Page 18 of Property of Necro
What do I say?
Nothing.
Do I wanna check on Sola? Yes.
Am I gonna?
Nope.
He started this. He can check up on her.
Out of the three of us, Coffin genuinely hates women. Or pretends to. I understand why, with his fucked-up childhood and shit, but Sola didn’t hurt him. They did.
One of these days, he’s gotta stop making other women pay for their indiscretions.
Today’s the day he’s gonna have to do the right thing and… be nice.
For once.
When I don’t move, Coffin flips us the bird, stows his knife, and grumbles under his miserable breath as he exits the kitchen.
“And to think it’s just day one.” Mama smirks as he moves the giant pot from the stove to the island and sets out bowls for dinner, next to a bag of cheese, a box of crackers, and diced onions.
“Chow time, assholes!” he yells.
It’s time to eat.
I’m starving.
Chapter
Eight
I can’t believe Coffin,the woman killer, cut a man’s fingers off. Just like that, the slimy digits touched me for barely a second, and then they were gone, bouncing on the floor.
Shivering, I clasp my hands in my lap, trying to ignore the splash of his blood on the side of my leg and arm.
Rot left me here to wait for dinner.
My stomach grumbles, having not eaten since this morning.
Chewing on my bottom lip, I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth.
I may be alone. I may be here without a mission, but I have survived much worse.
So much worse.
But I miss my sisters.
I wish I could talk to them.
Kali would have much to say about Dark’s choice to drop me here.
Calloused fingers wrap around my wrist, ripping mefrom my thoughts and my seat. Stumbling behind Coffin, I’m forced to follow him from the dining room, through a hallway, and into a bedroom where everything’s white, from the walls to the furniture to the bedding, apart from the dark blue carpeted floor. It’s soft beneath my bare feet as he nearly dislocates my arm from its socket as he drags me into the attached bath.
Not saying a word, the blond biker lifts me and sets me roughly on the counter. My t-shirt rises, and my bare bottom meets the cold vanity. I gasp on contact.
Not paying me a lick of attention, Coffin grumbles under his breath as he riffles through a cupboard until he finds a bottle of alcohol and cotton balls. He douses the cotton in way too much disinfectant, which soaks the tiled floor, before he slathers the wetness over the blood on my arm and leg.
