Page 15

Louhi

I’m being punished. It started when I jolted awake, covered in sweat, with the nightmare of regaining consciousness on that metal table. The cosmos must be out to get me, because then, Honey Eyes never appeared with my breakfast—dinner? No idea what meal I should be eating at this point. I haven’t eaten since before Doctor Doom’s exam, and I’m more than a little put out. It’s not that I’m hungry, though I am, it’s that I’m being penalized for simply trying to survive.

I don’t feel a skosh of guilt or regret about taking that guard’s life. He touched me without my permission and in a way I didn’t appreciate. Absolutely no one gets away with that. While I’m a tolerant woman—okay, I’m not, but I like to delude myself into thinking I am—some things just can’t be forgiven. I certainly don’t plan to let the doctor off the hook. I need to kill him for the sake of my sanity.

Now that I’ve been reacquainted with what it feels like to end a life—God, it’d been too long—I need another hit. I’m dying for another mark. I miss my life outside of these walls, where I walked with a sense of freedom, doing whatever I pleased without consequences. I know I’d never have been caught if Mercer hadn’t asked me to be.

I’m leaning against the back wall of my cell, with my arms folded under my breasts, waiting. My gut churns with the awareness that someone will come for me today. At some point, I hear the stomping of footsteps from down the hallway. Things have been relatively quiet, with only Carlos making his usual racket. I haven’t figured out which cell noisy Carlos is housed in yet, but he’s officially made my kill list too, simply by being too loud.

I’m not good . I have no moral compass. The only guide I follow is the one I’ve created, which consists of two self-imposed rules: children and animals are off-limits, and I never kill if I don’t want to. That’s it. There’s no level of depravity I won’t stoop to.

Digs, along with four other guards, appear before my cell. I don’t attempt to stop the amused snort I emit. Of course he brought back-up.

My captor unlocks the cell and swings the door open, filling the doorway with his large frame. He’s got to be around six-foot-four, maybe six-foot-five. His wide, muscular shoulders fill the space and the tight army-green T-shirt he has on does nothing to hide those mouthwatering biceps or forearms. I’m abso-bloody-lutely an arm woman and all I want to do right now is sink my teeth and nails into his hard muscles. I bet he tastes the same way he smells: like pure masculinity.

I don’t allow my thoughts to show on my face, maintaining the same cocky smirk I’ve worn since Digs and his posse arrived. He steps inside my space, his attention wholly on me, and I resist the urge to clench my thighs together. I can confirm that the mask is still doing it for me. He tilts his head to the side slightly, scrutinizing me, as his intense gaze continues to pour over my body before settling on my face. I wonder what he sees.

The dense air in the cell seems to thicken to the point where it’s hard to draw a breath. It feels as if the predators residing within each of us are warring over the limited oxygen. My snake uncoils herself, fixating on her prey, baring her venomous fangs, hungry to strike. His inner-wolf snarls, peeling back his lips to display his razor-sharp canines, his hackles raised for attack.

Several beats pass before Digs asks, “Are you going to behave today, or do I need to have one of my friends here secure you with a straitjacket?”

My eyes dart around the sliver of space next to Digs’s body and find a guard holding the aforementioned restraint, and that’s going to be a fuck no from me.

Instead of telling Digs that, though, I reply casually, “I suppose that depends.”

“On?”

As I toy with him, my playful smile grows. “On second thought, I prefer to operate on a moment-by-moment basis.”

I don’t miss the roll of his eyes before he turns, retreating toward the hallway. He pauses at the opening to my cage, where he glances at me before ordering me to follow him.

“Oh my God, are we going somewhere?” I feign delighted surprise, staying rooted to my spot in my cell. Flirting with his patience is becoming quite the pastime.

“Let’s go, Lou.”

Lou. I loathe that my exasperation with him calling me that is waning. Outside of my brother’s use of the moniker, people only ever refer to me by my full name, until fucking Diggory . Unlike when it comes from my brother in a playful, loving way, it sounds like a dark, sinful promise every time it leaves Digs’s lips.

“Where are we going?” I inquire in vain. As expected, no one answers me, but curiosity gets the better of me, and I start for the hallway, my bare feet following behind Digs.

I saunter past the guard holding the straitjacket, then two more I don’t recognize, and the other guard who came to collect me yesterday. As we turn down the next hallway, Digs finally deigns to answer my question. “We’re going to have a little chat.”

My lips twist into something wild and grotesque, and I use it to mask my relief. Torture, I can handle.

“Don’t tease me like that, Digs.”

I’m spread eagle on an X-cross similar to a St. Andrew’s cross, with my wrists and ankles secured to the four corners. Digs disappeared after strapping me to this wooden contraption, and I haven’t seen any of the guards since they shoved me into our usual room.

