Page 45 of Cruel Devil

His eyes darken. “That fucking gobshite.”

“Oh, you’re gonna start calling him names?” I yell.

I click-clack down the stairs again, advancing on him as fast as I can in my heels. I should have taken them off, but there’s a biting cold emanating from the concrete floor. I don’t need to lose a toe to frostbite on top of everything else happening in my life right now.

He stands his ground, eyes hard.

“Liam’s not the one who’s been boning my mother and lying about it!”

His backhand comes out of nowhere.

I’m staring at the bare concrete wall, stars flashing over my vision as an angry buzz fills my ears. Patrick grabs my wrist and shoves my hand behind my back, wrenching it up between my shoulder blades. My shoulder dislocates with a nauseating burst of agony.

I gasp as I try to levitate away from the pain, but in these heels, I’m already on my fucking toes.

“I’ll ask you to be quiet now, lass.”

He forces me up the stairs, not relenting on the grip he has on my wrist. The pain is intense, but I shove it down.

I’ve been injured worse in the ring, and once on a job for Donny. A job I try never to think about, except when I think shit’s getting really bad.

Nothing could ever get as bad as it did that day.

He punches in the code and maneuvers me through the steel door into an empty storeroom. There’s a sour, acidic smell in the air, but nothing to account for it on the bare shelves lining the walls.

There’s another door, this one stainless steel, no keypad. Patrick raps on it with his knuckles, and it’s opened from the other side by a guy wearing gray overalls. More stand behind him, all wearing the same bland uniforms, neutral expression on their faces.

“The fuck is this?” I wince as Patrick releases my arm, clapping a hand over my injured shoulder. If I could get a chance to run into the nearest wall at just the right angle?—

Three of the overalled men come at me at once.

“What did you do?” I yell at Patrick as I throw a left-hand punch at the first guy to reach me. I get him good and hard on the side of his head, but he’s built like a brick shit house and barely grunts at the impact.

“Patrick!”

Brennan’s voice is eerily calm. “Save your energy, lass.”

“Fuck you!” My frustrated yell fills the passage as the men grab me in all sorts of inappropriate places, lifting me when I resist. I kick and punch and buck like a wild thing, but no one with a dislocated shoulder can defend themselves against three meat heads.

I expect Patrick to leave. It’s obvious that his only task was to isolate me and bring me here…wherever the fuck here is. The place is bare, like a carcass picked clean to the bone, except for the handful of large plastic barrels against one wall. Is that where the sharp smell is coming from?

I’m not sure if it’s better or worse that he follows behind as the men carry me down the passage and into a large loading bay lit by more strips of fluorescent tubing overhead.

At least I’m not surrounded by strangers.

Now that I’ve stopped fighting in an effort to conserve my energy, the men decide to put me down and herd me the rest of the way. We exit the loading bay through a barrier of plastic strips, and into a large space with a vaulted ceiling.

Massive squares of transparent, corrugated skylights must provide ample light during the day, but right now, the only illumination comes from a spotlight in the middle of the enormous warehouse floor.

Hidden fans hum as they circulate the air, but they don’t help with the stench.

Back there, it was harsh and artificial—the sting of bleach in your nose.

In here, it’s gut-wrenchingly sweet and organic, like rotting potatoes forgotten in the back of the pantry.

This room isn’t clean and bare like the loading bay.

There is a puddle of congealed blood, a pile of guts, and the dead body they came from.

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