Pike (The Pawn Duet #1) - T.M. Frazier Page 0,27

That’s not what I meant!” My wrists burn against rusted metal.

He stalks back over to me, looming over me like Zeus high on his mountain. “A tempting offer. But you look so good all tied up. Keep bloodying your wrists like that, and I might just keep you after all.”

“Bloody wrists turn you on, you sick fuck?” I reach the familiar fork in the road where fear and anger meet once again. And right now, I choose to go down the path that is anger.

He smirks. “Amongst other things.”

“Like what?” I spit. “Barbequing babies?”

He crouches low so we are eye level. I flinch as he swipes his finger across the wet tear on my cheek and rubs the moisture between his thumb and index fingers. He licks at his thumb seductively, and I feel myself redden all over. “Like these.”

I hold his gaze. “You get off on my tears?” I scoff. “Wow, your parents must have abandoned you at birth.”

His eyes darken. He stands abruptly.

Apparently, I’ve hit a nerve.

“Shortly after, but it’s not my past that’s led to you being tied up here. It’s yours. You can’t blame anyone for this shit but you. Whatever I do to you is your fault and your fault alone.”

I want to argue, but I can’t. “You’re right. It’s my fault,” I admit. “It’s the truth. There are others to blame for my actions, but the choice, all of the choices, were mine.”

“Then, why don’t you tell me who those others are, and this will all be over,” He offers, gently. For a nanosecond, he sounds sincere, his words holding the slightest drop of sympathy.

I feel another tear fall. “I can’t. I told you. I just can’t.”

“Then, this is your doing.” Pike takes something from his pocket and tugs it over my head. It’s a blindfold. He lowers it over my eyes. It’s thick, blocking out even the faintest hint of light. Yet, despite my complete lack of sight, I find myself instinctually turning my head from left to right, seeking out his hard footsteps that move in slow calculated precision from one side of the room to the other. He’s pacing.

No. Not pacing.

Stalking.

“You’re trembling, girl,” he murmurs from somewhere in the room.

Of course, I’m trembling. I’m terrified. The sick sound of satisfaction in his voice snakes its way into my brain. His every word is a bang of a battering ram against the imaginary door I’ve placed between me and him until it smashes open. I wait for the overwhelming fear to cripple me, but it never comes. What I find instead of fear is something else entirely.

My balls.

“You’re afraid of me,” he says, sounding as if he’s directly in front of me. “I can smell it. Your fear.” I hear him inhale deeply.

With a renewed sense of strength, I straighten my shoulders. The restraints around my arms and wrists binding me to the bed tighten, biting into my already raw skin. I ignore the pain. “No. I’m not afraid of you.”

“No? But you should be afraid.” He’s close now. So close I feel his cool breath against my forehead.

I tip my chin up defiantly and smile, but it’s far more than just a smile.

It’s a challenge.

“No,” I repeat without a tremor in my voice. “It’s you who should be afraid.”

I smile in satisfaction, but my victory is short-lived.

The music blares through my skull. The blindfold is ripped from my head as the lights blind me once again.

Chapter Eleven

Mickey

“I’ve made it four days,” I tell Mallory. “Four entire days. I don’t know what his plans are now, but he’s got to know at this point I’m not going to give him shit.”

She points to the door and giggles.

“Not helpful,” I mutter.

The bay door slides open. Pike enters like a storm cloud on an already rainy day, here only to wreak havoc and cause chaos.

I mentally prepare myself for another round of sensory torture. I sit as straight as I can, reminding myself that I’ve endured so much worse and can take so much more. At this point, I’m surprised I can still hear Pike’s boots on the ground.

Or anything at all for that matter.

“Hello, there, Mic,” his voice is slow and smooth with a note of amusement tickling his slight southern drawl. I hate that he’s taken to calling me Mic. It’s what my sisters call me. He hasn’t earned the right to use the nickname. He’s not special like they are.

Although, he is unique.

Grungy leather jacket. Longer than fashionable blonde/brown hair. The