Page 9 of Blood and Thorns

Walking to the door, I took the steps down the side of the building towards the entrance to the garage.

“Morris, you’ve been a bad fucking boy.”

I stilled, frowning at the unfamiliar voice coming from inside.

“I don’t… I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A smack of flesh on flesh, followed by Dad crying out. My eyes widened.

“You calling me a liar?”

Shit.

I grabbed my phone, quickly dialling 999 and whispering for the police.

“Please!” Dad begged. “I didn’t know the money belonged to you!”

“Oh, so youdoknow what we’re talking about? Funny that. If you’d told us the truth the first time, I wouldn’t have had to introduce your nose to my knuckles.”

Sneaking closer, I glanced through the gap in the door, finding Dad on his knees. The door squeaked slightly as it opened, and I sucked in a breath. No reaction, so I quickly slipped inside as silently as possible.

There were two men I didn’t recognise, both towering over Dad. The blond’s smirk held a slight feral edge, and lifting his hands, he signed to the brunet who stood opposite.

“Alright Lang, no need to shout,” the brunet chuckled.

Dad glanced between them, blood dripping from his nose. From the angle, it almost appeared broken. “What… what did he say?”

“He said, ‘Did you know that eyeballs don’t explode? Instead they slowly and painfully melt if held under heat long enough.’”

Dad let out a sob. “Please… I’ll find your money.”

The man who signed with his hands was tall, with an athletic build and pale hair that was long enough to brush his collar. His translator was an inch or so taller, which had him around six foot four. He was a little wider, stockier, like he enjoyed lifting weights but not to excess, and his brown hair was cut to just above his ears.

The brunet wore a suit, the fabric clearly expensive and perfectly tailored even from a distance while the blond wore black jeans and a dark T-shirt.

I slowly moved around the Volkswagen, keeping to a crouch. The bonnet was up, the engine in pieces by my feet, as were spills of oil. I was conscious of those spots, carefully moving around while the men were distracted.

Coming to the edge, I froze, realising there was a third man.

He leaned casually against the wall, knee bent and his head cocked. He hadn’t said a single word, yet power radiated from his large frame. He was by far the tallest, and his shoulders were so wide they strained against the black suit jacket he wore. His hand flexed, as did his thigh when he straightened to his full height.

Fuck.

He still hadn’t noticed me, so I slowly moved towards the desk beside the suspended Ford my dad had been working on that morning. My fingers brushed against something cold, solid, and I automatically picked up the heavy metal.

I dipped behind the car, hoping they heard nothing as my foot knocked one of the tools forgotten on the floor.

The big man stepped forward, and the other two stepped back. “Do you know who I am?” he asked, his voice a throaty growl that seemed to weigh the air.

Dad audibly swallowed before nodding. “I… I didn’t know it was your money.”

“Where is it?”

“I… lost it.” Dad’s eyes widened when the third man took another strategic step closer, his voice taking on a frantic edge. “But I can get it back, I swear! There’s a tournament coming up, and I’ll make sure I’ll win. I’ll pay you back every penny, plus more! You’ve just got to give me some time.”

My fingers tightened on the wrench.

The third man finally reached Dad, standing over him in his black-on-black suit like the grim reaper. That was when I struck, using all my strength to swing the tool. I knew my strength wouldn’t do much damage, but it didn’t need to. I just needed to distract them long enough for the police to get here.

Pain radiated up my arm, the man turning at the last second to catch the wrench before it could even strike him. Before I could jerk back, he pulled me closer, yanking the weapon from my grip and locking both my wrists in one of his larger hands.