Page 50 of Through Any Fire (Any x #1)

S creams erupt from the room. We’re back inside one of the torture rooms, with Peter Agapov strapped to the metal chair. This time, I insisted on being inside. Cal must’ve seen the severity in my face—he didn’t object.

The room isn’t big, about the size of a standard bedroom that seems to have been converted into a torture space.

The floor is mostly clean besides the pooling blood below Peter’s body, and the light flickers erratically from the fluorescent bulbs above.

Each cry echoes throughout the empty room, and I swallow back nausea.

I school my expression as Cal and Matthias play with Peter, slicing cuts all over his skin.

His naked body is filthy and caked in blood, and the gunshot wound in his shoulder trickles.

“Will she be here soon?” My voice startles both Cal and Matthias. They look over at me like they’d forgotten I was here.

On the drive back to the Keane residence, Cal sent a message to Rose that we’d apprehended Peter.

They decided to bring him back to the Keane’s to interrogate, and Rose would come by to land the final blow.

I don’t know why she wanted to be the one to end him.

I can only assume he’s wronged her somehow.

My stomach clenches as images of Alice’s broken and petrified body resurface.

Cal lands a suffering blow to Peter’s ribs that stuns the lowlife, and sick pleasure curls in my chest.

“She’ll be here in a few.” This comes from Everett, who steps into the room.

He’s filthy, too, and a disturbing smile curls the corner of his mouth.

His strides eat up the short distance to the center of the room, and he pushes Matthias to the side.

As a unit, they work like a well-oiled machine, instinctively yielding to each other’s silent commands.

They’ve done this before.

The thought doesn’t churn my stomach like it might have in the past. Instead, I’m grateful for their experience. They seem ready to draw this out, and for Alice’s sake, I hope they’re able to.

Not just Alice. He hurt you, too.

The unbidden thought takes me by surprise, and a surge of fury courses through my veins. I might have had Cal there to comfort me, but if I had any less training, or had been any less aware of the situation, I would’ve been his next victim.

My teeth grind together, my fingers curling into fists as I take a calculated step toward Peter.

It’s like I’ve fallen into a trance, not realizing what I’m doing until my face is inches from his.

The men have fallen back a step, either in confusion over my actions or understanding. I was owed my lick, too.

I extend a hand, and when cool metal touches my palm, I smile. A gash splits Peter’s forehead, and his left eye swells shut. For talking such a big game, he’s sure trembling like a little bitch. His cracked lips part, and he tries to speak, but nothing comes out. Pathetic .

My fingers curl around the knife Cal handed me.

The metal warms in my hand, and I adjust my grip, dragging it between Peter and me.

His one working eye widens at the glint of the sharpened blade, and he murmurs…

something. I can’t make it out. But what he doesn’t seem to realize is that I’m not looking for answers.

“Where?”

Peter’s brows furrow, but Cal understands my question.

“Shoulder. Above the collarbone.”

Raw wounds and purple bruises mottle Peter’s skin.

Cuts from Cal and Everett, the gunshot…Both fresh and dried blood paint his skin.

Simple joy bubbles in my chest, and I can’t help the curl to my lips.

Before Peter can even scream, I sink the blade into his shoulder.

It slices through his skin and muscle like butter, hitting bone.

Just for fun, I twist the blade. Peter screams in agony, and it’s the sweetest music to my ears.

“You’re a sadistic little bunny, aren’t you?” Cal whispers against the shell of my ear.

I straighten to my full height—at five and a half feet, I’m not tall by any means, but I still tower over the strapped Peter—and a sneer twists my lips, my nose scrunching.

My head tips over to look at Callahan. Lust sparks behind his brown eyes, and his tongue darts out to wet his lip.

He lets out a quiet ooph when I slip a bloodied hand behind his neck and pull his face to mine, but he falls easily into the kiss.

Our tongues tangle, and goosebumps rise on the nape of his neck, his silky hair tickling my fingers.

“Ahem.” Everett clears his throat, and we break apart, a dopey smile now plastered onto my face.

A pained groan sounds beside us, and I turn back to Peter as Cal’s arms slide around my waist from behind.

His hold is possessive, and I can feel him staring daggers over the top of my head.

Then a gentle kiss presses against my crown, and Cal shuffles me to the side.

In a flash, he yanks out the knife still in Peter’s shoulder.

Peter swears, but it comes out more mumbled than he’s probably aware.

“Who are you working with?” Cal’s voice is bitter as death, and a shiver rolls down my spine.

Peter’s smile is bloody, stretching across his face as the red liquid coats his teeth.

Still, he doesn’t answer. Each time I’ve been in his presence, I’ve felt something different.

First, confusion and apprehension. Then, pure, blinding terror.

And now…I feel nothing for the broken man in front of me.

