Page 51 of Don't Say A Word

“A few weeks before they’re gone completely, I’d say.”

“Fuck,” Senior curses. “So he’s going to find out.”

“There’s no way around it. Her skin is broken and the bruising has started to appear. Junior’s going to know the moment he sees her.”

Senior gets distracted, barking at someone in the background. I watch as the horse who was racing around the track slows, the jockey leaning forward to pat its neck, rewarding it for a job well done.

“I’ll deal with Junior,” he says, but he’s still distracted by the ruckus of yelling in the background. “I’ve got to go,” he says. “But I’ll call you back.”

“What about Marcel?” I ask.

“He’s a good trainer, would be a pity to lose him. Let me think on it and we’ll talk later.”

It’s hours before he calls again. Hours where I just stare at Mia on the screen, wishing there was some way I could go back and undo all of this.

Senior’s voice is gruff and straight to the point. “I’ll need you to take care of Marcel. Let him know that he’s no longer required.”

“You want me to let him go?”

“Affirmative.”

Getting fired by the Attertons isn’t what it seems. People like Marcel, like me, the people that know the ins and outs of the less public aspects of their business don’t get fired. They simply disappear.

“I’ve got a doctor on the way to check out the girl, and I’ll send someone to replace Marcel in a few days. Are you able to handle things until then? Take over the training?”

I swallow. “Sure.”

And then he’s gone, already distracted by the next issue that demands his attention.

Walking over to my car, I pop the boot and rummage until I find what I need. Tucking it into the belt of my jeans, I glance up once more at the blue sky before heading back below. A cursory look at the monitors tells me that Mia is right where I left her, lying on the bed, eyes still wide and scanning the room.

Marcel is in the bathroom, the odd hiss of air escaping through gritted teeth as he cleans his wounds. I walk over and lean in the doorway. His face is a mess. One eye is completely swollen shut. The skin over his cheekbone is split to the bone. His nose is crooked and his lips bulge unevenly. He’s managed to pull on some underwear, but other than that he is naked.

He catches a glimpse of me out of the corner of his good eye. “Fucking traitor,” he says, although his voice is distorted due to his injuries. “Trainers are supposed to have each other’s backs.”

“I’m not a trainer.”

“And yet you’re fucking training a girl, go figure.”

“You know she wasn’t to be touched. I warned you.”

“Typical.” Marcel attempts to grin but his lips only twitch awkwardly. “So what? You going to beat me some more now? Stick up for the honor of your girl?” He nods in the direction of Mia’s room, turning around and leaning against the bathroom counter to face me.

His face looks like something out of a horror movie. I must have struck him harder than I thought. Clenching my fists at my sides, I test them for tenderness. Sure enough, the skin over my knuckles screams in protest.

“I’m supposed to let you go.” It’s only at those words that the true horror of his situation dawns on him.

“You fucking told?” He advances toward me but stops and clutches his side. “You fucking told?” he repeats.

I know I’m supposed to feel guilt. But I don’t. I’ve trained within myself an ability to simply not think. Follow orders. Obey. Do as I’m told. But this is one case that I don’t need to block off my thoughts. Visions of him wrapped around her, fingers pushing inside, the look of terror on her face, flash through my mind. This is the one time that thinking about what I’m doing and why helps.

I stalk toward him, ramming my elbow against his throat, and push him into the shower cubical. He flails, grabbing onto the edges, stopping me from pushing him in fully, but his grip is weak and I dislodge it easily.

“Ryker,” he hisses, the air in his lungs trapped by the pressure of my grip. “Ry—”

Slipping the knife from my belt, I push it into his side and jerk it upward. My name fades on his lips and turns to a low howl of air. He looks at me, shock displaying over his features as the blood starts to drip down my fist. He slumps forward, his head resting on my shoulder like an embrace.

“I said you would fucking die if you touched her,” I whisper in his ear. “I’m a man of my word.” Then I push him away, sliding his body off the knife and allowing him to flop to the ground.

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