Page 12 of Brutal Savior

She glances at the door again. She didn’t lie to me, at least, and tell me she’ll take me up on the offer. We both know it won’t happen.

The intercom buzzes, and we both jump. “Eve. I want a word.”

There’s no mistaking the big guy’s harsh British accent. Eve glances at the mirror one more time, then squeezes my hand. “We’ll get you out of here soon.”

She heads to the door, leaving me alone with the food. I pick at it some more, though my appetite has finally left me. I might need my strength for whatever is ahead.

The light in the room is the sort of depressing fluorescent hospitals everywhere seem to love. I hate the way it bleaches my skin. I must look like a dug-up ghoul after no sleep and all the medication. If they try to sell me now, they’ll be lucky to get fifty bucks.

It shouldn’t make me laugh, but exhaustion has made me lightheaded, and I snort as a giggle tries to make its way out. Maybe if they think I’m a drug-addled psycho, they’ll let me go?

The door opens, and the British guy enters, shutting it behind him. If the room felt small before, it’s a goddamn closet now. His gigantic form is a black hole, sucking all the space and air from the room. It pulls the last traces of my amusement with it, and all I can do is stare, mouth open.

Intimidating doesn’t begin to cover it, and it’s not just his size. His green eyes stand out like lanterns against the slight olive tint of his skin. He’s the sort of man you can picture doing intense physical labor. Using those huge hands to swing a hammer.

Jesus Christ. Why in the hell am I thinking about that?

He takes the seat across from me, squeezing in with difficulty. Air travel must be his idea of hell. He holds out his hand like we’re meeting in a boardroom. Not that I’ve ever seen an actual boardroom.

“Jacob West. What’s your name, love?”

I take his hand on autopilot. It swallows mine whole, but his grip is gentle. Not like those assholes who try to show how manly they are by crushing your hand to death. The chain on my cuffs shakes, and his eyes stray to it.

After a few seconds of silence, he prompts, “Your name?”

I’m compelled to answer, the words dragged from my throat by his calm politeness. I’d have told Brackis to go and fuck himself, but saying that to this man feels about as smart as shoving my head into a blender. “Quinn Bartlett.”

He still hasn’t released my hand. “Quinn, I’ve got some things to tell you, and it’s not good news. Are you ready to hear it now, or do you need more time to collect yourself?”

I’ve heard that exact tone of voice before. People are all trained to deliver bad news in the same way. Doctors, cops—they get the same lessons. Be direct. Don’t drag it out. Don’t apologize.

I’ve got some bad news about your heart.

I’ve got some bad news about your sister.

All delivered in the same matter-of-fact tone Jacob is using on me right now. It breaks the spell of compliance I’d slipped into. Fiery flickers surge through my body and straight out of my mouth. “More time to do what? Sit here and admire the beautiful fucking view?”

I gaze around, awestruck, at the green walls. Now that my mouth is moving, there’s no stopping the torrent of anger that pours out. There’s a reason I’ve had five jobs in the last four years. “Maybe I should enjoy the fabulous cuisine?”

I manage to move the hand that he isn’t holding just enough to flip the plastic tray, sending the remaining food flying over Jacob.

The minute I do it, my sanity floods back in a cold wave. Why? Why am I so fucking stupid? Jacob doesn’t flinch or make any attempt to stop the fruit and cold cuts from covering him. He glances down; flicks the tray to the floor, where it lands with a doom-like thud; and meets my gaze again.

“Better?”

I swallow, mouth desert-dry. If I’d done that to Brackis, I’m sure he’d have slapped the shit out of me. But Jacob’s eyes have darkened, and there’s the faintest touch of amusement at the corners of them. It’s somehow much scarier.

I don’t answer, and he nods. “I’ll go ahead and tell you what you need to know.”

The hint of humor has evaporated. I brace myself. What’s the worst-case scenario? I’m to be chopped up and used for organ donation. Not that my organs would be worth shit. Might as well make a stew out of them. I’m to be sold as a sex slave. Sacrificed to a god. Sent to—

“You’re in a place known as the Compound. It doesn’t show up on any GPS systems, and only a few select people know where it is. It’s home to a group called the Onyx Brotherhood.”

Human sacrifice it is, then. I fucking knew it.

“I’m a Brother, as are the other men you saw besides Colonel Brackis. He’s an employee.”

I don’t miss the twitch of his lips as he says Brackis’s name. He’s still pissed about earlier.

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