Page 111 of Sinful Bride

I don’t have time to speak my peace. Her head whips back, yanked hard by Sofi’s fist in her hair.

“C’mon, bitch! Take what you dish!”

My sister lets go of our captive’s hair only so she can backhand her in the face. On the other side, too, when Brittany tries to right herself.

“Get up!” Sofi kicks her in the side when she crumples to the floor. “Get the fuck up!”

I’m tempted to put a stop to this. We do actually need information from Brittany before we’re done.

But then I remember what Daphne looked like, blanketed on a stretcher and barely able to writhe in her own pain as they wheeled her to the ambulance.

So I fold my arms and lean against the wall to watch the show.

Brittany does try her best; it’s just not nearly good enough. She swipes at Sofi with broken fingernails and cries of rage, mewling impotently the whole time.

At some point, Sofi has enough and decides it’s time to stop playing with her food. She throws another hard backhand that knocks Brittany down, then grabs her by the back of her top and lifts her enough to slam a knee into her stomach.

Sofi prepares to beat the absolute shit out of her, closed fists and all, when I lift a hand.

“I think she’s warmed up. Let’s talk.”

It’s not that I don’t want to relish every second of Brittany’s beating. I just happen to need her to be able to form words through a semi-working mouth before it completely swells shut.

Sofi pulls out the zip-ties she stashed in her back pocket and binds the woman’s hands behind her back, then her ankles. She hoists our captive upright to sit on the coffee table, lightly slapping her face back and forth to make sure she stays conscious.

“Hey.” Sofi snaps her fingers in Brittany’s face. “Wake up. And you better fucking talk or I’m going to heat up that flat iron for everything but your hair.”

With that, Sofi disappears to go rummaging through the house for fuck knows what. I turn Brittany around with my foot against her bound legs.

“Now is the perfect time to tell me everything you know.”

Brittany tries to blink at me, tries to pretend like she’s just a victim. It’s just not as convincing when her eye is turning into an eggplant.

I shove my hands inside my jacket pockets and lean against the back of the couch. “I don’t hit women. Not even professionally. So I’m not going to hit you, or torture you, or anything like that. I’m just going to keep asking you questions until you choose to talk.”

If she feels any relief from my admission, it’s gone the second she sees Sofi skip down the stairs and over to the nearest electrical outlet.

With the flat iron she previously mentioned.

“My sister, however… well, she is a woman. She’s also crazy as hell and you pissed her the fuck off by laying hands on my wife. Unwise on your part, really.”

Sofi licks her finger and touches the iron plate. It sizzles, and she grins viciously.

“They’re close, you know. Practically sisters themselves.” I tilt my head to one side. “I’m guessing you’re an only child. Otherwise, you would’ve known better than to fuck with someone’s sister.”

This seems to permeate at least a little through Brittany’s wall. “I—I don’t… I don’t know anything.”

“Sure you do!” Sofi’s voice is chipper. It’s creepy when her expression is the exact opposite. “Let’s start with the easy question.” She slaps Brittany in the back of the head. “What the fuck is your problem?”

I glance up at Sofi. “That’s a bit vague.”

“Think so?” She scrunches her nose and shrugs. “Fair. I’ll narrow it down. What the hell is your problem with Daphne?”

Brittany sniffs through a fresh trickle of blood streaming from her nose. “You mean that spoiled little princess? Everything.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Sofi remarks to me. “Too vague.”

I cut in to get to the chase. I know my sister loves a good torture session, but I have a wife and child to get back to. “Why are you working with Stewart Hamish?”

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