Page 47 of Bound

Stay mad, mo chéadsearc.

Fucking fight them with everything you’ve got.

I’m coming.

I won’t fail you again.

Another message comes through, and I fight back a villainous chuckle.

For her sake, I hope she learns how to behave.

Not fucking likely.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

QUINN

The front of the chimney’s shirt is stained scarlet from the bloody waterfall created by the deep wound I left on his tongue. It has slowed substantially, but bloody spittle continues to trickle down his chin.

And he’s fucking pissed.

Declan would be proud as hell of me.

I’m fucking proud of me.

His eyes haven’t left me since his hand crashed against my face, and the ire only seems to grow with each passing minute. Even though I’m quite certain I’m going to pay dearly for nearly severing half of his tongue, I know beyond a doubt that it was fucking worth it.

If nothing else, he’ll think twice about putting that vile tongue—or anything else—near my mouth again.

While I might be absolutely terrified about what I can only imagine they’re going to do to me, I’m not going to closemy eyes and lay there while it happens.Formonths,all I couldthink about was how weak I was for not being able to fight off the men who attacked me in the bar. The self-imposed guilt was crippling.

I mightbe scared—fuckingterrified—but I’m not weak. Nothing about me is weak. Running my finger over the scar, I can almost hear Declan in my ear.It’s a reminder of how fucking strong you are. Of how determined you are to live.I repeat them to myselfover and over again.

I just got the life I’ve always wanted, and I’m not ready to give it up yet. Fuck, do I ever want tolive!

We finally pull to a stop, with the gruff man sitting up front exiting first and pulling open the double doors at the back of the van. “Out,” he commands, looking at me.

Pain radiates through me when I move, causing me to hesitate. Quickly irritated with me, he snarls, “Get the fuck out of the van, or I will pull you out by the fucking hair.”

Crawling on my all-fours like an animal, my knees dig into the metal as I gingerly make my way to him. He grips mybicep painfully hard, tearing me from the van. I struggle to find my footing, and the balls of my feet drags across the asphalt. I wince in pain as it adds more scrapes to the already tender flesh.

“Move,” he yanks, dragging me toward a six-story Art Deco building. He pulls me along the sidewalk. I nearly scream for help when I see people walking toward us, stopping when I notice them all avert their eyes when they see me.

I’m yanked by the arm until we reach an apartment on the top floor. The gruff Russian shoves me into a forest-green,upholsteredchair, and I rub at my arm where he held a vise grip on me. “Stay,” he demands.

Not that there’s anywhere to go.

This building has as much security as Declan’s apartment. The only difference is that these men are easy to spot—their weapons on clear display for people to know who they are and threatening them to keep their distance.

The gruff Russian returns with a tall, shirtless man. Tattoos cover every inch of his exposed skin.My eyes are drawnto thethieves’ stars covering both of his shoulders, marking him as a high-ranking member of the Bratva. His eyes roam over me ashecrosses the room between us. “I hear you’ve already been a handful,” he grumbles, planting his hands on the arms of the chair.

I lean back in the chair as he continues to press forward, “Am I going to need to restrain you… What is it he calls you… Mo Head Shark?”

“Mochéadsearc,” I harshly correct his atrocious pronunciation. “And what do I call you? Cocksucker? Or Motherfucker?”

“You can call me Emil.” He laughs, and I’m surprised by the glimmer in his dark eyes and the tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth.“You are a feisty fucking bitch, aren’t you?” He drags a knuckle along my jaw, and I flinch at his touch.

“Up,” he orders. I ignore his command and stay firmly seated in the chair. His hand wraps around my throat, and he squeezes tightly before using it as leverage to make me stand. “I fucking said ‘up.’”

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