Page 77 of Unleashed
The last two words wound him, I can see it in the way his features tighten. My mom might not have wanted me near her,blamed me for everything, but on that island, I didn’t know. On that island, I was a daughter who thought her mother needed her, and I couldn’t be there.
He places his hand over mine, dragging it to his lips, placing a hard, deep kiss against my palm. “Christ, woman. You’ll be the death of me one day.”
“We should be so lucky,” Anthony chimes from behind us, and I smile despite Isaia’s deadly glare.
“Fine,” he concedes, and I suck in a breath. “But you will do exactly as I say. Exactly. I’m going to call Alexius, tell him we’re on our way.”
Lifting up onto my toes, I press my lips to his. Not hard. Not heavy. Just a brush of mouths that says 'thank you' and 'I love you' and 'I'm terrified.'
I stay there a moment until I feel his hand cup the back of my skull, the other splayed wide on my lower back, anchoring me to him. I swear, I've never felt safer than in his arms.
“But I’m keeping this plane on standby,” Anthony says. “In case shit hits the fan, we need to get you two out of here on a moment’s notice.”
Isaia nods. “Agreed.”
Anthony and I look at each other, both shocked.
Isaia notices. Shrugs. “What?”
“You fucking asshole. You agreed with me.”
“Hell must be thawing,” Isaia retorts, though the tease in his voice is muted. He’s about to call Alexius when his phone vibrates in his hand.
He swipes the screen. “It’s a video message.”
Anthony leans over. “From who?”
“I dunno. Don’t recognize the number.”
He looks down. Frowns. Then his entire body goes rigid.
“What is it?” My voice trembles.
He doesn’t answer. Just taps the screen, and a video expands across it.
My stomach bottoms out as it starts to play. “Oh, my God,” I gasp.
Hanging naked from chains bolted into the ceiling, wrists wrenched high above her head, is Molly. Her skin is pale under the harsh light, marred by angry welts where the iron bites into her flesh. But it’s her mouth—oh God, her mouth—that steals the air from my lungs.
Thick black thread pierces her swollen lips, pulled so tight the skin splits around each puncture. Three crude X’s stitch her silence shut, jagged and uneven, fresh blood seeping down her chin to drip onto her chest. Her eyes are wide, wild, rolling with terror, screaming everything her mangled lips can’t.
“No,” I choke, my voice shattering. “Oh, God, no!”
Isaia’s hand clamps on my shoulder, steadying me when my legs buckle.
“Mother of God,” I hear Anthony whisper, his voice a tremulous echo of my own shock.
The camera shifts, and a man steps into view. Tall. Broad shoulders. A face that makes Isaia inhale sharply, like he’s been punched.
The man holds a wooden cross in his hand, the wood dark, stained. A prop, a weapon, a promise. He tilts it toward the camera, his smile cold.
“I’m giving Molly the chance my daughter never had. The chance for you to save her.” His eyes gleam, black with madness. “You have an hour.”
The video ends, and the silence it leaves behind is deafening, shattered by the scream that tears out of my throat. It rips me raw, a sound I don’t even recognize as my own, echoing off the steel and glass around us. My hands fly to my mouth, but they can’t cage the sob that follows, jagged and broken.
Molly. My Molly. “Oh, my God.” I gasp, over and over, my voice splintering with every breath. “Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God.”
The image is seared behind my eyelids—the thread sawing into her lips, her eyes pleading, the chains cutting into her skin. She’s alive, but she’s suffering. He’s torturing her.
