Twisted Together (Monsters in the Dark #3)(134)

       
         
       
        

I just had to stay alive long enough for back-up to arrive.

The asshole wielding the gun in my spine pushed hard.

I snapped.

Splaying my legs for balance, I spun around, slapping the gun away. The heavy weapon clattered to the driveway.

The guy's nostrils flared as he bent to pick it up.

Kick. Kill.

My leg twitched, and I couldn't stop the urge. My muscles bunched; the tip of my black dress-shoe connected with the underside of his chin. His head snapped backward, sending him sprawling to the irregular stonework of the driveway.

Blood instantly flowed from his mouth, eyes flickering closed.

"For fuck's sake-get Mercer inside!" The leader stalked toward me.

Instead of standing still, waiting for punishment, I prowled forward, pushing my taller form against his in a blatant threat. "I'm capable of stepping into a house on my own accord. I don't trust you and your fucking imbeciles with guns." Muttering under my breath, I said, "Tu as environ six heures à vivre. Vis les pleinement." You have about six hours to live. Enjoy them wisely.

Not waiting for a reply, I headed toward the entrance.

Once again, I pressed the hard node under my skin. A small smidgen of relief soothed my anger. I calculated how long it would take a rescue party to turn up. If Franco had put the plan into effect before they took me, it would be anywhere from six to eight hours before the team would be mobile and on Lynx's doorstep.

I'll go with six hours.

Six hours to keep Lynx talking and away from any particularly life threatening tools.

Raising my bound hands, I knocked on the old-fashioned stain-glass door. The glass depicted a bare forest-tree skeletons in burnt oranges, browns, and blacks.

A memory of coming here thirteen months ago to collect a slave filled my mind-the games I played. The role I embraced of sadistic master buying a woman as if it was a normal transaction.

My heart sped up as the door swung open. I kept my features blank. Disdain dripped from every pour, no longer hiding how much I fucking hated the retard in front of me.

Lynx smiled, his tanned skin gleaming against the dark red of his suit. A black mandarin shirt, coupled with bright crimson shoes, made him look fucking ridiculous. His hair was the usual black mohawk, gelled into submission, while the shorter sides mirrored the same dark red of his trousers and blazer.

"Going on a date, Dante?" I raised an eyebrow. "Dressed like that I'd say you're fishing for cock not pussy." He wasn't gay-just a fucking tosser trying way too hard.

Lynx pursed his lips. He hated that I knew his real name. Dante Emestro. When he'd contacted me five years ago, asking for help with planning permission for an illegal racetrack in a low density area, I'd done my usual background checks. I'd jangled every skeleton, knew every torrid secret. I also knew he'd sold his sister when he turned eighteen, all to gain access to the underbelly of trafficking. 

Nasty piece of shit.

His black, soulless eyes glanced at my ruined dinner attire. A smile spread his lips, no doubt taking in the swelling of my face and the multitude of bruises sustained from the journey. "You better thank your fucking stars I'm not gay, Mercer. Or tonight might've ended in a completely different way for you." He licked his lips. "However, I could add something along those lines to the activities if you wish?" He had no facial hair apart from a ridiculous chin strap. I would happily carve it from his face and shove it in his mouth for such a comment.

"I'd be careful, Dante. Don't want another curse added to your reputation."

"What other curse?"

I shrugged. "The curse you've brought upon yourself by bringing me here against my will." I leaned closer, noticing he looked older than his thirty-one years-mainly thanks to cocaine abuse. "I plan on killing you tonight. You're my trophy to show other cunts like you that I'm not going to put up with turf wars or killings."

He laughed loudly. "You plan on killing me? I think you have it the wrong way around, Mercer." Losing his mirth, he snapped, "You're a fucking fake. And I don't play well with fakes." Looking over my shoulder, he ordered, "Help bring Mr. high and mighty Mercer inside."

A kick landed on my lower back, sending me careening forward. With my hands bound, I couldn't keep my balance and sprawled at his feet. My thigh screamed as the wound sent more blood seeping. A steel-capped boot crunched against the back of my leg, smashing my kneecap into the stone floor.

Fuck! I wanted to howl. But I didn't. I ate the pain. Devouring it just like I would him.