Page 46 of Wicked Vile King
As soon as they're gone, Kill lets go of me like I'm literally burning him. Then he eats up the space between us and sneers, his upper lip retracting over his straight white teeth.
"Don't mistake us saving you from dumb and dumber as forgiveness, Cadelle. You are Saint's pet, and his to punish when you piss all over the carpet, but personally, I can't fuckingwaitto watch him do it," he rumbles over me with his growl. "He's going to smile when he breaks you. Now, scram, little liar, before I decide to find those two Neanderthals and give you back to them."
I want to say something, to snap and shout at him that I'm no one's pet, but there's two of them and one of me and the hallway is dark and deserted. If I screamed, I doubted anyone would come to my rescue. So I hurry away, walking past the library and to the stairs, determined to take them straight back to the girls' dormitory. Their snickers follow me, and when I reach the end of the hall, Gabe singsongs to the tune of theRain, Rain, Go Awaynursery rhyme, "Run, run, go away. Wait to die another day."
As I start down the stairs, his words haunt me because I know one day, Saint Laurier will be back, and there'll be no running from him.
13
SAINT
Ilie there on the metal table, being slowly asphyxiated by padded walls that are more gray than white now, stained and pitted by time. The world teeters in and out of consciousness with me, pulsing with each breath, saying hello and then waving goodbye.
I breathe slowly, staring above me at the peeling and pockmarked ceiling. The shadows constrict and then expand, a black circle tightening with the inhale and then releasing on the exhale. Each breath shrinks my world and gulps the ceiling away in black.
I blink, my thoughts thick and slow.
Ffffuuuucccckkkk.
How.
Did.
I.
Get.
Here.
What is . . . What is going on?
I blink again, and my vision teeters but does not fall.
Get . . . up.
I try to lift my arms, but they're sluggish and lazy to respond.
I lift my head and peer down the line of the metal gurney on which I lie. I follow the line of my arm down to my wrist and find it strapped down. My gaze scrolls to the left, across my stomach and a dirty white t-shirt I don't recognize, my eyesight rolling a bit before I spot my other arm, finding it tied down too. Thick black leather restraints lock around my wrists and dig into my skin when I try to lift my arms again.
Fuck.
I shake my head back and forth, as best I can, trying to clear the static from my skull.
Wake up, Saint. Wakethe fuckup!
I try to lift myself once more, harder this time, jerking up with everything I have. The table rattles, the room wobbles, and the leather straps cut into my wrists again, but I don't get free. Everything goes black for a moment, pulsing in and out, in time to my own racing heartbeat.
Where am I?The hole.
Why can't I move?Butcher.
Get . . . up! Get up! GET UP!!!!!
FUCK!
I lurch upward, but the restraints don't give an inch. The table just jounces a little against the stone floor as I heave for breath. I am heavy, covered beneath a big, invisible weighted blanket. Everything is cumbersome: my breath, my movements, my thoughts. Even my skin feels dull and deadened.
I am tired—so, so tired—and if I could just close my eyes for a moment . . .
