Page 6

Louhi

After being unceremoniously dumped back in my cell, I spent the next several minutes puking up water into my toilet corner. It’s anything but glamorous.

The second I was alone, I peeled off my wet black prison top and looped it around one of the horizontal bars of my cage door to dry. At least it got a good rinse.Some soap would be preferable next time it gets washed, though.

I don’t think they were prepared to house a woman in this prison, considering I wasn’t privileged enough to get a bra or panties. Not that I have a need for either of those here.

After resting for a while, I decide that I probably need to maintain my stamina if I’m going to be tortured every day. Getting to my feet, I assess my small space and determine that I have just enough room to work out.

I’m partially through my fifth set of push-ups—the metal music providing the perfect workout playlist—when Honey Eyes appears in front of my cell with my “dinner.” I swear it looks less like food with each passing day.

Jumping to my feet, I move over to the barred door. I totally forgot that I didn’t have a shirt on until those honey eyes on the other side of the cage drop to my full chest now glistening with sweat .

I’ve always found modesty to be overrated. I’ve had a “tits out” approach to life for as long as I can remember, and my philosophy hasn’t changed, despite my new living arrangements. Or perhaps he’s simply observing my ink.

“My shirt was a little damp,” I offer by way of explanation.

I don’t hide the way my eyes snake down his warrior’s body and linger at his crotch that appears to be somewhat snug at the moment. I titter lightly, before adding, “I bet you request we have another day at the water park now.”

He huffs behind his tight mask before shoving my food through the slot and sliding a cup of water in behind it.

Resting my forearms against the bars, I ask, “What’s your name?”

“Don’t worry about it.” The liquid timbre of his voice is warm and has a note of friendliness, despite his gruff reply.

“A question for a question, then.”

Widening his stance, he crosses his arms over his chest. He’s not armed with a rifle like all the other soldiers I’ve encountered, but he’s not unarmed either. His Glock practically glows like a beacon at his hip, and the smattering of tactical knives positioned on his body glint in the warm light from the hallway.

“Ladies first,” I tease, waving a hand in the air, my arms still resting casually against the metal bars.

He chuckles, the sound low and somewhat muffled. “Why try to blow up the Federal Reserve?”

Masking my mild annoyance, I smile as I pull my hands back through the bars and examine my black painted fingernails that are starting to grow out. Of course he’d try to ask something serious. “Excitement is so hard to come by these days.”

When he says nothing, I speak again, opting for something innocuous. “My turn. How old are you?”

“Thirty-one. How old are you? ”

“Twenty-eight.” My birthday is next month—October—but I don’t feel the need to let him know that.

“Where are you from?”

“Here and there, but I suspect you know that.” I wink at him as I say that last part and he lets out a puff of air—not quite an exhale, but not a laugh either.

“What does your mother think about you torturing men, women, and children?”

The hint of amusement in his gaze disappears in a flash and his stare goes cold. “You aren’t a child, and I’m not even sure you’re a woman.”

My expression turns flirty. “I’d be happy to prove it to you further, in case my tits weren’t enough.”

With a huff, he turns and stalks away. I didn’t miss the way he circumvented the comment about his mother altogether. I guess you can’t be too careful in a place like this. I’m sure that’s why they all cover their faces too. Although, I’ll readily admit that the masks are doing it for me. Mask kink unlocked.

As he drifts down the hallway, my mind flutters over the content of his questions in combination with the repeated questions Digs hurled my way earlier.

What the hell has my brother gotten himself into?

I’m getting an early workout in when the green-eyed masked man from the last couple of days comes to collect me for, what I’m coming to realize, is my daily torture session. I was reacquainted with a few more rounds of waterboarding over the last few days—or weeks? Hard to tell—which I’m starting to get all too comfortable enduring.

After slipping my black uniform top back on, I’m led back to the same interrogation room, but this time, the only thing in the entire room is a single metal chair in the center of the space .

Oh, finally something new. That’s exciting.

I’m roughly made to sit in the chair and the chain dangling from my cuffs is then connected to a bolt in the floor. Left alone, I stretch my neck from side to side as I close my eyes, settling into the silence of the room. I’ve nearly drifted to sleep when the metal door I came through earlier swings open. I internally roll my eyes at Digs’s obvious flair for dramatics. It’d be cute, maybe even sexy, if I weren’t on the receiving end of his unpleasant antics.

He saunters into the room alone, Honey Eyes nowhere in sight. I arch an eyebrow, waiting for him to start his barrage of questions I have no intention of answering. Circling my chair, he comes to a stop in front of me, leaning against the greyish concrete wall across from me that’s tinged a blue-green color, likely from mold.

Folding his burly, well-muscled arms across his wide chest, he props a booted foot against the wall behind him as he addresses me with casual aloofness. “Feel like talking today, Lou?”

Lou . No one calls me Lou except my brother, and I find it irritating coming from this man.

“Depends on the subject.”

He snorts with what I assume is laughter, but could be disappointment, but either way, it’s amusing to me.

“Where is the next target?”

I answer him with silence.

“Figured.”

New day, same shit. His line of questioning is not aging well, if I’m being honest. I’m already over it.

When I don’t answer, he pulls a rag from his back pocket and approaches me. He leans down to tie the piece of fabric at the back of my head and covering my eyes. In the close proximity, I accidentally inhale him. He smells of hot testosterone, intense masculinity, and pure savagery. I wish I could bottle his scent and dab it on my wrists before charging into battle.

I wish I didn’t like it .

When his seemingly powerful body abruptly disappears, I chastise myself for even appreciating his closeness.

Relying on my hearing, I catch the creak of a door opening, followed by shuffling, then the terse, shrill, distinct sound of a motor coming to life. I could recognize the humming sound made by a drill even in my sleep. I’m unable to contain the hearty laugh that bursts from me, my chest bouncing with the movement.

