Information.
Blue-gray eyes crack open and meet mine. I jerk to my feet, leaning over her. “Avalon?” She doesn’t respond to the sound of her name. Not even a flicker of recognition. Dark bruises underline her eyes and an even darker one mars the side of her face. She’s been slapped, punched, raped—fuck—and it’s because of me.
She ran because I’d been too fucking angry, too blinded and possessive. I’d wanted to make her hurt, but not like this. Never like this. “Avalon, can you hear me?” I try again.
Her dry, cracked lips part. “Why the fuck are you here?” she croaks out.
Should’ve expected that. I drop the washcloth into the basin of the bowl that I’d brought to her bedside and reach for a bottle of water. “Are you thirsty?” I lift it up and shake it at her.
She stares at it for a moment as if uncomprehending and then she nods. I help her sit up and touch the opening to her mouth. She drains it in less than a minute, sucking back every drop like she’s been traveling the Sahara for years. “I came to bring you back,” I say quietly.
A low, pained groan echoes through the door, drawing her attention. Avalon turns and looks over my shoulder. I’m in here with her, but she should know that I’m not alone. I’m never alone. “They’re out there,” I tell her and then grit my teeth as a burning violence beats a steady drum in my head.
“The Mustang,” she mutters, the random word making me blink as I glance at her. I touch the back of her head and it’s like she doesn’t even notice. She doesn’t flinch away or even spare me a glance as her eyes remain fixed on the door.
“What about the Mustang?” I ask.
“There’s a gun in the glove compartment,” she says, finally turning to meet my gaze. “I need you to go get it for me.”
I stare at her. This is what makes her different, I realize. She’s not cowering, not afraid of the man she knows is in the other room. She’s not doing what any other woman would be. She’s far too cold for that, like a perfectly cut blade. I can see it in her eyes. She doesn’t care. All she wants is retribution.
There’s a turbulent need in me to give that to her. She deserves it. She should do it. And even if she doesn’t, I will. Because whether she realizes it or not, this whole situation reeks of a setup. Though there’s blood on the floor of the trailer, obviously not from her or her rapist—her mother is nowhere to be found. Not only that, but it’s still bothering me—the way she left. I’d been too wrapped up in my anger and the feeling of betrayal to see it.
“No need,” I say, reaching back and retrieving the gun inside my back holster. I pull it out, flick the safety off and hand it to her. “You have this.”
The low groaning on the other side of the door turns into a high-pitched scream. She fingers the gun. “What are they doing?” she asks, knowing exactly who they are. Brax and Abel—most likely Brax. Even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t stop him, and I don’t want to make them stop. I’m relishing in those sounds of torture.
“You know what they’re doing,” I state. “They’re making sure your prey stays right where he’s supposed to.” I pause and finger the frayed edge of the paper thin mattress she’s lying on. I don’t even want to think of the things it’s soiled with—it looks like it’s damn near twenty years old and it smells like piss and vomit. “Until you’re ready.”
“I’m ready.” As she says it, she slides her legs out from under the covers and stands up. She doesn’t look stable and her eyes are far colder than I’ve ever seen before.
I stop her before she reaches the door. “Avalon,” I place a hand against the doorframe and stare down at her, “this changes nothing between us.”
Her head tilts back and she stares at me unblinking, and she says four words that prove just how much of a savage my girl is. “Open the door, Dean.”
53
Avalon
I don’t feel like myself, and yet, at the same time, I feel more like myself than I’ve ever fucking felt in my life. There are whispers in my mind. Ice in my skin. Hatred in my veins.
I feel fucking wrathful.
There's still nausea in my system. I can feel the need to puke like a goddamn anchor around my neck, tugging me down, down and even further down into a dark pit that I refuse to let myself sink into. My skin is cold and clammy and every step forward feels like I'm dragging chains behind me. How long have I been out? I'd been given two doses of whatever that shit was Roger had shot me up with. Sweat coats the back of my neck and the top of my forehead, but I clench my hand around the handle of the gun and that, surprisingly, makes me feel better.
As if he senses the thoughts in my head, Dean’s hand falls on the knob and he holds it a moment after I tell him to open it. “I had a doctor check you out,” he says. “You’ll be a little more lethargic and you might have some memory issues, but—”
My memory is perfectly fine. If I try to think too hard, my head starts hurting, but otherwise, I remember everything clearly. Oh, how I wish I didn’t.
“You’ll make a full recovery,” he finishes.
I don’t respond, and when he still doesn’t open the door, I realize he’s waiting for that. So I nod, and then he takes a deep breath and the door swings open. Dean takes a step to the side, allowing me just enough room to see through into the dirty, grimy kitchen and living room of the trailer I’d spent the first eighteen years of my life in. All the blood has dried, staining the floor in dark shitty, brown colors. It smells like rust and sweat and puke. Abel stands back, arms crossed, but when we step out, his head lifts and his eyes widen.
“Ava…” He looks from me to Dean. "She doesn't need to be here for this," he snaps.
I don't look at Dean to see his expression, his words are enough. "It's her fucking right," he says.
If I hadn’t already suspected, if I hadn’t already known, I would’ve known it in that moment—they’re not ordinary rich college kids. Corina’s right. They’re corrupt. Everyone else is right to call them Sick because that’s what they are. That’s what this is before me—a deep, dark sickness of violence that it’s clear they’re very familiar with. There’s no other explanation for the scene before me now. For the unbothered look in their eyes as I take in the sight of Roger strapped to one of the lattice covered chairs from the kitchen table, his head bowed and bloody. Broken. He’s naked all the way down and there are lines of cuts along his upper chest and back and sides and arms, oozing blood. Lines that most certainly hadn't been there before. Brax stands in front of him, his hands covered in black gloves. A little bucket of water sits beneath Roger and next to it, is a car battery with a jumper cable attached to it.
“This is your choice,” I hear Dean say behind me. “He’ll die. You can decide—either we kill him or you do."
It's not a question, but there is an answer, and I already know it. I look at Brax as Dean talks. He looks like I feel. Cold. Dead. Full of a desire to maim and destroy. There’s a smudge of blood on his cheek. When he looks back at me, he smiles, and even for someone as fucked up as me—for someone who already knows what she’s going to do about the man sitting in that chair—the look of Brax’s smile scares me. His eyes don't look like they normally do. There's a cruel, sick, twisted glint in them, and I'm reminded of the first day I met him. He smiles like this not just for enjoyment, but something else…