Page 22 of Hysteria Rises (Dark Falls Hollow #1)

SIXTEEN

DELILAH

I don’t know what to make of what’s happening. My eyes flick to the collar on the floor of the bathroom, but neither Hayze nor Cross has made any move to put it back on me. My fingers curl around the towel where it’s gathered between my breasts.

“If you don’t give us trouble, you can hang onto that for now.

” Cross shoots me an obnoxious wink. Funny, but if this were another life and a boy had winked at me like that, I’d have thought he was flirting.

But this is not a fucking appropriate time for it.

I doubt they even know what flirting is.

There’s no evidence of them understanding that their behavior is bizarre.

The depravity of this place is unmatched by anything I’ve experienced before. And that’s saying a lot.

My free hand fists, and I seriously consider punching this cocky ass in the nose and finding out what he makes of that. It wouldn’t be the first time.

The only thing that holds me back is my desire to keep the towel.

I’m unnerved that these men seem to think it’s okay to treat me like this.

But at the same time, I have an overwhelming sense that this might be somewhat new for these two.

The way they stare at me makes me want to run far, far away from this place and never look back.

If only that were an option, I’d be outta here in my next breath.

With one of them on either side of me, they usher me into the room we’d come through earlier.

For now, they keep their hands to themselves.

I still can’t help but flip back and forth between whether they’re going to take me back down to the cell or do god knows what else to me.

If I don’t cooperate, it could go either way.

I don’t know what the hell my best move is.

So, much like I had in the exam room, I catalog every bit of this place. Maybe something I notice will be of future use to me. I have no idea how, but I have to keep looking ahead to any chance I might have to get myself out of this mess.

The furniture, as well as everything else, shouts that a man resides here. My brow furrows as we skirt around a large bed and head toward a utilitarian-looking chair in the corner.

It reminds me of a dentist’s chair. It clearly goes up and down. Reclines. But where a recliner might have a single footrest that kicks out, on this one, that portion is divided in half, almost as if one could choose which leg to extend.

My mind rushes to put together the pieces of the puzzle. Sure enough, I’m being led to the chair in question, and as we reach it, my eyes fall to the rather wide cushioned arms.

With my chest jerking, I fight for calm … because this chair is set up to restrain someone. The straps that might be used to tie down the person unlucky enough to be seated on it are clearly visible.

As we come to a stop, Hayze gestures to it. “Sit.”

I glance at him from the corner of my eye. “No.” The cart beside the chair has snagged my interest. I drag in another breath, shaking my head. “No fucking way.”

Cross scrubs a hand through his hair, his lips pulling into a grimace.

Shrugging, Hayze’s blue eyes roam my face as he murmurs, “’Fraid so.”

They grab me by my biceps, and I can’t do much to stall the inevitable so I let my body go absolutely limp.

My knees hit the floor first, pain bursting in them before I tumble to my ass.

Promptly drawing my legs to my chest, I curl into a ball.

Above me, one of them lets out a groan and the other bites back a quiet curse.

“You’ll get up and sit in that fucking chair because I told you to,” Hayze bites out.

I glance upward, shaking my head, then pinch my lips together, refusing to say a goddamn word. If they want me in that chair so bad, they can fucking put me there. I stiffen, refusal written in every inch of my body language.

“Insolent thing, isn’t she?” Cross glances at his friend—brother? I don’t fucking know—and from the corner of my eye, I catch the smirk playing at his lips.

My show of resistance is for nothing, because a moment later—with zero effort at all—I’m deposited right where they want me.

Before I can react, I’m shackled. Again.

“What’s wrong with you?” I hiss.

Hayze cocks his head to the side, eyes roaming over me in a way that fills me with nothing but trepidation. “You’ll find this goes better for you … and is less painful … if you sit there quietly.”

Painful. My throat goes immediately dry at his warning. His words are nothing short of an admission that there’s nothing about this I’m going to like or want.

Determined to figure out what I’m in for, I covertly watch from under nearly closed eyelids as he turns to the cart of supplies.

A rush of prickling fear skitters along my limbs.

I’ve finally made sense of what I’m seeing, and it’s not good.

That’s a fucking tattoo gun. What. The. Fuck? They wouldn’t.