Having been left in the center of the space, I’m able to take stock of my surroundings, but I don’t find anything out of the ordinary: the light from the camera in the corner still blinks at me, tools still line the shelves, the metal cabinet still looms large in the corner.

The irritating thing about this cross is that there’s nowhere for your head to go. Far too much energy is expended simply to hold it up, and it’s uncomfortable as hell for it to loll backwards; it’s worse when your head slumps forward. They’re obviously designed that way—along with immobilization—but it’s aggravating, nonetheless. I’ve never been attached to one of these crosses before, but I have secured someone else to one to play with. The memory makes my lips tip up into a smile.

Digs reappears after fuck knows how long, dragging a metal chair behind him, the sound scraping down my body like nails on a chalkboard. He shuts himself inside the room and positions the chair against the wall directly across from me. Taking a seat, he rests his boot-clad ankle over his utility trousers and plucks his combat knife from its slot at his waist.

My eyes scan his masked face, searching for a change in his demeanor, but I don’t find anything out of the usual. Of course, there is the glaring fact that Honey Eyes—nor anyone else, for that matter— doesn’t appear to be joining us today. I wonder what that’s about.

I’m not so obtuse as to think that Honey Eyes keeps Digs in check, considering the icy coldness that frosts over his golden eyes when I’m pushed past the point of agony, but something about having him here is moderately reassuring. As if his mere presence keeps things from spiraling out of control. It’s been clear from the start that Digs runs this entire show, but the ease with which he and Honey Eyes interact indicates that they have a relationship that goes beyond that of a commander and subordinate.

Digs begins to pick at the callouses on the palm of his massive, veiny hands with the tip of the menacing blade before asking casually, “You won’t be answering any of my questions today, will you?”

The corner of my lips quirk. “Perhaps if you asked better questions, you’d receive more satisfactory answers.”

His eyes flash with something inscrutable, but it’s gone before I have time to decipher its meaning. The blade in Digs’s hand catches the light as he climbs to his feet, evaporating the distance between us, his hulking body now towering before me.

Neither of us so much as glance down as he slices my black uniform shirt in half down the middle. Cool air swats my skin as I hold Digs’s stare, mesmerized. Dark, tenebrous shadows swirl in his stormy gaze, and it’s a look I’ve seen countless times in the mirror. I guess it takes a monster to recognize one.

The ominous thunderstorm within him is heavy, threatening to rain down hellfire, and fuck if I don’t want that. I’m hungry, starving , craving the taste of what he’s truly capable of.

He flays the shirt, cutting through the short sleeves and tugging the scraps of fabric free, exposing my torso completely.

Outside of being strapped to an exam table, being naked has never bothered me. I own my beauty. In my line of work, being physically fit is a matter of survival —fine , I like feeling and looking hot, too—and I work hard to maintain my toned physique.I’m proud of my body and the power it wields.

Unfailingly, I handsomely reward my body for its strength, fierceness, and stamina that I brandish like a superpower. I’ve been with countless men and women alike, but I’ve never felt more desired in my entire life than when Digs’s silvery-blue eyes observe my naked form, blazing with unfettered heat. The sultry flames of his gaze lapped at my skin in the shower, and that fire’s intensity doesn’t appear to have abated in the slightest. A primal hunger has leaked into the swirling cyclone of his gaze, and unbridled satisfaction surges through me. I’m affecting him, and I rather like that.

A mild twisting sensation flashes through my breasts, and I know without looking that my nipples are tightening. Chancing a look down, I find that he’s tenting the front of his trousers, which has my lips tweaking into a smirk. When my eyes meet Digs’s once again, the lusty look that was just there is nearly eclipsed by the shadowy imperilment.

I fight a shiver as his eyes narrow in warning, but the bulging vein in his neck that slithers out from beneath the bottom of his mask like a hungry snake already told me that his grip on control is quickly slipping. My heart rate spikes as my tantalizing smile broadens.

He’s making me nervous, but in an anticipatory, yet pleasant way. Right now, his darkness is a mirror that I’m more than comfortable gazing into. For the first time, I don’t necessarily feel in danger—not yet. I’m not complacent, though. I know things could change. Should that happen, I’m prepared to allow the bomb inside me to detonate, raining down shrapnel on everything standing in my way.

My breath hitches as the sharp scratch of the spine of the steel blade lazily trails up my abdomen and between my breasts. We both slant our heads, my chest expanding with each breath, as we observe the weapon ascending my body unhurriedly, leaving behind bright pink tracks that look more like poisonous vines.

Suddenly, he deviates from his path, gingerly dragging the blade over my left breast, then the snake’s head tattooed over my callous heart. He moves to my right breast, repeating the process before flicking my nipple with the tip of the knife, blood bubbling to the surface and seeping from the wound.

