Page 85 of They All Own Me

"You can't Tatum, you're supposed to be dead, remember?" Dom says.

"Well shit," I huff, "I didn't think that part through. I always wanted to tell him what a worthless piece of shit he was for making my life literal hell."

"And you'll get your chance," Isaac says. "I'll make damn sure of it, but right now you need to rest, let the painkillers kick in."

I sink back onto the couch, knowing they're right. My entire body feels like one giant bruise, and the cut above my eyebrow is still throbbing. "Fine. But I want answers about everything - the other mob, my parents' involvement, all of it."

"And you'll get them," Dom assures me. "But first, you need to recover."

I roll my eyes, slumping further into the couch. "Fine, dad."

The room goes dead silent. Dom freezes mid-stride, turning slowly to face me. Connor's hand stills on my shoulder, and Isaac's eyebrows shoot up. The tension in the air shifts, becoming charged with something entirely different.

Dom's lips curve into a dangerous smile as he stalks closer. "Careful what you say, princess. I might like that."

My breath catches in my throat. The way he's looking at me makes my injuries seem far less important.

"Well gentleman," Isaac breaks the tension, pushing himself up from his chair. "Shall we head downstairs and pay our house guest a visit?"

"It's the hospitable thing to do," Dom says with a smirk, as he and Isaac head in the direction of the basement.

Connor comes over and brushes a soft kiss to my forehead.

"Rest up baby, we need you in tip top shape for when we tell you all… our news."

I try to sit up and immediately regret it. "News? What news?"

He just continues in the direction of the basement.

"Connor! Damnit, What news? Don't leave me hanging! I'm injured!" The only response I get is his laughter as he descends the stairs.

"Assholes," I mutter, grabbing a throw pillow to prop under my head.

I shift on the couch, trying to find a position that doesn't make my ribs scream. The painkillers haven't kicked in yet, and every breath reminds me of those mob goons' hospitality. But the physical pain is nothing compared to the mental torture of waiting.

I grab the remote, flicking through channels mindlessly. Nothing but news coverage of my disappearance. There's Thomas, playing the grieving husband perfectly for the cameras. My face stares back from various photos - all carefully curated shots of the perfect political wife.

"News," I echo Connor's words. "What fucking news?"

The uncertainty gnaws at me worse than my injuries. These men have already turned my world upside down in the best possible way. What more could they possibly have in store?

I hear footsteps on the stairs and quickly pretend to be dozing. Let them think I'm listening to what I was told. Jokes on them. I've done my duties of standing idly by for too long.

"You know what, fuck this," I mutter, gritting my teeth as I push myself up from the couch. Every muscle screams in protest, but I'm done being the good little patient. My ribs throb with each step as I make my way toward the basement door.

I press my ear against the cool wood of the basement door, ignoring the protest of my bruised body.

"Where is she?" Thomas's voice sounds strained, probably from the beating earlier. "Just tell me what you want."

"What we want?" Connor lets out a dark laugh. "Little late for that, don't you think?"

Something thuds - maybe a chair being kicked? - and Thomas yelps.

"Unfortunately," Isaac's voice is eerily calm, "Tatum won't be joining us. Ever again."

My breath catches. Here comes the test.

"What do you mean?" Thomas asks, but his tone lacks any real concern.

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