Page 26 of Immortal Bastard

Instinctively, she knew this was the first step of brainwashing. The bad guys always stripped their victims down and took away all signs of individuality. “This isn’t mine. Where are my clothes?”

“I’m giving it to you. Consider it yours.”

“I don’t want it. I prefer pants.”

He scoffed. “I think not.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, do you? Do you think not? We aren’t in bloody London! And I’m not wearing some cult frock from one of your medieval fantasies. I want a fucking pair of pants, and I want my phone!”

His mercury irises flashed like blue lightning. Under such a threatening glare, her bravado abandoned her, but she forced herself not to show fear.

“I’ve asked you to refrain from such foul language. I won’t ask again.”

She wanted to snap, or what, but she also didn’t want to find out what the what was. Huffing, she yanked the drab sack he was trying to pass off as clothing over her head.

His mouth formed a flat line as his stare did a quick assessment of her. “We need to speak, Delilah.”

“Yeah, okay, let’s start with where the hell am I? What the fuck did you do to me? And where the hell are my real clothes?”

“Control your tongue. My patience wears thin.”

“Your patience? Hello...” She shoved a thumb against her chest. “I’m here against my will. Your patience can eat a dick.”

A growl rolled through the room like thunder. “Last warning, pintura. Mind your tongue.”

Pintura? She locked her jaw so her teeth didn’t chatter. Name-changing was another sign of brainwashing. She saw it on an episode of 60 Minutes.

As tempting as it was to tell him to fuck off, she couldn’t stop thinking about the girl from Silence of the Lambs that Buffalo Bill trapped in the well. If this guy asked her to rub lotion on her skin, she was going to lose her shit.

Who knew how crazy he was? If she didn’t actually watch her mouth, he might end up cutting out her tongue. Who would look for her? Gran and Pop, dead. Lance and McGuire, gone. She was fucked. True fear settled in and she whimpered.

“May we speak now?”

Sarcasm was her first defense whenever she was scared, but in this case, saying the wrong thing could get her killed.

“Talk,” she barked.

He frowned, silently studying her. Was he waiting for an engraved invitation?

“Well?”

He drew in a deep breath and sighed, dragging the chair in the corner of the room closer to the bed. He straddled it, crossing his arms over the back. The thickly corded muscles she had found so attractive now terrified her. His broad shoulders bunched under the crisp black linen of his shirt.

The bastard was probably going to sell her to some sex trafficking ring. Her stomach lurched at the thought.

“Are you planning on standing up there through our discussion?”

Sitting on the bed put her at a disadvantage. He was bigger in every way. She could at least give the illusion that she was taller. “Yes.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can see this is going to be a trial. You’re in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.”

“Pennsylvania!” How had he brought her all the way from Detroit without getting caught? “How long did I sleep?” He definitely drugged her.

“Not long. I told you I lived on a farm. This is my land.”

Great. He probably had a whole cartel out in the barn and women chained up in every stable. “Why did you bring me here?”

“We’ll get to that.”

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