Shadow Bound
Page 115
“Are you gonna cower and quake out there with your guns and knives because you’re scared of one unarmed woman? Did Jake actually say you couldn’t come in, or are you using your binding as an excuse to cower out there in the hall? We all know you bend the rules when you want to. You thread the loopholes like a seamstress threads a fucking needle. Don’t tell me you don’t!”
In another fit of fury, I reared back and kicked the glass, but it didn’t budge. The crack didn’t even widen. So I kicked it again. And again. And finally the crack started to spread, and a jolt of triumph burned the length of my spine.
Then the door opened.
Jonah stood in the doorway, one hand on the butt of his gun, like the idiot deputy from any old spaghetti Western. His jaw was clenched in fury and his eyes were narrowed in rage. “Are you trying to make me kill you? Because you know death is the only way out of here.”
I squatted without taking my focus from him and felt around on the ground for a large chunk of broken toilet tank lid, desperately wishing I had something to wrap it with, to keep it from cutting my hand. The last thing I wanted was to leave a sample of my blood behind—Jonah had taken my pocket-size bleach bottle along with my weapons.
“You’re bigger and better armed,” I said, hoping the men in the hall could hear. “But I’d lay money on me to win, any day of the week.”
“Arrogant little bitch!” But he didn’t move. And that’s when I realized he actually did have orders not to touch me. Or at least not to shoot me.
Jake still needed me, no matter what he’d said about me being obsolete. He needed me to draw Ian and Kenley back into the fold.
I couldn’t let that happen.
I clutched the three-inch splinter of porcelain and curled my other hand into a fist. I could kill Jonah caveman style, but I’d need his gun—and a lot of luck—to take out whoever was watching from the hall.
But before I could rush him, Jonah pulled the handheld radio from his belt clip and pressed a button. “Go ahead,” he said, and I froze when Jake’s voice invaded the cell, staticky, but perfectly audible.
“Why do you do this to yourself, Korinne?” he asked. But he didn’t wait for my answer, and Jonah didn’t let go of the button, which would have let him hear me. “You know the drill. Don’t fight back. And don’t touch the damn glass.”
For a moment, the old terror washed over me, and it actually took me a moment to remember that I didn’t have to obey Jake. His orders were worth less than the breath it took to say them, forgotten before the last syllable even faded from my ears.
Jake held no power over me. But my initial thoughtless fear probably saved my life. If I hadn’t looked scared, Jonah would have realized something was wrong, and my advantage would have faded into nothing, like Jake’s worthless order.
“Thanks,” Jonah said into the radio, teeth clenched in resentment. He hated needing his brother’s help.
“Move her to another cell and this time don’t leave the fucking toilet tank lid. Mess this up again, and you’ll be in the cell next to her, where you’ll have plenty of time to think about the fact that you can’t control one small woman without needing her muzzled first.”
Jonah seethed and clipped the radio to his belt again without answering. I waited. Watching him. Trying to remember how I’d looked and acted when I was actually scared of him. The memories were there, but they were disjointed and clouded by fear.
“Let’s go.” Jonah stalked toward me, even angrier than usual because of what I’d just overheard.
“Don’t touch me.” I backed up until my spine hit the wall, then slid the hand clutching the shard of porcelain behind my thigh, even as I scooted to the left, avoiding his reach like I had no better options.
Jonah grabbed my arm and a slimy smile appeared at the corner of his mouth—an instant mood-lift in response to my fake fear. He hauled me across the cell and I let him, biding my time.
When he got close to the door, I began to drag my feet, resisting, but not truly fighting back. Jonah jerked me forward and pulled the door open with his free hand.
I sucked in a deep breath and swung my right arm as a primal screech of rage erupted from my throat. His eyes widened, but I buried the three-inch chunk of white porcelain in his jugular before he could make a single sound. “There’s a reason I was his bodyguard and you were his lapdog,” I said as his mouth opened and closed, gasping uselessly.
Blood dribbled between my fingers, most of it his. He gurgled and grasped at my fingers, but he was already weak from massive blood loss.
“Don’t fight back,” I whispered, throwing Jake’s words at him as I pulled the glass free and stabbed him again, and when he slid to the floor, propping the door open with his weight, I knelt with him. “Beg me to stop.” I didn’t realize I was crying until the first tears dripped onto his shirt. “Does it hurt? Tell me how much it hurts.”
He blinked up at me, his eyelids sluggish, and then he stopped breathing. He just stopped, and my tears fell faster.
Finally, it was over.
Distantly, I heard men shouting my name, rounds being chambered, safety switches clicking off.
I hunched over Jonah’s body, my back to the other men, crying tears of joy and relief they no doubt mistook for some weaker, more primal emotion. And while they watched me sob, waiting for me to stand and face the inevitable consequences of my actions, I pulled Jonah’s gun from his holster and checked the chamber, then flicked off the safety. Then I stood, the pistol hidden by my own body. I turned slowly, sliding the weapon behind my thigh, and counted the men aiming guns at me while I sniffled, displaying my trauma.
