And then, in one quick, brutal motion, he gives my wrists a violent yank that heaves me right down the stairs.
I tumble down like a sack of bricks, feeling every skull-rattling step as I roll. I smack face-first into one of them, get my arm caught awkwardly beneath me on another, and end up landing at the bottom in a tangle of bruised limbs and furious breaths.
His heavy footfalls come down the stairs as I’m struggling to get my feet beneath me, slipping in something wet and infuriatingly inconvenient. I can’t even manage much more than some ineffectual bucking when he grabs my wrists again, spinning to drag me down another hall. It takes a few for me to realize we’re going to the parlor, and going by his strained breaths, it’s a super fucking necessary location. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be going through the trouble of hauling my heavy ass all this way. That’s information that I keep close as he finally drags me into the room. I’m just not sure it’s useful—especially when he maneuvers me to my stomach, wrenching my arms behind my back to secure my wrists.
Whoever he is, he’s not that big. He grunts as he lifts me to a sitting position against the wall. I stare into his eyes as he arranges my limp limbs, trying to suss out who’s behind the mask, but all I see is blank darkness. Nick would be my first suspect, but this guy’s physique is all wrong. Too narrow and compact. Plus, Nick wouldn’t hide his face like this.
So if not him, then who the fuck?
When he moves, I get a broad, if darkened view of the parlor, and it takes a dozen blinks for me to make out the shape of the person sitting across from me, head bowed.
Ms. Crane.
Her arms are bound behind her, too, blood caked down the side of her face, and she looks lifeless. Drained. Meat and fragile bones. When the man passes, she lifts her head just enough to glare at him, and the tight ball of grief in my chest falls away, because she’s alive. And she looks almost as pissed off as I feel.
It takes me a minute to get past that swell of relief, but when I do, I realize she’s not alone. Rath is right beside her. His eye is almost swollen shut, and there’s a smear of blood up his left arm, but he’s conscious, looking exactly as he did when he left earlier. Shirtless, pantsless, and most notably, stormy-eyed as his gaze bores into mine.
“Goddamn it,” he mutters, jaw clenched as he looks me over. “Guess that’s that.” That’s all he says, but it’s enough to understand.
I was their hope.
“Stun gun,” comes another voice, and I swing my eyes around to find Tristian slouching against the wall. He doesn’t look much better than Rath and Ms. Crane. His T-shirt and neck are streaked in an alarming amount of blood, but I can’t find a source for it. That means there’s only one of us left. My eyes hold Tristian’s, but his are droopy and glazed. Years of football have taught me the early signs of a concussion. I’m hoping like hell he understands the panic that must roll off me in waves, anyway. I dart my eyes up to the ceiling, and then back.
Story.
She’s up there alone, completely unaware. Even if she has her gun, these odds are absolute shit.
The man paces back and forth between us, looking out the door twice like he’s waiting for something—or someone. He’s got this antsy, jittering buzz about him. Bouncing on his toes. Fists clenching and unclenching. I’ve seen Avenue tweakers more relaxed than this shithead. It brings me a little pleasure to see the limp in his gait. He’s favoring his right arm, and every now and then, he’ll reach up to push his palm into his side.
My boys fought back.
I stare at his shoes as he passes. They’re clean. New. Expensive boots. I try to make my brain work, to get the gears moving. Whoever this is, he’s too boujee to be South Side, and not nearly tough enough to be a Royal. This is someone else.
Tristian gives me a single, slow nod, and I know we’ve come to the same conclusion.
Rath, however, has no issue voicing this aloud. “So, am I wrong, or is this the Ted fucker we’ve been waiting for?” He looks unimpressed as his eyes rise, taking him in. “I was expecting someone taller. Scarier.” His shoulders shift, and it doesn’t matter that he looks half naked and sort of above what’s going down here. Ten bucks says he’s working his wrists out of the zip ties. He mastered that shit back in middle school. “This guy’s a total bitch. Did he sucker punch you, too?” Shaking his head, Rath declares, “You’re never going to get her like this, dude. She likes her men tall, competent, and vaguely sane. You aren’t hitting any of her checklist—”