Page 85 of Rescuing Ember

His hand shoots out, gripping my chin. Gone is the veneer of civility. His eyes blaze with barely contained rage.

“Do not test me, Mr. Hawkins. My patience has limits.”

I stare back, pouring every ounce of defiance into my gaze. “Sounds like a personal problem.”

Wolfe’s grip tightens painfully. For a moment, I think he might actually strike me. Then, with visible effort, he releases me and steps back. The mask of control slides back into place, but cracks are showing.

“Very well,” he says, smoothing his jacket. “If that’s how you want to play this. Remember, you had your chance.”

He moves toward the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “I do hope you’re more cooperative when I return. For your sake—and for Ember’s.”

The door slams shut behind him, leaving me alone with the implications of his threat. Silence descends like a heavy blanket. I’m alone with the flickering light, the musty air, and the growing catalog of pain throughout my body. My ribs throb with each breath, a sharp counterpoint to the dull ache in my skull. The copper taste of blood lingers on my tongue.

Minutes stretch into what feels like hours. I test my restraints again, muscles straining against unyielding leather. Futile, but it gives me something to focus on besides the gnawing worry for Ember.

Ember.

Her face flashes in my mind—determined, fierce, vulnerable. What are they doing to her?

The thought sends a surge of rage through me, hot and violent. I imagine my hands around Wolfe’s throat, squeezingthe life from those cold eyes. I picture slamming his head against the concrete until that smug smile is nothing but a bloody mess.

The violence of my thoughts startles me. I’ve killed before, but always with purpose, never with this raw, primal need for retribution.

I take a deep breath, wincing as my ribs protest, and try to center myself. Anger is a luxury I can’t afford right now. I need to stay sharp and find a way out of this hellhole.

I run through escape scenarios, each more unlikely than the last. It’s better than dwelling on what might be happening to Ember.

The door swings open with a groan. Bruiser and a second man enter, hulking figures that suck all the air out of the room. They’re all muscle and malice, faces set in grim anticipation. Bruiser cracks his knuckles. The sound echoes in the small space.

“Boss says you need some encouragement,” Bruiser growls, a cruel smile on his lips. “Lucky us.”

His partner, shorter but no less menacing, rolls up his sleeves. Faded tattoos snake up his forearms—crude prison ink telling stories I don’t want to read.

They circle me like wolves, closing in for the kill. I tense, muscles coiling uselessly against my restraints. The first blow comes without warning—a meaty fist slamming into my solar plexus. Air rushes from my lungs in a pained whoosh. Before I can catch my breath, another fist connects with my jaw. My head snaps back, stars exploding behind my eyes.

They work me over with brutal efficiency. No questions, no demands. Just fists and pain. Ribs crack under relentless assault. Blood fills my mouth, warm and coppery. I try to retreat into my mind, to disconnect from the agony, but each new blow drags me back to harsh reality.

I lose track of time. It could be minutes or hours. The world narrows to the rhythm of impact and pain. Just when I think I might pass out, blessed unconsciousness hovering at the edges of my vision, they stop.

Bruiser grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back. “That’s just a warm-up, pretty boy,” he snarls. “Next time, we won’t be gentle.”

They leave as abruptly as they came, the door slamming shut with finality. I slump in my restraints, every breath a symphony of agony.

Blood drips steadily onto the concrete floor.Drip. Drip. Drip.A metronome counting down to God knows what.

More time passes.

The creak of the door jolts me from my pain-induced haze. Wolfe saunters in, looking as pristine as ever. My fingers itch to muss that perfect hair, to smash that aristocratic nose.

I school my features into impassivity as he approaches, fighting to hide just how much that beating took out of me.

“I do hope you’ve had time to reconsider your position, Mr. Hawkins,” Wolfe says, his tone conversational. “I’d hate for things to become—unpleasant.”

I say nothing, meeting his gaze with as much defiance as I can muster.

Wolfe sighs, shaking his head. “Very well. Perhaps we should discuss something else.” His lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s talk about Ember, shall we? She’s such a fascinating creature.”

He circles my chair. “So much fire, so much—potential. Did you know she’s quite the little survivor? Bit of a pyro, though, but the things she’s endured…” He tsks, a mockery of sympathy. “Well, who can blame her for a fire here and there?”

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