Page 68 of Inked & Bloodbound

I try again, this time targeting a couple at the bar who seem to be thinking about more than just a burning hunger.

The twins are gonna skin him alive. I wanna watch.

“The couple at the bar,” I whisper to Cass. “Someone’s thinking about the twins.”

Cassini nods approvingly. “Good. Try someone else.”

“He was thinking something about being skinned alive,” I say hesitantly, but Cass is dismissive, waving his hand and shifting his eyes to a group of suited guys huddled together.

“Don’t worry about it. Try them. Over by the bar.”

“Those guys? Seriously?” I wrinkle my nose and gesture toward the pack of middle-aged suits nursing their drinks.

With their polyester ties and department store shirts, they look about as dangerous as a PTA meeting. Hell, I’ve seen scarier energy at a church potluck. But Cassini’s dark smile tells me everything I need to know—sometimes the most lethal predators are the ones who look like they sell life insurance for a living.

He grins. “Positive. Trust me on this one.”

I shift my focus, but I can’t get through. I push gently, but there’s definitely something blocking me. The sounds filter in, but they’re faded, clipped and crackling with static. Like a car radio trying to tune itself in a dead zone. Only picking up the occasional word.

Cunt

Dumb

Blood

I drop my head in defeat. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I think I need a break or something. There’s just too many voices in here, and none of them feel clear enough to follow. I’m only getting single words like puzzle pieces.”

Somewhere in my crown, a deep pain hits. The first headache I’ve had in days, and it’s a punishing thunderclap. I squeeze my eyes together and wince as the wave of agony crashes over me.

He reaches across the table and lays his hand on top of mine, dwarfing it. “Try for me, fiore? Please?” he says as he strokes my hand. “Just a little more for me, okay? You’re doing so well, my darling. Good girl. You can do it.”

A film of tears forming as I bite back the growing ache at the base of my skull. I nod and suck in a breath, squeezing my eyes together,

I can do this. I just need to focus.

The window calls out to me again, and I edge toward the swarm of voices clamoring for my attention. I push against the pane, and it widens a few more inches, loosening the barrier between the living and the dead.

Paloma warned me about taking it easy at first, protecting myselfwhilst I learn, so I need to be cautious. Slowly and steadily the volume turns up, and the crackle of static fades.

This time when I try to spy on the huddle of middle managers at the bar, I get a few more clear snippets of their thoughts. They all have such different voices, and when I block out all the other noise of the bar, I can pick them out of the crowd.

The chubby guy in a navy sweater vest thinks only of women. Endless parades of naked women. His lazy southern drawl dripping with predacious intent. His mind is filled with redheads, brunettes, and blondes. Gushing femoral arteries and blood-soaked tongues invading the most intimate places.

Gross.

I shudder and turn my attention to the little guy with an outdated crew cut. His thoughts are far more chaotic. They run into each other and suddenly change direction without warning. Spiraling and bouncing through my head. He’s a tweaker. Desperate for more meth-laced blood.

Nothing interesting there.

I’m bordering on boredom when I tap into the tall man in the beige pinstripe shirt and tortoiseshell glasses. He looms over the others by a good six inches, a sick smirk fixed on his face. His thoughts are like enmeshed serpentine hisses, quiet and sinister. When I follow his threads, I get only images of violence.

I’ve had this happen before in tiny flashes. I’ll get the occasional image pop into my head like a single frame of a film reel before it’s swiftly whipped away. But with this guy, the images linger. Bloodied, terrified women, with bottomless eyes and pleading expressions. Even a split second of it is too much, and I lurch forward and gag at the sight of a chained and panic-stricken girl begging for her life.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I say, surging up from the table and knocking a glass to the ground.

“Just a little?—”

I grab my purse from the table, tears streaming down my face as I wipe them away with the back of my hand. “No,” I say, my voice cracking. “That’s enough. I told you I needed a break.”