Chapter 42

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

QUINN

"Uhhhhhhh," I groan. Pain radiates through every inch of my body as I stir. I can't help but think how much the cold metal beneath me—although uncomfortable—provides a little bit of relief.

Cold metal?

Struggling through the stabbing pain in my head, I force myself to open my eyes, only managing to flutter my eyelids when I'm met with the blindingly bright lights. I try desperately to make myself adjust to the oppressive shine as I try to sift through the hazy recollection of what happened.

The accident…

Gunshots.

So many gunshots.

Oh my God, Rory!

My heart throbs, suddenly thinking the worst. He might not have ever said much, but the man has been watching over me for months.

Running.

The stench of cigarettes as my feet were yanked from the ground.

The odor from my memory is so vivid that I can feel the burn in my nostrils and the faint taste of the burned tobacco on my tongue. Both turn my stomach.

Clutching at my throat and gasping for air, my vision slowly goes black around the edges as a harrowing voice whispers in my ear, "Go to sleep, honey. I don't want to have to hurt you… yet."

I involuntarily suck in a deep inhale, as though my body needs to ensure I'm still breathing. My nostrils suddenly fill with the same distinctive scent as though I am completely surrounded by it. The warm stench wafts over my face, and I gag as it singes my lungs when I accidentally suck it in. Hacking the vile air from my lungs, I force my eyes open.

It's him!

The man from the alley is a cigarette's length from my face, occupying the entirety of my vision. With his eyes fully fixated on mine, he sucks in a slow, deep drag as I try to scurry away from him, only to findmy back against the cold, metal wall. The sudden dread of being boxed in causes me to panic, only worsening my ability to draw in a proper breath. Smoke billows from his nostrils as he leans closer and exhales. "Welcome back, honey. We've all been waiting for you to wake up."

My eyes dart from his dark gaze upon hearing the word ‘all,' confirming exactly what I was dreading. The cold metal I'm pressed firmly against is the inside of a van. The windows on the rear doors are covered with newspaper, and from my vantage point, I can't see over the dash. The way the metal vibrates beneath me, I know we're going fast.

Far from Declan…

…from all the boys and Fiona..

There are two men sitting in the front bucket seats and another two sitting across from me by the rancid chimney. They're staring at me— a look I know all too well —and it has me dashing my gaze between them all. Pulling my legs into my chest, I wrap my arms around them tightly, trying desperately to comfort and protect myself.

"Are you shy, baby?" a man with a large scar running the length of his face asks. Closing the distance between us, he slides his hand up my leg. His touch causes bile to rise in my throat, and I struggle to keep it at bay as he continues to talk. "I didn't think you would be. You sure asfuck didn't look shy every time I've watched you."

The dark laughter of all the men fills the van, each hearty laugh and cackle chilling me to the bone.

"You're not shy, are you, honey?" the chimney chimes in, his eyes raking over my tightly curled body. "You love getting fucked like a little whore. You're going to love everything we have planned for you."

"Fuck you," I spit, almost regretting them as they echo painfully in my ears.

"Don't you worry your pretty little red head. I plan to fuck you plenty." He firmly grips my jaw, forcing my mouth open. The putrid taste of stale ash fills my mouth when he violently shoves his tongue past my lips. I shove at him, but he only laughs—forcing the stale air from his lungs into my mouth.

He tastes so vile that I actually enjoy the metallic taste of copper when his blood hits my tongue. Fighting against the pain of his tight hold, I continue to bite down hard and force my teeth through the thick muscle of his tongue. I don't stop until his warm blood spills over my lips and runs down my chin.

"You fucking whore," he shouts the nearly unrecognizable words around his swollen—and, unfortunately, still attached—tongue as the back of his hand strikes my face. It radiates around my already throbbing skull so painfully that I have to fight against my fading vision. With blood pouring down his chin, he raises his hand to strike me again.

"Enough!" a deep Russian-accented voice shouts from the passenger seat, and the chimney immediately lowers his hand and retreats to his side of the van. "Pretty sure you were told not to lay fucking hand on her. Maybe next time you'll fucking listen."

"Thank you," I whisper, using the tulle of my dress to wipe the blood from my chin.

"Don't thank me, sweetheart," the man from the passenger seat turns and tosses a handkerchief into my lap. "I'm just delivering you to the boss as he asked."