In another fit of fury, I reared back and kicked the glass, but it didn’t budge. The crack didn’t even widen. So I kicked it again. And again. And finally the crack started to spread, and a jolt of triumph burned the length of my spine.
Then the door opened.
Jonah stood in the doorway, one hand on the butt of his gun, like the idiot deputy from any old spaghetti Western. His jaw was clenched in fury and his eyes were narrowed in rage. “Are you trying to make me kill you? Because you know death is the only way out of here.”
I squatted without taking my focus from him and felt around on the ground for a large chunk of broken toilet tank lid, desperately wishing I had something to wrap it with, to keep it from cutting my hand. The last thing I wanted was to leave a sample of my blood behind—Jonah had taken my pocket-size bleach bottle along with my weapons.
“You’re bigger and better armed,” I said, hoping the men in the hall could hear. “But I’d lay money on me to win, any day of the week.”
“Arrogant little bitch!” But he didn’t move. And that’s when I realized he actually did have orders not to touch me. Or at least not to shoot me.
Jake still needed me, no matter what he’d said about me being obsolete. He needed me to draw Ian and Kenley back into the fold.
I couldn’t let that happen.
I clutched the three-inch splinter of porcelain and curled my other hand into a fist. I could kill Jonah caveman style, but I’d need his gun—and a lot of luck—to take out whoever was watching from the hall.
But before I could rush him, Jonah pulled the handheld radio from his belt clip and pressed a button. “Go ahead,” he said, and I froze when Jake’s voice invaded the cell, staticky, but perfectly audible.
“Why do you do this to yourself, Korinne?” he asked. But he didn’t wait for my answer, and Jonah didn’t let go of the button, which would have let him hear me. “You know the drill. Don’t fight back. And don’t touch the damn glass.”
For a moment, the old terror washed over me, and it actually took me a moment to remember that I didn’t have to obey Jake. His orders were worth less than the breath it took to say them, forgotten before the last syllable even faded from my ears.
Jake held no power over me. But my initial thoughtless fear probably saved my life. If I hadn’t looked scared, Jonah would have realized something was wrong, and my advantage would have faded into nothing, like Jake’s worthless order.
“Thanks,” Jonah said into the radio, teeth clenched in resentment. He hated needing his brother’s help.
“Move her to another cell and this time don’t leave the fucking toilet tank lid. Mess this up again, and you’ll be in the cell next to her, where you’ll have plenty of time to think about the fact that you can’t control one small woman without needing her muzzled first.”
Jonah seethed and clipped the radio to his belt again without answering. I waited. Watching him. Trying to remember how I’d looked and acted when I was actually scared of him. The memories were there, but they were disjointed and clouded by fear.
“Let’s go.” Jonah stalked toward me, even angrier than usual because of what I’d just overheard.
“Don’t touch me.” I backed up until my spine hit the wall, then slid the hand clutching the shard of porcelain behind my thigh, even as I scooted to the left, avoiding his reach like I had no better options.
Jonah grabbed my arm and a slimy smile appeared at the corner of his mouth—an instant mood-lift in response to my fake fear. He hauled me across the cell and I let him, biding my time.
When he got close to the door, I began to drag my feet, resisting, but not truly fighting back. Jonah jerked me forward and pulled the door open with his free hand.
I sucked in a deep breath and swung my right arm as a primal screech of rage erupted from my throat. His eyes widened, but I buried the three-inch chunk of white porcelain in his jugular before he could make a single sound. “There’s a reason I was his bodyguard and you were his lapdog,” I said as his mouth opened and closed, gasping uselessly.
Blood dribbled between my fingers, most of it his. He gurgled and grasped at my fingers, but he was already weak from massive blood loss.
“Don’t fight back,” I whispered, throwing Jake’s words at him as I pulled the glass free and stabbed him again, and when he slid to the floor, propping the door open with his weight, I knelt with him. “Beg me to stop.” I didn’t realize I was crying until the first tears dripped onto his shirt. “Does it hurt? Tell me how much it hurts.”
He blinked up at me, his eyelids sluggish, and then he stopped breathing. He just stopped, and my tears fell faster.
Finally, it was over.
Distantly, I heard men shouting my name, rounds being chambered, safety switches clicking off.
I hunched over Jonah’s body, my back to the other men, crying tears of joy and relief they no doubt mistook for some weaker, more primal emotion. And while they watched me sob, waiting for me to stand and face the inevitable consequences of my actions, I pulled Jonah’s gun from his holster and checked the chamber, then flicked off the safety. Then I stood, the pistol hidden by my own body. I turned slowly, sliding the weapon behind my thigh, and counted the men aiming guns at me while I sniffled, displaying my trauma.