When his spirit leaves this mortal earth, all I’ll feel is relief he’s no longer alive. If that makes me evil, so be it.

Cal drags the bloodied knife over Peter’s chest, never pressing hard enough to break the skin. The blade leaves behind a red mark, and Cal presses it under Peter’s chin, forcing the man to strain his face upward or risk impaling on the blade.

“You must know how this is going to go.” Cal’s words are hushed, and Peter’s throat bobs. “I can make this more painful”—he presses the blade harder under Peter’s chin, and a fresh bead of blood drops—“or you can tell me what you know and I’ll make it quick.”

I know he’s lying; there is no quick or painless for Peter Agapov.

The man strapped to the chair flicks his eyes over the room—Everett standing over Cal’s shoulder, me in the corner. A raspy, twitching laugh rumbles out of his chest, which quickly turns into a cough.

“Do you think I don’t know you’ll make it torturous, no matter what I say?” Spittle mixed with blood drips from the corner of his mouth .

Cal’s brows relax, almost as if he’s satisfied that Peter didn’t tell him. It gives him the chance to continue the torture.

The door opens. A woman strides in, green eyes focused solely on the man in the chair.

For a brief moment, they swing to me, widening infinitesimally.

She has deep auburn hair pulled into a high pony and a spattering of freckles over her nose.

This must be Rose. Despite our late-night call, she looks ready for business, wearing a black turtleneck tucked into combat pants and boots.

She looks vaguely familiar, but I dismiss the thought upon recognizing her as the woman in Cal’s car the other night.

Though she can’t be taller than five feet, her aura swells in the room, demanding respect and commanding attention.

And she’s not alone, either.

Two men flank her on either side, both silent as they observe their new surroundings.

The one on the right is bald with a scruffy beard and a scar slashing through his eyebrow.

He looks perpetually angry. The other is leaner, but an icy air flows from his frame, and I doubt he’s any less deadly than the other.

Their gazes flick over the room, landing on Peter in the center.

“Thanks for the call.” Rose’s voice is raspy and sensual. She can’t be any older than I am, but there’s a haunting behind her eyes that tells me she’s seen more than her fair share of trauma.

Welcome to the club.

“I’d say ‘anytime,’ but I hope this doesn’t become a regular occurrence.”

Rose smiles at Cal’s joke, but it doesn’t spark my jealousy. It almost feels reverent. Her boots echo with each step she takes toward Peter, the room feeling more and more crowded by the minute .

She circles the chair, and we give her a wide berth. Peter watches her with his one good eye, but he doesn’t seem to recognize her. His lack of response sadly doesn’t answer why she wanted the killing blow.

When she pauses behind the chair, rigidity sets into her bones. Her sight doesn’t leave the back of Peter’s head, and her voice rings out steady in the small space.

“May we have the room?”

Cal freezes. “We still need the name of his partner.”

Rose’s lips twist into a macabre grin. A hand with sharp black nails slides over Peter’s neck and squeezes. “I’ll be sure to ask.”

Cal thinks for a moment, and nods curtly. He slips an arm around my waist and leads me toward the exit. Everett opens the door for us, and we step over the threshold as Peter’s incoherent cries begin again. The man with the scar through his brow follows us toward the door and moves to shut it.

“Why did you want the last shot?” Cal asks as we leave.

Something dark shutters in her eyes, a bitter fury eclipsing her youthful features. Her jaw grinds, and when she speaks it’s practically a hiss. “He killed my father. You may have known him.” Her throat bobs. “Andrew Thorne.”

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. She’s Andy’s daughter? The implications swirl in the air between us. No one seems to know what to say. And if she’s Andy’s daughter, that means she’s Mia’s daughter. Rose might be a Thorne, but she’s also a fucking Bianchi.

“Oh, and Cal,” Rose says brightly, “I hope she forgave you for holding her brother in your torture room all this time.”

The door slams shut and an audible lock engages as Peter’s cries escalate to a fever pitch. Her words ring in my head, and a fuzzy tunnel blurs my periphery. The color drains from Cal’s face. It’s all the confirmation I need.

Fury rips through me. My blood boils under my skin, fingers trembling with rage and itching to wrap themselves around Callahan’s neck.

This whole time he’s had Mason?

“Which room?”

Cal opens his mouth, but I silence him with the slice of my hand. “No. You don’t get to speak. Take me to him. Now .”

Sweat beads along his hairline, his temple shiny with perspiration as his throat bobs. But his feet move, leading me to the fourth room. Eight beeps pierce the tense silence as Cal puts in the code, then his hand lands on the handle with a deep sigh.

“Bunny,” his voice cracks, and the sharp ache I thought had healed splits in half.

I ignore his plea, shoving past him with a rough shoulder as I rip open the door. There he lays, my baby brother knocked out cold on a cot.