Page 64 of The Game

“Where the fuck is she,” Jameson hisses through clenched teeth, the sight of his furious face making me sink to my knees as tears leak from my eyes, my shaking hand reaching out to press against the cool glass of the screen. He’s strapped to a chair, and next to him is Tristan, my heart racing in recognition before a choked sob exits my lips. He’s passed out, a gash bleeding profusely near his temple.

“No,” I choke to no one, my other hand now pressed to Tristan’s form. “No, no! Please no!” My words are nothing more than a whisper, a soft plea to whatever god in the universe will listen, but I know better than to beg for something to not happen. No one is out there. Death will come for us, but I’ll have to suffer before that reprieve.

Unable to tear my eyes from them, another feed flickers to life, juxtaposed next to my twins, but this one is of Teddy, cuffed to his chair, his eyes blazing and directed right at Dick. “No!” I scream, pounding my fist against the glass in a sudden bout of rage. “No, no, no!” I sob, my body shaking with the force now.

“Babochka?”

My breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh upon hearing his rumbling voice, Tristan awakening, head lolling before he groans and his beautiful features twist and morph into sudden fury.

It’s then I realize they can see me, too, and my heart sinks so low I fall to my butt, deflated and defeated.

“If you’ve touched one fucking hair on her head, you traitorousfuck!” Jameson roars, fighting against the restraints that pin his wrists and ankles to the metal chair. I flinch away at his fury, for I’ve never seen him lose his composure before, not like this. “I will keep you as my pet for the rest of your goddamn worthless life just to—”

A fist cocks and plants itself into his jaw, cutting off his words but not his rage. He makes no sound, no other indication that this has caused him any pain, but it hurts me just as badly as if I was the one being punched.

“You’ve made a mockery of our family, our bloodline. Fucking your sister?” a dissonant voice hisses.

Tristan grins, but I can see in his eyes that he is out of it, concussed.

“You’re just jealous because the pussy you get is full of dust and cobwebs,mudak.”

A small, deranged laugh leaves my lips, my heart soaring for a moment before I hear it, the whirring of some type of machine. A fucking drill. “No,” I whisper again, eyes lovingly tracing the faces of the men who unconditionally have my heart before flitting to Teddy again. He’s wriggling in his chair, spewing words at Dick, but when I look back, it’s too late.

My screams paint the walls just like Jameson and Tristan’s blood. They do not falter, they do not weep, they do not make a sound, their hands splayed over a table as a drill is driven through their flesh and muscle and tendons. It’s surreal, witnessing it, seeing the strain of their faces, the pinch of their eyes, the way their jaws clench as they refuse to cave.

It gets worse. Far worse. I am floating as I watch, as I witness the worst forms of torture I could ever imagine. Teddy thrashes and rages against his chair, but my mind is numb, the blood of the men I love pooling now around their feet as the drill is moved to their other hands. I batter the screens so hard one finally cracks, but it only splinters the view, cracking it into a million little spider web-like branches. My throat is raw as I scream, as Jameson’s eyes somehow meet mine through the lens, his neck straining so hard his veins throb and his skin is flushed a bright red.

But he doesn’t give in to the pain, and I seem to know he never will. Tristan is baring his teeth, his eyes locked psychotically on whoever is driving the drill through his left hand now. If we somehow make it out alive, I cringe to think of what will become of those who hurt us. But as the seconds morph into minutes, as the minutes culminate and their blood runs in thick rivers down the legs of their chairs, my hope is diminished.

The only thing left to do is sob. I clutch at my stomach and hold onto the only thing I can protect in this moment, something innocent and pure, surrounded by so much reckless hate. I can barely stomach watching anymore, but it is compulsive, now; I would dishonor them if I didn’t watch, and so I press my bloody palms to the screens, one over Tristan, one over Jameson, my eyes on Teddy. The drill is removed, the target now their feet. Jameson slumps forward with the reprieve, panting, sweat coating his face, but those steely eyes raise again to find mine through the cameras.

“Ya tebya lyublyu, babochka.”

His words make a choked wail escape my lips, for he wouldn’t say that if he knew there was a glimmer of hope. There is none. I can see it in his eyes, the calm, the resignation. He’s always been my rock, the one that has kept me planted and grounded. Tristan grins despite his pain, winking at me as he, too, pants, chest heaving with exertion.

“Do you remember…the thunderstorm,babochka?” he hisses. Smiling through my tears, I nod quickly. I’d never danced in the rain before that night. I’d been too scared to go outside while lightning flashed all around us, but he’d pulled me out into the yard, my feet bare against the squishy grass, and we’d danced. He’d twirled me around and we’d fallen to the ground and he’d made me feel safe despite the danger; they’d always made me feel safe despite the dangers of this world.

“Don’t you fucking give up, bunny,” Teddy hisses, my eyes swishing to him. The way he is facing, I can only see his profile, but he is livid, his jaw clenching and unclenching. “You have something worth fighting for.”

My stomach drops, my fingers now tracing his face. He knows. I’m not sure how, but he’s figured it out, and he’s right; I can’t give up. I have my twins, I have Teddy, and I have a glimmer of hope in the form of those two pink lines. My mother always protected me, and it almost cost her her life at one point.

So I nod and take a deep breath as the drill whirs to life again. If nothing else, I have to protect what I can. There is no other option now.

Time seems to end. I cannot keep track. I’ve seen so much blood. Jameson wavers on the precipice of consciousness, and Tristan is roaring his fury in strings of curses.

Curling into a ball, I watch numbly, waiting for the gift that will be my death.

* * *

Hands smooth over my face, palms cupping my cheeks, and I scream, thrashing and kicking and punching.

“Shh, bunny. It’s me. It’s me, shh,” Teddy’s melodic voice speaks, but even though I see him, when I open my eyes I still see blood, and I claw at my face to rid myself of it. “We don’t have time, baby. I need you to focus.”

Whimpering, I shake my head and do my best, but nothing makes sense anymore. The world feels upside down, mixed around, and my soul aches and festers.

“Look me in the eyes, Alice, and focus.” The demanding tone he uses pushes past my jumbled fear, and all I see is teal. “Good girl.” His thumb smooths itself over my cheek and through my tears.

Swallowing thickly, I dart my eyes around, but he grips my face harder.

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