Page 42 of Chained

"It's nothing I haven't seen before, Jax." He frowns, confused. His voice is soft, which is oddly comforting. His hands swipe against his chest to remove the crumbs. He's right—he's seen me kill plenty of times on contracts. But this is different; in-house means only one thing: Vincent wants this to be slow, to be painful.

I look at him for a second—this kid who was born into this life without choosing it, who eats crisps in a training room at noon like the world isn't falling apart around him because that's how he keeps going. I won't let him watch this. I won't let this place take any more from him than it already has.

I sigh as we head to the main lobby, the sound of staff rushing around, hoovers going in every spare room as they clean. They never look up, never bother with what's happening around them, for fear they might glance too long at the wrong person.

I come to a stop at the foot of the stairs, Jarrod waiting beside me.

"Room," I say, final, nodding towards the stairs. He doesn't argue, his face falls a little as he walks away and climbs the stairs. Guilt starts to flicker in my chest, but I shove it off. I can't afford to feel it right now.

I can't afford to feel anything.

Melina's at my side in seconds. "Little baby gone to his room?" she mocks as we walk to the playroom. My head snaps to her, every part of me on edge at her words.

"Go fuck yourself," I spit at her, hands balling into fists as we walk. Of course she'd come—she'll love every second of someone else's pain. She sure loves mine most of all.

"Oh, I love when you talk dirty." She winks, her lips in a sickening grin. I ignore her and keep walking until we reach the end of the hall. I push against the door, and inside waiting are two guards stood in front of a chair. I look to the table on my left, covered in multiple torture implements. The various knives, pliers, and hammers glint against the light. I swallow hard and turn my gaze back to the prisoner.

"What did he do?" There's no tone to my voice as I move before the chair, the man with a bag covering his face thrashing against the restraints.

"N-nothing..." he manages to spit out beneath the bag. I yank it off, the material scratchy against my palm, and toss it to the ground.

"He was caught selling drugs in our district. He'd been warned but didn't listen. Apparently offered up one of the girls down in the cells for his freedom. Sick fuck." one of the guards said, his voice bored and unbothered.

Amora? Her name in my head sings to me, but she didn't seem the kind of girl to be messing around with drugs, let alone dating a guy who's dumb enough to sell where we own. My jaw tightens at the thought of her and the guy in front of me. I brush it off quickly, trying to regain composure. I was getting in my own head about shit that has nothing to do with me. This was my life. This is what I crave, fuck. This is what I need.

"Which girl?" The need to roll my eyes at myself is so strong, I could have stabbed the nearest scalpel into my sockets and torn my fucking eyeballs out. What the fuck am I doing.

He shrugs in response. "The redhead."

I nod, sucking my teeth as I walk away for a second and examine the table. I pick up the pliers, slapping them against my palm.

"Make it hurt, Ace, make it last…" Melina's voice is eager from behind me; she perches herself onto the bed next to us.

"Let's get this over with." My voice is final as I move closer to him, pliers in hand.

She asked to make it last. I won't. Not because I'm merciful—I gave up on that a long time ago. But because somewhere in the back of my mind, dark curls and brown eyes are watching, and I don't want them to see this. I don't want her to see what I really am because no matter how much her voice circles in my ears and no matter how fucking good her body felt pressed against mine, nothing will change the monster I was made to be. This is who I am. This is who I've always been. I just don't want her to see it. Not yet. Even though my body is craving the release that only the pliers in my hand can offer.

Chapter Thirteen

Amora

I don't hear them coming.

One second I'm asleep, the next there are hands on me—rough and impatient—dragging me upright before I've even opened my eyes. The cot springs shriek as my weight leaves them, my feet scrambling for the floor before my brain has caught up with what's happening.

"Get up. Now."

"What—" My voice is thick with sleep; I can't think, I don't have time to scream, or beg, or even ask where they're taking me before they're hauling me toward the cell gate. I don't even get my feet under me properly. I'm half-dragged, the stone cold and sharp against my bare soles.

"Where are you taking me?" The words scrape out, my hands flying to the arms that grip me, fingers digging in, trying to slow them down. "Tell me where you're taking me."

They don't answer. They never answer. I don't know why I'm surprised. Part of me wishes for Ace. His hands never hurt.

"Amora!" Annabelle's voice hits me like a fist in the chest. I twist hard, craning back to find her face through the bars, her hands wrapped around the metal, knuckles white.

"Annabelle—" Her name tears out of me as they drag me through the gate, "I'm okay, I'm okay⁠—"

I'm not okay. I don't know if I'm okay. I don't think I will be okay. Please don't take me to Percy, anyone but him.