Page 46 of The Trap

“Yes,” I respond, staring at the lifeless finger that once belonged to Alistair Cromwell…my father.

TWENTY

I’d love to say this is the first time I’ve seen a severed finger, or even any other dismembered body part for that matter. But it’s not. I’ve seen many fingers, hands, even heads torn off, bloody, lifeless–more than I can keep track of. It’s nothing new. However, I can only assume by the colorless expression that has marred Colson’s chiseled face, this is his first time. Unsure of what to say or if I should even comfort him at all, my decision is stolen from me as he reaches for the finger, immediately inspecting the ring.

“Deep breaths,” I breathe, but my words don’t make it to his ears.

I watch in mild horror—and unexpected arousal—as the color returns to his handsome face just as his lips purse, allowing him to expel a stream of saliva down on the severed finger before he tosses it to the ground, wasting not even a second before his boot smashes the torn flesh into pieces. Bones crunch beneath his steps and I swear to god, seeing the ever-conflicted Colson Cromwell show a little rage has me feeling things.

“Umm okay, then. I take it you weren’t a fan?” I half joke, trying to lighten the mood.

His chest heaves, and with each expanse of his lungs, his shirt pulls taught against him, accentuating his muscular build and causing my arousal to deepen. Throbbing intrigue riddles my needy center.

Jesus Christ Raiden, focus, bitch.

“Of my father?” he replies with an unexpected air of indifference. “No, I was not a fucking fan.”

But the way his fists are wound into tight balls, I can tell he’s not over his father and whatever pain he caused him. Indifference doesn’t cause fists to clench or jaws to lock…hurt does.

“How do you know it was his finger?” I ask.

He kneels, reaching for the ring amongst the crushed, lifeless flesh. “Aside from the scar above his knuckle that he got when he drunkenly punched me in the face for talking back to him? He never took this off. Even when he was arrested and in jail, they fucking let him wear it. Everywhere that fucker went, people feared him because of his money and the power that came with it. But he was a coward. A drunk, abusive, good-for-nothing coward. Fuck him.” He tosses the ring again, its gaudy metal clashing against the steel door.

“Nice try fucker!” he shouts to the speaker, who has been surprisingly quiet. “I don’t give a fuck if you chopped off his finger or if he’s dead. What else you got?!” he challenges, and I swear to god, the anger that’s pouring out of him right now is traveling right to my throbbing pussy. I like him like this, all flustered, and for once it’s not by my own doing.

Colson moves back to me, ripping open the second box, but it’s empty. I move closer to him, about to offer to open the next box, but he beats me to it. Again, he swings it open and it’s empty.

“C’mon, that can’t be all you fucking got. What’s next, you sick fuck?!” he shouts, all raspy and angry-sounding.Yum.

“You’re so close,” the speaker states, breaking the silence. “Two minutes left, make them count.”

“I’ll do it,” I offer once more, but Colson’s eager hands are already wrapped around the edge of the last box, opening it.

Red hits both our vision. The lights shift to a deep crimson as they strobe and flash as if we’re in a fun house.

“Ninety seconds,” the voice announces.

The lights change once more, and neon streaks appear beneath the now black light that surrounds us, highlighting the remnants of arousal on both of our bodies as well as the smears of blood on the floor. Everything is lit up, except the box. It’s dark. Unlit. Blackened. But even in its lightless state, the silhouette of something peeks through.

Colson reaches inside, his palm exiting the box with a red mask that appears immune to the cast of black light that has taken the room hostage.

“What the fuck is it with this fucking mask?!” Colson shouts, immediately throwing the mask that looks identical to the one he’s been wearing, down to the floor. His hand returns to the box, feverishly searching for whatever else could be inside.

Closing the space between us, I slip my hand into the box. My palm brushes against Colson’s, igniting a flicker of heat that rushes down every inch of my skin. We exchange a quick look, both realizing that there is something in between our hands. Removing my hand, I find my palm is empty…but his is not. Curled in his fist is a rolled piece of yellowed paper as well as a gold chain with some sort of pendant dangling on it.

“Sixty seconds,” the voice announces, reminding us time is running out.

“Give it to me,” I urge him, reaching my empty palm his way, but his stubborn ass clenches the paper and chain harder. “Jesus Christ,” I mumble under my breath. Wasting no time, I snatch the paper from Colson’s hands, quickly slipping the ribbon offand unraveling it. My jaw drops as my heart flutters so fast it’s as if I’m on speed.

“Raiden, what the fuck is it?” Colson bellows, almost sounding insulted that I want to know what the fuck he is holding, as if we aren’t pawns in a game that we win byplaying.

Ignoring him, I stare at the paper. A letter swims before my vision, as I’m captivated by familiar names and equally familiar handwriting. My mouth moves, but words don’t come out. How is this possible? It’s my father’s handwriting, signed and dated next to another name I don’t recognize. The cursive is too messy. I squint to inspect it further, but I still can’t decipher a fucking thing.

“Raiden,” Colson repeats.

The pressure of the clock sinks in as I look past Colson’s angry and concerned expression to the flashing timer.

My palms feel clammy as panic sets in. “Fuck, we only have forty seconds.”

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