Page 40 of Queen Of WildCards

Spadefucked the captive.

Shetook one look at the expression on my face and backed up, swinging the door open to admit me into his room. "He'sover there in the recliner thing," she muttered, her hand curled around the frame of the door, fingers gripping it like a lifeline. "Ithink he popped his stitches."

Sureenough, the smug but bleeding asshole was propped up in the nearby chair, trademark shit-eating grin spread across his face. "Helooks fine to me,"Imuttered, pursing my lips at his lack of concern for my handiwork. "I'mnot fixing him."

Sheinched around the door and put her hand on my arm, her fingers digging into the flesh there. "Youhave to!He'llbleed out—"

Iripped my arm from her grip and twisted her hand behind her back, shoving her face-first into the nearby wall.Spadeclenched the armrests of his chair but didn't move, thoughIcould tell he wanted to.

Herwhimpers were like music to my ears, or they should have been, considering the error she'd committed against me.Nobodytouched me,nobody,andIdidn't take the violation lightly.

Buther soft pleas and the tears that choked her now, they grated against my skin, made me ashamed for whatIwas doing to her.

NotthatIcould stop.Atthis point, punishing someone was necessary.

Betterit be before she did worse.

"Don'tever put your hands on me uninvited again.Arewe clear?"Ileaned in to growl the warning in her ear, and she flexed against my pinning armlock, groaning at the stretch of her tender flesh as it neared its breaking point.Shemumbled a mutedyesand went back to her pitiful whimpers, turning her nose to the wall to escape me.

Ishoved her harder into the wall and let her go, my hands tingling from the prolonged contact.Alittle thrill ran through me at the thought of her soft skin in my hold, just as a strange, empty feeling filled my black heart at the loss of her in my arms.

"Fuckyou,BlackJack, she didn't know,"Spadespat at me, andIdecided right then and there thatIwouldfix his stitches, just as soon asIripped every single old one from his derelict body.

"Shedoes now,"Isnapped back, marching over to where he kept a first aid kit hanging on the wall outside his torture room door. "Shirt."

Hewas quick to follow commands, peeling the bloodstained white tee over his head with no more than a slight wince of discomfort.Ipulled a set of tweezers from the bag and prodded at the edge of his stitch string, tugging it until he hissed at my assault.

"Ifyou're not gonna fix them, call someone who will," he growled at me, his hands gripping his thighs like a lifeline. "I'mnot here to let you kick me whenI'mdown."

Mylips twitched almost imperceptibly at his poor joke, andIabandoned the torment for actual work.Imeticulously reversed the threadsI'dput in him just last night and replaced it with a new strand of surgical line, doubling over the loops this time.

Hewouldn't be popping these as effortlessly.

Butjust in case . . .Iturned to the girl, eyes narrowed on her slight form hunched against the wall, rubbing her shoulder. "Stayoff his dick until this has a chance to heal, you hear?"

"BlackJack,"Spadegrowled in warning, butIwas well past caring what he had to say about any of this.Hewas the reasonIeven had to redo my handiwork in the first place.

"Icould just letAceknow what you're up to."

Hislips slammed closed, defiance written in every line on his stoic features. "Fuckyou."

"You'renot my type."

Herolled his eyes and pointedly ignored me now, but that suited me just fine.ThefasterIcould get this done, the fasterIcould have my answers and be out of the compound again.Awayfrom the girl who—

Fuck, where'd she go?

Idoubled my efforts on the stitches and tied off the last knot, tossing a square of gauze and some surgical tape at his bare chest in disgust. "Patchyourself up and wash the blood off.I'llfind the girl."

* * *

Iwas no soonerout the door of his room than a sound down the hall drew my attention.Itwas coming from the commons, and since there were only three of us here, it had to be her.Ifollowed the empty hall to her, confused whenIfound her sitting on the couch, knees drawn up to her chest, her arms around those fishnet-clad legs of hers.Theboots she wore were muddy, and that mud was slowly seeping into the cushions, butIdidn't give two shits.

Whatdid give me pause was the fierce look of determination, of hatred and anger that left no room for a weak-willed woman.

Herfather wasSlimJim, a known criminal in the mafia underworld.Perhapshe'd taught her from the start not to bend so easily, maybe even how to get the upper hand on a bunch of criminals like us.Orperhaps she was planning to use our weaknesses against us.Shewasa psychiatrist.Analyzingus and finding the chink in our armor wouldn't be hard.

"I'mnot running away if that's what you think," she muttered coldly, her eyes on the blank television screen.

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