A venomous look slashes across my face as the sight of my own spilled blood spikes my adrenaline, and I chastise, “You fucking nicked me. I’ve killed men for less, you know.”

He tilts his head to the side, his eyes still unlit. “You want to kill me for scratching you?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ve done worse to you, yet a little scratch is what will be my downfall?”

Amused, I snort, my lips spreading into a daring, seductive grin. “That was simply a little foreplay, Digs.”

His eyes go from dark to a shade so black that it reminds me of a moonless night sky in the Finnish countryside. His wrist flicks as he swirls his knife over my left nipple, taunting me. “And what would you call what we’re doing right now, Lou?”

“I suppose that all depends on your end game.”

Consider me gobsmacked because his free hand moves to lift the bottom of his mask up over his mouth, revealing a small glimpse of the sharp jawline and perfectly masculine, rosy lips that have remained hidden beneath mesh.

Bloody hell.

My tongue practically wags in the confines of my mouth with the desire to lick along the smooth, squared-off, tanned skin I’m able to see before he dips his head, sucking my blood-tinged nipple into his hot mouth. His lips tug hard, his tongue swirling around the bud, exploring, and a low growl rumbles from his chest, making my pussy flutter.

Closing my eyes, I focus on the sensation, my head growing lighter than it’s been in weeks—months?—with the glimmer of pleasure. Digs sucks harder, and a breathy moan slips past my lips as my chest rises and falls rapidly. I’m nearly panting by the time he pulls back.

If I were to list all the ways I thought this torture session might go today, this wouldn’t have been in the top million, maybe billion.

He rights his mask before facing me again, his eyes dancing with aphotic amusement. As he sinks to one knee in front of me, my stomach drops along with his movement, his masked face level with the apex of my thighs. Lifting the knife, he wordlessly drags the sharp edge of the blade through the waistband of my trousers and down my leg, slicing the fabric as he goes. He cuts me out of my other pant leg and yanks the scraps from my body.

My core squeezes and my chest tightens as my mind begins to whirl, tripping over itself in an attempt to understand what’s happening. Is this some kind of test? What the living fuck is he planning to do? Why can’t I make sense of this situation?

Two sets of heavy breaths are the only sounds that can be heard within this concrete room. Daring to look down, I find him analyzing my body. And while I know I have nothing to be ashamed of, I can’t help but ponder the fact that I’m not clean, not having bathed since that day in the washroom with Digs.

A few years ago, I lost interest in the upkeep of shaving and waxing and chose to have electrolysis nearly everywhere , removing every scrap of unwanted hair. Thanking my lucky stars I had that done, I make a mental note to send my electrologist a second tip when I get out of here. Who knew that would come in handy, but the fact that I’m not clean still irks me. Then, I remember that Digs is the one who’s responsible for that, so he can deal with those consequences.

Refocusing my attention on maintaining even breaths, I attempt to ignore the way my skin prickles as he glides his free hand up the inside of my pale olive-hued skin, his tan complexion a stark contrast with my own. After his manual exploration of my smooth legs, he flips the knife in his hand, sliding the spine of the blade up the inside of my left leg, beginning at my ankle, painting my skin with more of those noxious vines. By the time he reaches my inner thigh, my shoulders and chest heave with unsteady breaths.

He looks up at me as he demands, “Be a good little convict and tell me what I want to know.”

That gets my attention, but the knife’s blunt side is now perilously close to my cunt, so I try to remain calm as I reply breathlessly. “Not…a convict.”

The chuckle that reverberates from him can only be described as sinister. “No?”

My voice is firmer this time as I grind out, “No. To call me a convict would imply that I’ve been convicted of my crimes. I’ve not had a trial; therefore, I’m not a convict.”

The bastard halts the knife just above my clit, looking up at me now. “Are you saying that you didn’t commit the crimes you’ve been accused of?”

A smile dripping with the threat of blood and violence crawls across my face. That’s all the answer he’s getting, especially considering I haven’t heard a single person tell me what crimes I’ve been accused of committing, not that it necessarily matters.

“You’re saying that you aren’t guilty of terrorism, murder, kidnapping, possession of biological weapons, destruction of government property, at least ten different cyber-crimes, espionage, and arson?”

Jeesus Kristus. With my face a mask of cool aloofness, I briefly sort through what he’s said. Murder and possession of more than a couple of biological weapons over the years are a definite check. The various cybercrimes and espionage are also a yes. What isn’t a yes is terrorism, arson, kidnapping, or the destruction of government property. I did none of those things. It’s not my style.

My brother, on the other hand? Yeah, he’s guilty of all of that.