Page 67 of Ravage

"He's right," I say calmly. "You do taste fucking incredible."

Her eyes are wide, breathing shallow as she tries to comprehend what just happened. The two of us laugh, stepping away from each other as I grab a new needle and start sterilizing it.

"Grey's turn next?" I say, her head snapping to look at me with disbelief. "For ink."

Avery manages to collect herself together, sitting up as she snatches the needle from my hand. "My turn to draw. It's payback time. And you may as well keep my panties. They suit your skin tone."

I'm lined up, waiting to enter the showers with my usual group when a guard taps me on the shoulder, pulling me out of my thoughts—all of which involve Avery.

Turning around, I give him a bored, pissed-off expression, noticing that I'm at least a head taller than him. It doesn't take much to intimidate him, his eyes flashing with fear.

"What?!"

He recoils slightly as if I've slapped him, but quickly pulls himself together, straightening up.

"Come with me, please. Mr. Whittingham would like a word."

Does he now? Well, this ought to be good.

I stay in place for a few seconds, watching as panic fills the guard's face as he contemplates how he's going to get me to move if I don't comply.

Narrowing my eyes on him, I step out of line, walking down the corridor without him. He quickly catches up, hand placed tightly over his gun as a precaution.

When we reach the end of the corridor, I look at him expectantly while he fumbles to swipe the tag and punch in the code. Somehow, he manages to drop the card twice, and I roll myeyes at their so-called security. If this is the best they can recruit, then it's no wonder they have problems.

"Hurry the fuck up," I hiss at him, making him jump.

"Right, yep," he mutters to himself, swinging the door open.

I don't wait for him yet again, crossing the threshold to Whittingham's office. I've only been in here twice before—once on my arrival, and the first time I broke another patient's nose for getting in my face. Given how little remorse I showed—along with the fact I threw Whittingham's paper weight into his glass window as I was aiming for his head—I was no longer welcome in here. It was straight to solitary confinement, which worked great for me.

So, I can't help but wonder why I'm here now.

If I had to guess—either they know I went downstairs, or they are trying to hunt for information from someone other than Damon and Grey.

The door is open as I approach and I barge straight in, not stopping until I'm at the edge of his desk. It happens so suddenly that Whittingham barely has time to react, his chair rolling backwards as he quickly stands to his feet.

"Mr. Ashwood," he growls, frustrated.

"What the fuck do you want?" I snap at him.

Clearing his throat, he points to the chair beside me. "Take a seat."

"No."

"Fine, suit yourself," he grumbles, sitting back down. His eyes dart to the door where the guard lingers back. I don't turn around, but I know his tiny hand is still resting on the top of the gun. Judging by how close he was to shitting himself, I doubt he'd be much use if I did start a fight. Still, Whittingham motions for him to stay put.

"Can we get this over with?" I say sternly. "I'm allergic to your presence."

Whittingham scowls, flipping open a folder on the desk. There are photos inside—and it's easy to recognize my own figure in the video still.

"We have repeatedly told you not to go out of bounds," he scolds.

"I couldn't give a shit what you have asked," I shoot back. "Are we done?"

He leans forward, glaring angrily at me. "We know you killed that doctor."

I shrug. "Prove it."

---