“You can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Excuse me?” Digs asks, sounding puzzled.

“You live for the drama.”

A chuckle sounds from somewhere else in the room, and I ask into the void, “That you, Honey Eyes?”

“Huh?” the man—not Digs—asks with confusion.

“Don’t answer her. She’s one brick short of a full load,” I hear Digs say matter-of-factly.

“Ah, it is you, Honey Eyes. I knew I recognized you. He’s just pissed that he didn’t get a cool nickname.”

I hear a dark chuckle, and I know, even without being able to see, that it came from Digs. The hypnotic sound sends a shiver through me, all the way down to my toes, and I feel like I’m wading into a lake in early spring, daring to submerge myself in what I know are sure to be dangerously cool waters.

“She’s not wrong,” Honey Eyes remarks.

“What kind of name is Digs anyway? Is it because you dig graves or something equally ridiculous?”When they give me the silent treatment, I add, “I already know your name, you sod.”

Another beat of silence passes before he finally answers me. “Short for Diggory.”

I’m gobsmacked that he answered me at all, let alone honestly. “So not even as cool as ‘grave digger’ then?”

I hear some low chuckles before Digs addresses me again, his tone all-business now. “As fun as this has been, it’s time for you to start giving up some answers. ”

When I don’t reply, my left foot is yanked into the air so my leg extends. Something cold and abrasive runs along the bridge of my bare foot. Bracing myself for whatever Satan—I mean Digs—can attack me with, I mentally take myself on a trip into one of my favorite memories.

The night air is crisp and cold. A veil of powdery snow resembling fluffy clouds blankets my surroundings, the radiant glow from the moon glittering against the white particles like reflective tape. I nestle into the little perch I made for myself on the rooftop of the building across from the nightclub.

Pulsing techno music escapes into the night every time the doors are opened—too often for my liking—but all has been quiet for the last hour. I know from the extensive reconnaissance I’ve done over the last few weeks that my target always exits through the front door and always at 3:27am.

Creatures of habit are easy, boring kills, but for once I’m grateful. I’ve been tracking this wanker for three weeks, ever since I found out he was still alive.

I glance down at my watch and see that it’s 3:25 a.m. Flicking off the safety as I lean over the scope of my rifle, I peer through the viewfinder trained on the doors. Giddiness bubbles through me, and I take a calming breath to keep my emotions at bay. I can host a personal party later. Besides, there won’t be anything to celebrate if I blow this because I got fucking excited .

Like clockwork, two minutes later, James Vunga?rd walks through the double doors of his nightclub, flanked by two security guards. The driver of his waiting SUV rounds the front of the car to open the door to the backseat for him.

With the crosshairs trained on his head, I suck in air and hold it. Undiluted joy races through me as I exhale, pulling the trigger of the bolt action AR-15, the silencer muffling the sound of my shot.

I watch through the glass of the scope as he falls backwards, blood immediately pooling around his head, painting the pristine snow a beautiful shade of deep crimson. His security team scrambles around him, one of them pulling out his sidepiece, his eyes darting around frantically as he searches for the perpetrator. He’ll never find me. No one ever does.

Retribution is a funny thing. It’s like taking a hit of a drug that you know you’ll only be able to savor once. It doesn’t bring back those you’ve lost and you’ll only be able to taste the intoxicating nectar of justice in your dreams, but it’s electrifying, nonetheless.

Observing the chaos for another minute or two through my binoculars, I revel in the sight of my parents’ murderer lying dead on the icy sidewalk that’s now his tomb.

While elation and satisfaction gallop through me at top speed as I pack up my rifle, there’s a thin membrane of disappointment that threatens to eclipse the delight that exacting my revenge brought me.

It’s over —in this lifetime, anyway.

I’ll pick up where I left off when I find him in Hell. Fortunately for my parents, but unfortunately for James Vunga?rd, vengeance is something I think I might excel in.

Cracking through the flimsy crust of malcontent, a wicked, slaked smile stretches across my face as I sling my bag over my shoulder, disappearing into the night, knowing that this was the only acceptable version of justice.

When I come out of my dreamy memory, it’s to my own agony. I bite down on my tongue to keep from screaming, but that doesn’t stop the tears from wetting the rag covering my eyes and tracking down my dirty face. Blood fills my mouth, but I hardly notice it over the searing pain ricocheting through my body.

As my suffering continues, I pray to Kiputytto , Pain Girl in Finnish mythology, to take my pain from me and hide it away in Pain Rock, so her snakes might eat my torment. I know she doesn’t exist, but she’s my best shot at easing my anguish.

Just then, Honey Eyes removes my blindfold, and I look down to find that I’m missing the second, third, and fourth toenails on my left foot, though I suppose that’s better than the drill I thought they’d take to the ball of my foot. Deep crimson stains the floor and Digs’s forearms where he’s crouched before me. I’m sure my blood is on his massive hands as well, but his black gloves hide that.

“You really don’t have anything to say?” Digs asks, locking his vast, oceanic gaze with mine as he stares up at me.

I say nothing. I don’t have anything to say to him, but even if I did, I’m utterly incapable of speech at the moment.

“Maybe removing a few more will jog your memory.”

I hiss out a breath, enough to form words and choke out, “Take them all.”

His eyes widen a fraction at my brazen but honest statement. Sighing, he drops the metal pliers still in his hand, and they clatter to the floor, ringing out in the otherwise quiet room. The sound is still echoing in my mind as I close my eyes, willing myself to pass the fuck out. This pain is scorching, burning me from the inside out, and I have no idea how I’ll be able to walk out of here. But I don’t need to be able to walk and I certainly don’t need toenails.

I simply need to be alive when my brother retrieves me.