Page 160 of What We Become

Waldock makes a choking, frantic noise that might be denial. Might be prayer. Doesn’t matter. I’ve never cared for these assholes’ responses. I tug the rope tighter.

He gurgles, and Fury crouches in front of him, calm. “Do you remember their names?”

He thrashes harder.

I pull tighter.

Fury holds up her phone and shows him their faces.

The glow from the screen paints him corpse-blue.

I watch his gaze move over the photographs one by one. Recognition flares—not guilt, because men like him don’t do guilt, but the ugly calculation of a rat realizing the trap has closed.

He shakes his head.

Liar.

Fury tilts the phone slightly, making sure he sees every face. “You sure?” she says. “They remember you.”

He jerks his head, trying to look away. Eli slaps a hand over his forehead and keeps him facing forward.

Waldock’s fingers hook under the rope. Futile. My forearms lock. Biceps burn. I pull until his nails bend backward and his eyes water. He kicks once, twice, the recliner sliding an inch over carpet.

Fury rises from her crouch, slides the phone into her pocket, and looks at him like she’s deciding where to start cutting.

“Knox,” Eli says.

I know what he means. Enough air for the lesson. Not enough hope to make him brave.

I ease the tension by a fraction.

Waldock sucks in a ragged, screaming breath that shreds his throat. It’s the loudest thing in the room except the TV crowd losing its mind over some prize wheel. He coughs, spits, tries to speak. Fails. Tries again.

“Y-you’ve got the wrong⁠—”

Eli tightens his grip on the bastard’s arm so hard Waldock whines. “Lie again and I let her open you up and tear out your intestines while you’re awake.”

Waldock looks at Fury.

Bad move.

She steps closer, blade still low. She doesn’t rush it. That’s what gets him.

Fury is never sloppy when it matters. People mistake her size for softness, her face for mercy, but I’ve seen what lives under her skin. It knows patience. It knows exactly where fear blooms fastest.

She plants one boot on the edge of the recliner between Waldock’s spread knees and leans in until the tip of her blade kisses the inside of his thigh through his sweatpants.

He stills.

The total-body lock of prey that finally understands the thing in front of it is real.

“You coached girls,” she says, voice almost conversational. “You told their parents you were keeping them safe.”

Waldock’s breath comes in wet rasps around the rope. “Please⁠—”

The knife presses a little harder. Not enough to break skin. Enough to promise it can.

I hold him and watch his pupils blow wide.