Already, one eye was swelling, Trace’s cheek was bruised, and he could hear the pain in her voice. It fucking killed him, his gut aching as it wrenched, fallen and hollow, that he’d brought this on her. That she’d agreed to all this, and he was the asshole who let her, knowing he couldn’t do this without her.
She didn’t falter for a moment.
Ursula didn’t budge, but slowly looked toward him, the corners of her mouth curling up. Her face still haunted him, her voice driving most of his nightmares. “Have a seat,” she said.
Cooperation wasn’t his style, and they knew it. Stabilizing on his good ankle, he drove his knee into the first asshole to come at him.
Before he could smack the back of his head into the one coming up from behind him, the butt of an AK smashed into his abdomen.
Breath rushed from his lungs. On impact, he dropped to his knees. His muscles throbbed, his damn organs threatened to burst.
In the distance, behind the ringing in his ears, past the blackness that covered his vision, he heard Trace scream.
No amount of preparation or even plain toughness could prevent the blistering pain of blunt abdominal trauma. Arms behind his back, he tugged at his bindings, instincts firing with a desperation to protect himself from another blow.
As he struggled to stay upright, a block of a fist slammed into the side of his face. “Fuck,” he growled, tipping up to look his attacker in the eye. His cheek throbbed. His jaw crunched with the slightest movement. “Just fucking tell me where you want me.”
Janessa grabbed his bound hands and yanked him to stand. He moved fast before he toppled over and landed on his face.
Another of the assholes dropped the other dining room chair in front of Trace. Janessa shoved him toward the chair.
Ursula walked up close to him, the ice-cold blankness of her expression revealing nothing except her willingness to bring him to the brink of death again. Or finish the job this time.
She looked him up and down, thirsty for violence. Fist balling at her side, her expression sharply darkened, and she drove an upper cut into his middle.
Already bruised from the first blow, it all came splicing back. He fell back and landed on the chair.
The force of his fall sent his chair tipping back, and he countered the tilt by throwing his weight forward. A few feet away from Trace, knees not quite touching, facing each other, he knew their plan.
“Who’s going to tell me what I want to know?” Ursula asked, circling them like a hawk looking for a snack. She pulled a blade from her boot, and Cole’s side stung at the sight of it, the pain of its slice coming back full force. “Or should I start cutting and see who breaks first?”
“Leave her out of this,” Cole growled, tipping up his chin to taunt her.
As the blade neared his neck, tracing the edge of his jaw, Ursula lifted a knowing smile at him. “Start talking,” she suggested.
In front of him, Trace balanced terror and stubbornness brilliantly.
Cole didn’t budge, knowing the knife would pierce his skin if he tried to pull away. “She doesn’t know how dirty you like to get your hands,” Cole growled without moving. “Let her go, and I can get you everything, and she won’t be a threat to you anymore.”
Ursula wasn’t at all daunted. She twisted the blade under his chin, and he felt a needle-like prick and knew his blood beaded on the tip of her blade. “Tell me how to access the files, or you can both relive exactly what I did to you last time. Together. So romantic.”
Keeping his chin high, he spoke softly so the knife wouldn’t dig any deeper. “Even if you convince me to show you how to find the files,” he said, hating how the lie was building bigger and he needed to finish this before they stopped believing him. Not as much of a confession as he’d like, but at least it got the fucking ball rolling. “I’m not a tech guy. It’s encoded. I didn’t want any strings still attached to me, so I don’t have a fucking clue how to access it.”
“This is so much bigger than you.” Ursula spun on her heel and sashayed around to Trace. She stood behind her and wrapped one hand around Trace’s chin, pulling her head back and resting the blade on her neck.
Cole’s stomach rolled, his worst nightmares about to spill out into reality.
The blade dug in, so close to drawing blood. Trace held her breath, still as a statue, a single tear trickling down her cheek.
She whimpered, “Cole. Please.”
He quickly answered, “Stop. I can tell you who can get you the files. A programmer I used to work with. He can decode it.”
The knife eased away from Trace, and she drew in a full breath, sniffling as she steadied. This plan was completely fucked. He should have prioritized getting her out with her parents.
He scanned the room, calculated the likely resistance, how many more might be waiting outside.
Slowly, subtly, he shifted his bound hands behind his back.
