Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 72931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Why am I here?
I curl my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them. Still naked but under a blanket. Not tied up to anything from what I can tell. Better situation than Hammer was in last time I visited this place. Still, it’s not right. Koyn came for me. I should be in his bed or on his couch or in his fucking arms.
Sadness washes over me, chasing away the numbness. The fire is hot and crackling, but the air in the slaughterhouse is bone-chilling. I sense another person with me and I wonder if it’s Koyn. Will he tell me what the hell is going on?
I try to sit up, but the room spins. So dizzy. So weak.
“I don’t feel well,” I croak out. “Water.”
Boots crunch on the dirty wood floors. Step. Step. Step. Stop. I can feel an ominous presence looming over me. Shadowed. Angry. Large.
“Koyn?”
A golden god squats before me, normally passive features screwed into a scowl.
Filter.
“How you liking your new accommodations?” He flashes me a cruel smile. “Warm enough, Genworth?”
Genworth.
Not PG or Pageant Girl or Hadley.
“Where’s Koyn?” I demand, trying and failing to sit up.
His eyes narrow. “Out.”
“I’m thirsty. Hungry.” My eyes burn with tears. “I need clothes.”
He rakes his eyes over my form and lets out a snort. “Here, you’re no longer a princess. Your wants and needs aren’t above everything else. Here, Koyn is king. Here, you are under his command.”
“Let me see him then,” I hiss out. “He’ll take care of me.”
Filter rises and pops his knuckles. “Cute. He knows you were fucking Putnam. Saw him on the surveillance footage coming and going. You have his cum all down your legs.” He makes a repulsed sound. “You’re fucking disgusting.”
I’m stung by his hateful words. He was always the nice one.
“I…you don’t—”
“Save it for the big man,” he snaps. “You’re about to pay for all your sins.”
“What? What sins?” A sob catches in my throat. “Filter…”
“My shift’s over,” he grinds out. “Thank fuck.”
I wake to the scent of food.
Something savory and rich.
Barbeque.
My stomach revolts at the offending smell. Too sweet. Too disgusting. I whimper and crawl to the edge of the mattress. With a gag, I attempt to expel the contents in my stomach, which is nothing. I dry heave over and over again. Finally, I fall onto the makeshift bed, crying.
“Help.”
“Prisoners don’t get help.”
Prisoner?
“Payne,” I croak out. “Please. I didn’t do what Koyn thinks. I didn’t willingly f—”
“Eat.” His barked command is followed with the slam of a plate onto the floor beside the mattress.
One quick glance and I notice sliced brisket, potato salad, chips, a pickle, and orange fluff. With a weak hand, I reach over to stick my finger in the fluff. I lick it off my finger, thankful it doesn’t come right back up.
“Eat,” Payne orders once more. “I can’t promise when it’ll happen again.”
I wake throwing up.
Did they poison me?
Oh God.
My stomach muscles clench violently as I lose every bit of the food I consumed earlier. Tears leak down my face as I gag and heave. I’m dying. They’re killing me.
Why?
Because they think I had some torrid affair with the enemy?
Fuck them.
I need to get the hell out of here. But it feels like a useless endeavor. I’m being watched round the clock—this time by Katana. It was hard enough trying to get off Koyn’s property when people weren’t breathing down my neck twenty-four-seven. When I was healthy and able-bodied.
It feels like a pipe dream now.
I’m destined to die on a mattress in a slaughterhouse.
Cold. Hungry. Sick. Alone.
I wipe the vomit from my lips and turn away from the puddle of it on the bed beside me.
Death feels close and I welcome it.
Koyn
We don’t get much snow in Oklahoma, but when we do, the whole goddamn state closes down. It was a miracle we made it back from Dallas without getting detoured until the roads cleared. Copper drives like a bat out of hell. He would’ve found us a way back anyway.
My land is eerily quiet as I trek through the snowdrifts toward the trail that leads to the slaughterhouse. Gibson is on watch, but even if I didn’t know that, I would’ve guessed it by the sounds coming from the building. “House of the Rising Sun” by The Animals plays a haunting tune on his acoustic guitar. A dark lullaby.
Time to wake up, baby girl.
I slide open the door and step inside. The music dies down and Gibson stands. His features are stony. I get it. I really do. Babysitting fucking sucks. Lucky for them, it’s time to shake shit up a little, which means I’m taking over.
“I’ve got this,” I tell him with a nod.
Gibson, normally a playful and easygoing guy, clenches his teeth as though he’s trying to hold his words in.
“What?” I bite out.