Page 51 of Out for Blood
Tyler stands back, ready if I need him, weapon in hand.
I study the man in the chair, let him feel my rage.
My gaze lands on a tray abandoned among the clutter.
Medical supplies, discarded packaging, syringes, and vials.
Evidence of whatever horrors have been happening inside this place.
I snatch one without taking my eyes off him.
“What are you doing?” he gulps, his brows shoot upward.
I don’t answer.
I drive the needle into his arm and depress the plunger.
The color drains from his face. His breathing turns shallow, and his eyes go wide as he glares at me furiously.
“What was that?” he shrieks.
I toss the empty syringe aside.
The plastic skitters across the floor.
“No idea.”
The lie lands exactly the way I want it to, I’m pretty sure it was a cortisol shot.
His pulse visibly pounds in his throat.
Because the human mind is capable of imagining far worse things than reality ever could.
And judging by the fear in his eyes, he’s already imagining every one of them.
His eyes bore into mine with arrogance, and now I’ve pissed him off.
“Walk me through it,” I insist, my voice even.
His throat works once, unimpressed, quite different from the way we left him.
I sigh, “Start at the beginning, and don’t waste my fucking time pretending you aren’t important.”
Out of nowhere, I spring out of my chair and, within a few strides, stand in front of him.
I take my knife and drive it into the thick muscle right above his kneecap.
A tremor runs through him, breath stuttering as his body attempts to pull away from something it can’t escape.
My other hand moves before the rest of me does.
Crack.
My palm connects with his face, and his head snaps to the side as a breath tears out of him, blood forms at the corner of his mouth.
I snatch his jaw, forcing him to look at me.
My lips curve, “That’s your first warning. I haven’t unchained my creative side yet.”
