Page 79 of Stealing Tink

For a moment, it’s as if he isn’t even flesh and blood, but a statue, a commemoration of himself, a semblance of the dreaded crime lord that he is or once was.

If the guard behind me spared a glance at his male captive, he would know to be terrified.

But he doesn’t look, and so he snaps my middle finger as well.

My stomach lurches with the pain. I suck in a breath of air, but it’s sharp and cold against my throat.

He’s going to break every last one of them.

He’s going to⁠—

The third bone snaps, and the room begins to spin.

“Typically this sort of thing is done as an interrogation tactic,” seethes the Nomad. “You’re supposed to only do it when she refuses to give you information.”

“Don’t need any information from her,” says the guard. “Only her blood.”

“She couldn’t give you any useful information anyway,” says Venus with a caustic laugh.

“Then I will,” says the Nomad.

“Oh, the boss will be interrogating you later,” says the second guard. “He told us to go ahead and have our fun with this one.”

Four, and I feel my face drain of blood.

I’m not one to beg, but the pain swirls in my head. My right hand fights against the restraints, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s not in an attempt to escape, but a subconscious reaction to sign the word please.

Please.

The Nomad glances back and forth between my face and my fingers. To anyone else in the room, he’d appear calm, calculating. But there’s a franticness to the way his eyes dart, a nervous tick in his jaw. “That’s because your boss doesn’t have all the information.”

“Boss knows a lot,” says the first guard.

Five. My thumb dangles, and my whole body goes cold.

Please.

My other hand moves frantically, trying to sign to the Nomad, but there’s no use. Not when it’s tied up at this angle.

The only word I can think to sign is his name.

The Nomad stares at his name on my hand, and something in him snaps.

“Please.” The word I can’t sign comes pouring forth from his mouth. “Please, I’ll tell your boss anything he wants. Just stop hurting her. Please.”

The first guard scoffs. “You care for this creature? This”—he leans over, his breath wetting my cheek—“bug?”

He laughs, then circles behind the chair, bringing his baton down across my hand.

I feel the bones across the back of my hand snap. The scream wells up within my chest, refusing to be let out as my entire body lurches involuntarily in my seat.

What’s worse, my hand goes to sign the Nomad’s name again, but the pain is too crippling.

Another finger snaps, and my entire body rocks in the chair, the weight of my momentum causing the chair to squeak against the ground.

The Nomad’s face has gone white.

I can’t even mouth to him. Tears run down my cheeks, dropping into my lap.