Page 27 of Dead Devil's Playground
"Faster!" I demand through my own mic, squeezing his waist until my fingers dig into the leather of his jacket.
He obliges, pushing the bike to its limits as we race through the streets toward the Devil's Lair. The world becomes nothing but streaks of color and sound, my laughter mingling with the scream of the engine.
By the time we pull into the parking garage beneath the club, my body is humming. Hudson kills the engine, and the sudden silence rings in my ears. For a moment, neither of us moves. I'm still pressed against him, my arms around his waist, my breath coming in short gasps.
Slowly, reluctantly, I slide off the bike. My legs feel unsteady beneath me—from the ride or from something else, I'm not sure. Hudson dismounts with fluid grace, pulling off his helmet and running a hand through his hair.
"You good?" he asks, eyes tracking my face.
I nod, not trusting my voice. The exhaustion I've been fighting hits me again, a wave of dizziness that I push back through sheer force of will. I refuse to be weak. Not now. Not when we're so close to answers.
Hudson leads me through the dimly lit garage, toward a nondescript door at the far end. Anyone else would walk right past it, assuming it's a maintenance closet or electrical room. But we know better.
He punches a code into the keypad beside the door, and it slides open silently. The hallway beyond is grey, polished concrete. My boots echo against the floor as we make our way deeper into what we jokingly refer to as our "special conference room."
Who doesn't have a secret torture room in their building, right?
At the end of the hall is another door, heavier than the first. Hudson presses his palm against a scanner, and after a brief pause, the door unlocks with a metallic click.
The room beyond is spacious and meticulously clean. The walls are soundproofed, the floor sealed concrete for easy cleanup. Various implements hang from hooks along one wall—tools designed for one purpose only: to extract information from unwilling subjects.
Rev and Kai are already there, standing close together, speaking in hushed tones. They look up as we enter, their identical faces breaking into predatory smiles that mirror my own.
"About time," Rev drawls, pushing away from the wall he was leaning against. "We were starting to think you got lost."
"Or distracted," Kai adds, his eyes flickering between Hudson and me with knowing amusement.
I ignore the implication, my attention already fixed on the room's other occupant. A man sits bound to a metal chair in the center of the room, his head hanging forward limply. Blood matts his hair, trickles from his nose, stains the collar of his shirt. But he's conscious—I can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the tension in his shoulders.
"Who is he?" I ask, approaching slowly, circling him like a shark scenting blood.
"Name's Marcus, or at least that’s what he told us," Rev says, following my movement with his eyes. "One of the newbartenders working last night. Cam caught him trying to slip something into a bottle behind the bar after the overdoses started."
I stop in front of the man, bending slightly to look into his face. He raises his head, and our eyes meet. His are bloodshot, one swollen nearly shut. A split lip, bruises forming along his jaw. He's been roughed up, but not broken. Not even close to what I have in mind.
"He hasn't been very forthcoming," Kai continues, voice deceptively casual. "We thought maybe you'd have better luck, gorgeous."
My lips curve into a smile that makes the man flinch. "Awwwwww. Did you save him for me?" I ask, not taking my eyes off our prisoner.
"Consider it a gift, baby girl," Rev says, stepping closer. "We know how much you enjoy this part."
I feel a rush of affection for the twins, for how well they know me, how perfectly they understand what I need right now. After too many sleepless hours, after watching our empire being attacked from all sides, after feeling helpless and reactive instead of in control—this is exactly what I need. Someone to make bleed. Someone to make pay.
"You shouldn't have," I murmur, reaching out to touch Marcus's bruised face with mock tenderness.
He tries to jerk away, but there's nowhere to go. His eyes dart frantically between the four of us, wide with terror. "I already told them everything I know," he rasps, voice cracking. "I was just following orders. I didn't know people would die—"
My hand moves faster than thought, the crack of my palm against his cheek echoing in the room. His head snaps to the side, a fresh trickle of blood spilling from his reopened lip.
"I didn't say you could speak," I say softly, dangerously.
I turn to the wall of tools, considering my options. Each one promises a different kind of pain, a different path to the truth. My fingers hover over the selection, caressing handles, testing edges. Behind me, I hear the man's breathing quicken, panic setting in as he realizes what's coming.
"Who gave you the drugs?" I ask without turning around. "Who told you to poison my customers?"
"I-I don't know his name," Marcus stammers. "He approached me outside the club a few nights ago. Offered me money to slip something into the drinks when he gave the signal."
I select a thin-bladed knife, testing its weight in my hand. "Not good enough, Marcus. I need a name. A face. Something I can use."
