My gaze lowers to the puzzle pieces inking his skin. “Then I’m curious what design you would implement to take care of the problem.”
He glances at his tattoos, then looks me in the eyes, a smirk on his face. “Only I know the design of my puzzles. That’s why I’m still here and free, despite what you may hear on the news. You’re using a pattern. Her pattern. Do you think she won’t figure it out? And if she does, others can too.”
As he grabs the electrode rods, a sense of dread spears my chest. “Wait… What the hell? I thought we’d come to an agreement.”
“I’m giving you seven days to implement your plan. When time runs out, I’ll find you.” He taps the rods together. “Ready for round two?”
“I already agreed to your fucking terms—”
“Oh, this isn’t for me,” he says. “It’s for your girl. I feel she’s entitled to a little of your torture.”
I laugh, I can’t help it. He’s absolutely fucking right. If he cooks my brain, it wouldn’t come close to atoning for what I’ve done to her. Yet, even if I can confess such a thing, doesn’t change the fact I’d do it all over again just for a chance to make her love me.
“Mouthguard,” I say.
Grayson smirks down at me. “You’re earning another measure of my respect, Chambers.”
As electricity courses my body, I watch the dim light of the floor lamp flicker along the ceiling as juice is sucked away. I count the seconds. I count until the induced seizures misshape the form of numbers in my mind’s eye.
I lose consciousness.
When the torment’s over, I pry my eyes open. My eyelids feel weighted down. Like coming up quickly from the depths of the ocean, my body attempts to equilibrate. Nausea grips my stomach with acute urgency to vomit.
I turn my head and lean over the gurney. A bucket has been placed below.
Too drowsy and discombobulated to think of freeing myself completely, I flop back onto the bed and wait until I’m able to string a coherent sentence together without slurring my speech.
At the sound of his footfalls, I say, “I’m a little insulted you didn’t create one of your elaborate traps for me.”
Grayson swipes the scalpel from the table. “Not everyone can be special.”
I blink slowly. My body is a languid puddle of soggy bones. I guess I should consider him gracious since he didn’t crank the voltage higher than two hundred. I’ll be sore, my muscles bruised, my brain sluggish, but I’ll recover in less than twenty-four hours.
“Just remember the time, Chambers. I made it easy for you to keep track of.” He uses the scalpel to cut the leather cuff away from my ankle. Then he slices through my pant leg.
For the first time, as I try to move my leg, I notice the tender soreness of my calf. Grayson lays the scalpel in my open palm. My fingers curl around the cool steel.
“I made a few alterations while you were out,” he says. “I think you’ll appreciate the special detail I designed just for you.”
Confusion wraps my head like a fuzzy blanket, one right out of the dryer, hot and crackling with static electricity. I grip the tool with weak muscles, the urgency to sit up battling with my body’s desire to pass out.
As Grayson strolls toward the door, I meet his cool gaze. “Seven days isn’t enough,” I say.
Halted at the door, he looks around my bare lab, then he reaches into his pocket and produces a USB drive. My USB drive. The only memory chip with the recorded compound to my procedure.
“You have two weeks,” he concedes. “But I’m taking this—” he waves the drive “—as insurance. When you deliver, I’ll deliver.”
“And if I don’t?”
His features remain impassive. “I’ll eviscerate you and feed your entrails to my pet fish.”
I let him have the last word. As he disappears from the room, I hastily use the scalpel to cut through the restraints. Once I’m free, I glance around to make sure I’m still alone, then close my eyes briefly to brace myself. I tear my pant leg the rest of the way up the seam so I can inspect my leg, and sickness roils my stomach at the sight.
“Jesus Christ—”
The ticking I heard was not inside my head; it wasn’t some subconscious, delusional manifestation. It was fucking real. He had a pocket watch on him. He brought it here, knowing the whole damn time how this was going to end.
A clock face from an antique Rolex pocket watch has been stitched to the meatiest portion of my calf.
A goddamn watch is sewn into my leg.
After the initial shock wears off, I inspect further. Looks like he used 30 gauge, fine silver wire. Despite my resentment, I can appreciate the detail. The Rolex is a classic. The thin, pure silver chain of the watch has been wrapped around the timepiece and soldered to the watch casing, creating a pattern to which he used to stitch the wires through the chain links.
Sullivan was a welder in his previous life, I reason, as I cautiously touch the Rolex. My calf flames as I apply the slightest pressure, and the vibration of the ticking secondhand plucks my nerves.
That sick fucking bastard.
6
Out of the Shadows
Blakely
Sweat trickles down the side of my face. I use the back of my gloved hand to wipe damp hair from my forehead before I bring my fists up and jab the punching bag.
I wrapped my hands with gel gloves, the same kind MMA fighters use. They work better for Jiu-jitsu training. Plus, I won’t be wearing boxing gloves when I come up against Alex. Best to get used to having little protection over my hands.
I’ve been coming to this gym for over six weeks. It’s close to my loft, and is nearly vacant at this time in the afternoon. I always stay later than my trainer. My flight from San Francisco was seven hours with the layover in Atlanta, giving me plenty of time to think.
London believes Alex will find me—that it’s not a matter of if but when.
I kick the bag, imagining Alex’s groin, envisioning the moment he’s standing in front of me and what I’ll have to do to take him down. I can’t hesitate. I made the mistake of underestimating him once, and he put a needle in my neck.
This time, when he appears in my life, I won’t give him the chance.
I started martial arts as an answer to the question that plagued me, whether or not Alex was really gone. Then I began to enjoy acquiring the skill. Knowing I can arm and defend myself physically where I’m emotionally impaired is empowering.
I now understand why women take self-defense classes.
There’s some news program playing on the wall-mounted televisions, the prompt scrolling across the bottom of the screens warning an urgent message about the rise in fuel costs.
I have no idea what’s going on in the larger world. It used to be a part of my job to keep up with current events, to talk intelligently with my clients and targets, to know how inflating costs would affect each job.
Now, I purposely avoid the news. I don’t like the way all the grisly stories and tragedy makes me feel. I’m constantly fighting my own inner turmoil to keep my fluctuating emotions in check. I don’t need outside sources influencing me there.
I adjust my ear pods and crank the music. Such a strange phenomenon lately, where I actually listen to music while doing tasks and training. I never comprehended it before. But as my heart flutters in my chest, and my head buzzes with the surge of adrenaline, I get lost in the sensation.