Page 92 of Thorns of Blood
The whispers and ghosts became my company, taunting me. Dared me to fight, to survive this horror. Hours, days, weeks, months… They were so long and they all blurred together. The only thing that kept me going was Amara’s pulse. I checked it every morning and every night. It was my reason to keep on fighting.
Shivers and the clattering of Amara’s teeth pierced through the nightmare, and I focused on that noise. I focused onshielding her ears from the screams tearing through the hallway, splitting my skull and heart in two.
But I kept her little ears shielded, humming a song and praying it was the only thing she’d ever remember of this hellhole if we got out.
Another creaking sound and the door opened with a loud, metal clang.
The nightmare itself—in flesh and blood—appeared at the cell door. He didn’t come alone, his reinforcements right behind him.
Perez came forward, his footsteps loud against the bare concrete, his evil grin and calculating eyes on the girl in my arms, and a scream tore from my throat. He reached out and yanked my daughter away, throwing her on the filthy twin bed. I clawed and fought, desperate to get to her.
“Stop fighting,” he purred, and my eyes locked on the little body sprawled on the mattress.
“If you get c-close to her, I’ll k-kill you.” My voice shook as violently as my body.
“You are a spitfire.”
He watched me with such a disgusting thrill in his eyes, projecting all kinds of images into my mind of the ways he could defile me. Or even worse, Amara.
“Fuck you,” I spat.
By now, I should know better than to engage with him. The man liked the challenge too much, and I walked right into his trap.
“What did you say?” Perez drawled, his voice dripping with venom.
“Fuck you,” I repeated, nausea tilting my stomach. I was hungry, and I knew Amara was too. “Get any closer and I’ll end your miserable life.”
Out of nowhere, he produced a switchblade and was on Amara in a heartbeat. He opened and closed it, then pressed the sharp tip of it to her neck.
Amara cried and whimpered, her innocent eyes darting back and forth. She was too young to understand what was happening but old enough to know she was in danger.
“Get away from her,” I screamed, dropping to my knees and crawling to her despite the chains that limited my movements. It earned me a slap across my face. One of his men kicked me and a yelp tore from my mouth. My back pressed flat against the stone wall, watching and waiting until I could strike him with a deadly blow.
One word, over and over again, rang in my ears.Kill, kill, kill.
As if Perez could read my thoughts, he gave a nod to one of his men who closed the distance to my daughter’s bed and reached down, his big palm clutching her little throat and lifting her in the air. She choked and cried, but she was only a kid. She was no match for him.
“Please,” I cried, reaching for my daughter as Perez restrained me, almost ripping my right arm out of its socket as he jerked me back. “Please, please… leave her alone.”
He laughed, his dark eyes gleaming with malice. “Your weakness.” He tutted. “Foolish to let me see it.”
Perez liked to toy with his victims. He enjoyed their suffering, which was why I’d stopped fighting when he tortured me long ago. But not her. She was only two years old—and she was sick.Her liver was slowly failing, and each day without medicine was making her weaker.
If I ever got out of this hell, I vowed I’d never beg anyone for anything. I’d become the mirror image of my mother, the great Sofia Volkov, and send terror through any man who dared to touch me or cross me.
“She still has some organs that work,” Perez taunted. “Let’s see what we can do with those.”
Terror shot through me and I yanked on my bindings, screaming. “Touch her and I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking kill you.”
I was slammed against the rough wall. The air whooshed out of my lungs and unshed tears burned in my eyes as I prayed for someone—anyone—to save us.
My reason told me nobody would.
Not my sister. Not my mother. Nobody.
When I let these evil men believe I was Louisa, taking her place in the sick arrangement my mother’s lover had made with Santiago, I held out hope that my sister would come for me.
Instead, I was left to suffer alone.