My entire soul deflates as I give a futile tug on the restraints.

Somewhere deep within, I know there’s no escaping this.

Sweat breaks out on my lower back under the towel, my anxiety rising.

Grasping at straws, I blurt out, “Do you even know what you’re doing with that?

” But when I study the efficient way Hayze sets up the equipment, I’m forced to admit my question is ridiculous.

He shifts to aim an incredulous stare at me, then huffs out a laugh. “I should fucking think so. I did all of mine that I could reach.” His gaze slides to his asshole accomplice in this fiasco before he murmurs proudly, “And his.”

“That he did.” Cross’s lips twitch as I glance over, looking more carefully at the ink that covers his forearms. My eyes flick to the open collar of his shirt, noting that intricate designs peek out there as well.

A sinking feeling swirls in my gut, and I can’t stem the tremble of my lip as he turns my forearm over in the restraint and tightens it down even more than he already had. “Gonna get you ready now.”

From the determined looks on both their faces, there’s no stopping this. My heart rate skyrockets, and while I sit, dumbstruck, Cross washes my arm with some sort of soap, then—apparently for good measure—also applies an antiseptic.

I grit my teeth for a moment before a sad chuckle slips out. “Well, at least I’m less likely to get a gross infection.” My stomach pitches at the thought, then I firmly state, “You’re not doing this to me.”

I suck in a breath when Hayze turns with the gun ready. His expression is carefully blank. “We don’t have a choice. This is how things are done.”

What the hell does that mean? This creepy mountain society—if I can even call it society—is all kinds of fucked-up.

“Wait,” I cry out as Hayze comes at me with his weapon of choice.

I can’t help myself. I stutter. “D-Don’t you have to transfer a design to my skin somehow?

” Words keep bubbling from me, unbidden.

“What about drawing the design on my skin? Or … or …” Stall!

I scream inside my head. But I already know deep down—this is inevitable.

A goddamn runaway train that has careened off the tracks.

Swallowing hard, my eyes flick to meet Hayze’s as he pulls a stool over to the chair and takes a seat. The muscle in his jaw moves as his gaze pins on my arm. Assessing. Then he murmurs. “I prefer to work freehand.”

My eyes bug out. Gulping air now, my breath comes faster and faster.

“You’re crazy, you know that?” I whisper frantically, growing more distraught by the second.

“What are you— Why?” Possibilities whir through my mind, but I can’t land on anything concrete.

And then, he bends over my arm, gun in one hand and guides it to my skin.

It hurts. Painful, but not like I expected being repeatedly jabbed by a needle to be. Trying to breathe through the relentless abrasion of my skin as he works, I zone out. And after a while, my brain becomes surprisingly numb to the discomfort.

Unable to watch, I squeeze my eyes shut.

There’s no way in hell to know what he’s marking me with or why the hell these men seem so intent on marking me.

Fear slithers over my skin, an endless sickness winding.

“Why are you doing this?” I bite my lip, wondering how long I’m going to have to endure their sick brand of torture.

A hand squeezes my leg above my knee. It’s the hazel-eyed fucker, Cross. “It’ll go easier if you let yourself breathe.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, I lift my head and turn in the direction of his voice.

“If he won’t stop, I don’t want it to go easier.

” I pause to wet my lips, summoning courage that should be used up by now.

“I want to remember every single second of this.” The rage I feel in this moment will fuel every decision I make and every action I take.

For several minutes, it’s absolutely quiet in the room, barring the incessant sound of the tattoo gun.

It goes on and on and on. All I can do is focus on other things.

I hate that the warmth of the hand intermittently squeezing my thigh is admittedly reassuring.

The concentration etched into Hayze’s features is admirable, but I wouldn’t hesitate to punch him if my arms weren’t secured to the chair.

I’ve been attempting to draw a mental map of where he’s inked my skin, but I still have no idea what he’s doing.

I don’t really want to know. Then, abruptly, the relentless buzzing stops, as does the abrading of my skin.

There’s some low murmuring between the men that I block out, but then there’s a squeak from one of the roller wheels of the stool, and I know they’ve traded places.

Even though my eyes remain shut, tears leak from them in a steady stream while Hayze tinkers with his equipment and Cross takes a seat on the stool opposite me.