Ratchet doesn’t say a word.
I stare straight ahead, jaw clenched so tight it aches. Every muscle in my body feels like it’s holding me together by sheer force of will.
“I told her I’d protect her. Told her he’d never touch her again.”
Ratchet exhales through his nose, sharp and deliberate. “Then we do what we do best. Find him. And burn the whole fucking thing down.”
“No survivors,” I say. “Not this time.”
Ratchet grins—feral, unrepentant. “Good. I’m tired of playing nice.”
We don’t need a plan. Just blood and a direction.
Somewhere, Charlotte is still alive.
And her name will be the last thing Terrance ever hears.
CHARLOTTE
Pain detonates across my face,violently yanking me from the abyss of darkness into the harsh light of reality. My eyes snap open to see Terrance looming ominously over me, his knuckles poised for another brutal blow.
“Finally awake, princess? I was beginning to think I'd hit you too hard.”
I attempt to move, but my wrists are shackled above my head, the metal biting cruelly into my skin. My ankles share the same fate. Panic rises like a wave of bile in my throat as I thrashagainst the restraints, the metal frame of the bed groaning beneath my futile struggles.
A bed—I'm on a bed.
But it's not mine. Not Thor's. Nothing here is familiar. The room is a sterile prison of windowless dark gray walls, a single bulb hanging above, casting stark and unforgiving shadows across Terrance's face. The air is thick with the stench of mildew and a chemical odor that sears my nostrils.
“Where am I?” I croak, my voice raspy and raw as if I've been screaming for ages. Perhaps I have.
“Somewhere no one will find you.” Terrance straightens, adjusting his cufflinks with a practiced, almost ritualistic precision. Even now, even in this hell, he is immaculate, clad in a tailored suit with a perfectly knotted tie. The devil dressed for success. “Somewhere your biker boyfriend will never think to look.”
I try to swallow, but my mouth is parched, as dry as a desert. “People will look for me.”
Terrance laughs, the sound bouncing eerily off the bare walls. “Your biker? He's probably dead by now. Your little bodyguard certainly is.”
V. Oh god. I squeeze my eyes shut, desperately fighting back the tears threatening to spill.
“Look at me when I'm speaking to you,” Terrance snarls, seizing my jaw with such force that I feel the bone creak under the pressure. His fingers dig into the bruises he's already inflicted, sending fresh waves of agony through my skull, forcing me to look at him.
“This is what you get for divorcing me,” he says as his thumb traces my split lip. “For blackmailing me to pay you spousal support.”
His hand slides down my throat, tightening just enough to restrict my breathing. “I built you from nothing, Charlotte. Gaveyou everything. And how did you repay me? By trying to ruin me.”
“You ruined yourself,” I gasp.
His grip tightens, black spots dancing at the edges of my vision as I try to twist away. His face swims before me, distorted by hatred and something else…Pleasure. He's enjoying this.
“I had such plans for us,” he continues, sitting on the edge of the bed. His weight makes the mattress dip, forcing me closer to him. The proximity makes my skin crawl as memories flood back—his hands around my throat, his fists against my ribs, his words cutting deeper than any blade.
“You could have been perfect,” he coos, fingers tracing the curve of my cheek almost tenderly. “My perfect wife. My perfect partner.”
Then his hand is in my hair, yanking my head back painfully. “Instead, you'll live your life as my merchandise. My whore.”
He yanks harder.
“Did you fuck him?” The question drips from his lips like acid. “That biker. Did you spread your legs for him like the whore you are?”
