Page 92 of The Blood we Crave

Tonight, with no one in sight to applaud, I am the act. A private showing of my torment. Slowly tortured all to prove a point, to send a message.

I hiss, feeling it sizzle through my barred teeth as I turn my head away from Player One, as I’m calling him. His slimy fingers press into my ribs, the oncoming bruise thumping in pain. I can feel him dig into my skin, ticking the bone and pushing further.

“This is just the preview, girl,” he says in my ear. “If you keep digging, you’ll be in your own grave. You think they won’t come back for you? To finish what we started?”

My teeth sink into my tongue, biting back a scream of agony as the cool tip of knife slices into me. The tip ripping through flesh, opening another wound on my body.

I hate myself for the whimper that escapes, the proof of their torture affecting me. Briar wouldn’t have let them see her shed a tear and Sage would have died before showing weakness.

“It’s okay to cry. Go ahead and cry.” Player Two, the one wearing a white mask, urges. Walking towards me, placing his hand on the top of my head, petting my hair with gentle strokes.

“I want your friends to see your tears. Bloody, bruised, and barely alive. Maybe then they’ll learn to keep out of business that doesn’t involve them.”

I fight the urge to let tears fall, refusing to give them the pleasure of breaking me. Even though the pain is unbearable, every breath a chore. My face tender from the earlier hits, torso leaking blood from the several minor open wounds.

It wasn’t enough to kill me. Like they said, they didn’t want to kill me. They wanted me to live so that they could prove a point. Wanted me to crawl back to them mutilated, in hopes my injuries would scare us all into silence.

But they did not know the boys. What they were capable of when scorned. What their wraith could do in times of sorrow.

“They’ll kill you,” I whisper, sucking in a breath. “When they find you, they will gut you like fish. You don’t stand a fucking chance.”

A hash slapping sound echoes in the circus tent. My head spinning from the force of the hit across my left cheek. Whimsical music spins in my head, floating from the speakers.

I tongue my cheek, swallowing the burn. Checking to make sure my all my teeth are still intact.

His fingers grab my jaw, jerking me to face him. The ropes wound around my upper body tighten as I try to jerk against them. I feel so helpless, and the only person I can blame was myself.

If I would’ve just followed the rules. Stayed at the circus, instead of following Easton to his home. I should have just done what the guys asked, but I couldn’t.

I couldn’t meet them and bear the weight of their stares as I told them I had learned nothing of importance while trailing Easton Sinclair. Not his father, not the Halo, not so much as a fucking speeding ticket.

I failed them. Their disappointment would’ve hurt far worse than any beating these two could deliver.

“You fucked with the wrong people. This was too powerful for those rich punks you call friends. They should’ve let that girl’s death go. Now you’re the one paying for their mistakes, all because of their bruised pride.”

Player One lazily draws the knife up my body in a teasing way. A predator playing with its food, dragging out the catch. When he reaches the joint between my shoulder and neck, he rips my sweater to expose my skin.

I try to block him out. Shut out the pain and think of anything else. My breaths are shaky as I delve into how I got here in the first place, distracting myself the best I can.

The details are fuzzy, frayed around the edges of my memory, but I remember following Easton from the circus, even though I promised I wouldn’t. I needed to get something on him. I couldn’t let everyone down by turning up empty-handed.

Excruciating pain zaps into my shoulder, blood wetting my skin, but I keep my eyes forward and my mind busy. They are not worth my fear or my suffering. They will not win.

I followed Easton all the way to the Sinclair residence. Slipped inside his house when I saw he’d left the front door unlocked. I can recall every inch of their home. What I found on Stephen’s desk, the padlocked door in his office, and approximately how long I had to hide in a storage closet until Easton and his mother finished arguing over dinner.

I can trace every footstep out of his house and too my car, can remember pulling into the parking lot of the school, planning to wait there until it was time to meet the guys.

The last thing my brain can recollect is my door being jerked open and an aggressive hand curling around my upper arm. After that, it’s all blank. My memory runs out of tape and the screen fades to white noise.

Fingers run along the fresh wound on my shoulder, and I look over to see Play Two slipping his fingers into his mouth. Licking my blood from his skin.

“You taste so sweet, almost too sweet to waste.”

Bile lodges in my throat, watching him suck on the two digits coated in my blood.

“Fuck,” Spitting it onto the black cloth of the fabric shielding his face. “You.”

Saliva and blood splatters across the mask causing a nasty growl to come from his lips as he presses his covered face against my own. His nails penetrate my scalp, tearing at my hair. The smell of decay on his hot breath makes my stomach revolt.

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