Hooked: A Dark, Contemporary Romance (Never After #1)(11)

“Did you understand him?” I ask them.

“No, Hook. Couldn’t hear a thing,” one of them says.

“Hmm.” I look back to the bound man in front of me, tapping my finger to my mouth. “Hard to hear behind the tape. Perhaps we should remove it.”

Twin one nods and walks over, ripping the duct tape off. The man’s eyes wince, his mouth rubbed raw from it being torn roughly off his skin.

“There.” I nod. “Now... what is it you’d like to say?”

“Fuck you, man,” he spits.

Irritation flickers deep in my chest as I glance down at the saliva pooled on the floor from where it flew out of his disgusting mouth.

“Fuck me?” I point to myself, chuckling as I walk toward the metal table lining the wall, unbuttoning my suit jacket. “It’s always amusing to me when a man lacks the capability to understand that his life is in danger. I find that it’s normally one of two reasons. Would you like to hear them?”

Silence is my only answer.

“It’s quite interesting, I assure you.” Picking up my black gloves, I slip them over my hands, moving my fingers once they’re encased in the leather, admiring the way they feel against my skin. “It’s either a matter of pride, or it’s a lack of awareness. Both of which are terribly unbecoming traits.”

Anticipation simmers low in my gut.

“Do you know which one you are?” I spin around, reaching into my pocket and drawing out my hook knife. Flipping it open, I weave it between my fingers as I walk slowly toward his chair, stopping right in front of him.

He doesn’t answer, his eyes following the movement of my blade. I step closer, and his arms jerk against his zip ties, the plastic scraping against the metal backing of his chair.

“No?” I cock my head. “If you ask me...” The tip of my knife skims across his cheek as I walk behind him. “You lack the type of awareness it takes for one to understand danger. To really feel it. You see, if you had—” My gloved hand comes to rest on his shoulder. “You would have known better than to continue disrespecting Wendy Michaels in my presence.”

“Look, I don’t kn-know who you are, but if this is about the coffee shop, I’m sorry, man.” He stutters his words, his voice growing high-pitched and tense.

I tsk. “There’s that loss of pride. Pity I can’t enjoy it.”

“Just let me go! I’ll do whatever, I’ll go apologize to that girl, if that’s what you want. I just... please.” His panic seeps through his words.

My grip tightens, and I bend until my face is next to his ear. “Stop speaking, or I’ll cut out your tongue and feed it to the dogs while you bleed out all over your cheap polyester suit.”

His body tenses under my hand, but he grows silent.

I stand straight, squeezing his shoulder. “Good boy.”

Walking around to the front of him, I glance down at his trembling frame, the cast of my shadow creating a haunting aura.

“Where was that self-preservation in the coffee shop, friend?” My grin widens. “We could have saved so much time if you had just recognized your place.”

My head tilts when he doesn’t respond, my stomach tightening with excitement at the fear swirling through his muddy gaze. I lean in close, my voice low. “I asked you a question.”

“I do-don’t kn-know... I just… sorry... please let me g-go.”

“There, was that so hard?” I twist to face the twins. “Honestly, it’s rude how often people don’t speak when spoken to.” Turning back to the man, I note the wet spot forming on the front of his suit pants, the light gray material growing dark and damp. Pissing himself, no doubt.

A smile spreads across my face and a low chuckle escapes my chest. “Relax, man. I was only kidding about cutting out your tongue.”

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

A chill scratches through my insides, causing my head to twitch. I breathe deeply through my nose, trying to calm the nausea rolling through me, growing like a wildfire uncontained.

I lose the battle.

Lunging forward, I grip the man’s face between my gloved fingers. He grunts in pain. “I’ve already told you once how loud that vile piece of machinery is, yet you still wear it in my presence?”

His eyes grow wide, tears dripping down his ruddy cheeks.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The sound causes my insides to shrivel, memories surging forward, reminding me of all the times I had no power. Of all the times I was forced in positions where pride and respect didn’t exist. All the nights I laid in bed as an eleven-year-old boy, fresh from England and grieving the death of my family, wondering why on earth God made me survive.

What had I ever done that was so wrong?

My stomach rolls and heaves, bile burning up the back of my throat, as my mind spins from the flashbacks. I’m surrounded by the slap of my uncle’s crocodile boots on the wooden floorboards. My chest squeezes tight at the sound of his pocket watch, the tick, tick, tick, bleeding into the still of the night as he closes my bedroom door behind him.

Rage unfurls from the middle of my stomach, thick and heavy, bursting through my insides, blinding me from the explosion until all I see is fire.

My fingers grip against his jaw until his lips deform, forcing his mouth open in an “o”. My other hand, holding my knife, reaches into the open orifice and grips the tip of his tongue, pulling until he screams, his body thrashing against the chair. The feel of my blade slicing into the meaty flesh sends a slither of satisfaction racing down my spine.