Page 39 of Damaged & Deadly

“That’s exactly why you should give it a go. It will distract you and make the time go by faster. Do you honestly think staring at the clock is going to make the minutes any less painful?”

Huffing, I snatch the book from him, reading the title,The Name of the Wind.“What’s it about?”

“It’s the story of a man who overcame his poor upbringing by becoming a notorious magician, an accomplished thief, and an infamous assassin.”

“Sounds like he was overcompensating,” I grumble, ripping a laugh from Enzo before he makes himself comfortable beside me with his own book. Dragging my feet into his lap, he keeps one hand on my ankle, tracing indistinguishable patterns on my skin while his eyes scan the pages.

After watching him for a moment, I shift my gaze to the book in my hand. Reluctantly opening it to the first page, I begin to read, even though I know I’ll be back to staring out the window in five minutes.

I’m halfway through chapter five, wholly absorbed in the book that I didn’t even hear the front door when Dante returns. It’s only when the heat of his gaze burns hot enough to pull me out of the story that I realize he’s home, and I jump to my feet, searching his face for any clue of how his morning went. Nothing.

The nerves I’d been feeling all morning before I got sucked into that damn book re-emerge, and it’s in an apprehensive voice that I ask, “Did you see him?”

With a nod, he steals my spot on the sofa and Enzo pulls me to sit between them. Not once does my focus leave Dante while I futilely attempt to read him. “And?”

Instead of answering me, he removes his phone from his pocket. Pulling something up, he turns it to face me, and with shaking hands, I reach out and take it from him. “Oh my god,” I gasp, clapping my hand over my mouth. Leaning in, Enzo rests his chin on my shoulder as he stares at the screen.

The photo was discreetly taken from the side, catching Luc right as he turned his head toward the photographer. His face is paler, and he’s skinnier than even a couple of days ago, but that’s not what I focus on. It’s the damage they’ve done to him that has sent me spiraling. While the black eye he had on the wedding day has started to turn a sickly yellow, he’s got a new one to match it on his other eye. His lip is swollen, and there’s a sizable purple welt on his jaw. He looks like he was on the wrong end of a bat. Dropping my gaze over his body to search for other injuries, I notice his posture is tense, probably out of fear or pain, or both. The worst part is the emptiness in his usually vibrant eyes. It’s like Giovanni and Santos have sucked the life out of him, leaving nothing but an empty shell behind.

The image swims as tears well in my eyes and I choke on a sob. I feel the control on my sanity slipping as darkness creeps in at the edge of my vision, threatening to swallow me whole. The icy-cold fingers of the Reaper clutch at my heart, squeezing until it threatens to burst while she whispers promises of violence, retribution, and chaos.

“Tonight. We move tonight. He’s not staying there another second.”

My tone leaves no room for argument, and neither man challenges me as if sensing how close I am to losing myself.

Chapter 16

It’s the steady drip of water from a tap that reluctantly pulls me back into the realm of consciousness, and I groan as I take in my less-than-stellar living arrangements.

I’m still tied to the chair I was sitting on when I passed out in the same windowless room. As my brain comes back online, the first thing I register is pain. Everywhere. The muscles in my arms ache from being forced backward, and my face and torso hurt from the beatings they’ve taken, but I’m alive.

As soon as the horrendous dinner where I discovered Santos was my father was over, I was marched down here. Despite that asshole's words for me not to fight, that’s precisely what I did. I fought Santos tooth and nail, throwing every bit of anger and hurt into my punches as I put the skills Jon taught me to good use. Not that it did me any good. Being bigger and stronger than me, Santos easily gained the upper hand. And the glint of satisfaction in his eye when he wrestled me into the chair was chilling. Of course, my resistance gave him the excuse he needed tobeat the dissent out of me.His words.

I’m not sure how long ago that was or how long I’ve been tied up in here for, but I’m not left to stew in my thoughts for long as the sound of heavy footfalls treading closer to my cell reaches my ears.

A beeping sound comes from the other side of the door before it swings open, and Santos steps in, his form as dominating as ever in his crisp suit, with his shaved head and the row of Xs down one cheek. His smile is all teeth as he stares down at me, enjoying his handiwork as he takes in the myriad of bruises and blood.

He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the door, observing me. I watch him right back, refusing to be cowered, even in my weakened, defenseless state. Sawyer may have protected me, but she didn’t coddle me. While she may not have taught me to fight, she did teach me to stand up for myself. She instilled long-standing principles, principles that I have no intention of discarding just because this asshole thinks he can beat them out of me.

“What’s your name?” It’s the same question that landed me here in the first place.

“Lucifer Jones.”

I don’t know if the idiot expected me to roll over and submit as soon as he announced my bloodline. Actually, given how excited he looks when I once again don’t give him the correct answer, I think he wants me to fight back. He wants me to resist. All so he can break me down and revel in the discarded pieces left behind.

He wants me to fight so he can watch me fall. So he can put me back together in his image.

Well, that’s not fucking happening.

“Wrong answer,” he sing-songs, not sounding all that annoyed as he steps over to the table on the far side of the room. He takes his time selecting his weapon of choice, making me sweat as my heart rate skyrockets with anticipation.

Lifting something, he turns to face me, holding a long metal pole with a plastic handle and two prongs at the end. My body tenses on instinct, and I don’t have time to do anything else—not that there is much else I can do—before he jams it into my side.

My entire body locks up, an unpleasant buzzing sensation starting under my skin as my teeth grind painfully against one another. It can’t last more than a few seconds, but as soon as he retracts the device, I sag forward, breathing heavily.

“Let’s try that again. What’s your name?”

I manage to spit out, “Luc Jones,” on a hoarse breath. The words barely pass my lips before the stick is shoved back into my side. This time the intensity has been turned up, and I cry out as a blinding hot pain eliminates any other sensation.

---