Marcus's laughter filled the warehouse like someone pouring acid on an open wound—caustic, eating through what little hope I had left. His two hulking men flanked the room, arms folded, eyes dead and watchful. The blonde one kept a pistol tucked at his hip like a promise; the other wound a length of rope around his knuckles, each twist deliberate, patient. Jackson stood in the centre of the concrete wasteland, hands empty, jaw working overtime, the air between us all razor-thin and ready to snap.
Ten years. Ten years since I'd escaped this monster, and here I was again—his prize, his unfinished business.
Marcus held me by the arm like I was a prize on a leash. His fingers were leaving bruises that would bloom purple by morning. If I lived to see morning. My shirt hung in tatters from his
