting go of Griffin. He ran for me.

Marcel intercepted him, pulling out a switchblade. The knife snapped up. Marcel jabbed Griffin under the chin. “Hold it.”

Griffin was seething. He backed away from the knife, blood arcing out.

“I’m only gonna clean her up,” said Marcel. He turned to me, knife first.

I backed away. I backed right into a wall.

Marcel brought the knife to my neck.

Griffin surged forward.

“Stay back, or I’ll cut out her stomach and you can watch her heal without it in there,” Marcel snarled.

Griffin halted, swearing under his breath.

I swallowed. The knife was an inch from my skin. Could I heal without a stomach? I thought I could. Oh God. Oh God.

Marcel pointed with the hand that wasn’t holding the knife. He addressed the men, but he never took his eyes off me. “Tie him up and secure him to that hook on the ceiling.”

I looked where he was pointing. There was a hook hanging from the basement ceiling. A low hook. It looked like the kind of hook you might use to hang plants. Wait. I remembered— “Just going to clean you up, blondie,” said Marcel. His knife slashed down my shirt.

He hadn’t cut my skin—miraculously—but he’d cut through all of my clothes, bra included. He slashed at my pants.

No.

I felt the damp air of the basement on my skin.

No.

I wasn’t going to be naked in front of Marcel, in front of his goons. I wasn’t—

I looked at Griffin.

His face was so red it looked purple. He was fighting, but they had managed to tie him to the hook. His arms were stretched above his head.

Stay angry, doll. That was what he’d said, right?

I wanted to fall apart. Instead I glared at Marcel. I lifted my head high, refusing to let my shame and fear show.

He kicked the pile of my ruined clothes away and eyed my body. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing with a cunt like Griffin, huh?”

I narrowed my eyes. My nostrils flared.

He laughed. “Oh, that’s good. You’re a lot of fun, blondie.” He sauntered over to the washer and dryer. There was a hose coiled up on the wall. He turned it on and stalked back towards me. “Hope you enjoy this, Griffin.”