Tears run freely down my face as my fuzzy mind connects the dots. I was right to be worried about the water.
“What did you give me?” I attempt to ask, but I sound drunk as the words all jumble together.
“Just something to help you relax,” he soothes.
I can’t move, even when he uncuffs me. My hands just fall uselessly to my sides, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t lift them at all. Any chance I had at keeping the panic at bay is gone as I moan in despair.
Please, please, please stop, I beg, but my lips don’t move, my voice trapped in my throat.
He doesn’t even look up at me as he pulls off my boots and my socks, not even mentioning the gun that falls out. He pops it inside my boot before leaning over and removing my jeans, leaving my legs bare.
No, God, please no.
My tears are running in earnest now, threatening to drown me in my own sorrow as he sits me up like I’m a rag doll and pulls my T-shirt over my head. Next, he unclips my bra, freeing my breasts as I scream and howl inside my head at him to stop. He lowers me back down, almost reverently taking in my body with hungry eyes until he comes to the bandage just above my hip.
“What is this?” he asks, but of course, I can’t answer. I can’t do a damn thing as he pulls at the tape, peeling back the gauze to reveal the tattoo underneath.
He stares at it for a minute, his ice-cold eyes igniting with fire. He roars in anger.
“No, no, this will never do. You must be cleansed,” he screams, storming out of the room.
I can hear him banging around but try as I might, I can’t make my body move. I just lie there waiting for him to come back, praying he kills me quickly. I hear his footsteps get louder as he returns and sob when I see that, in his hand, is a hunting knife.
I scream, or at least, I try to, but it sounds like a high-pitched keening noise a wounded animal would make.
He moves his eyes over to me clinically before they return to my tattoo. When he lifts them to look into mine, they are filled with grim determination.
“I can fix this. I can fix everything,” he says before reaching down and slicing through my skin like butter.
The pain is so intense, it freezes the breath in my lungs. This time, when the blackness comes for me, I don’t fight it. I welcome it with open arms.
Chapter Forty-Two
Priest
We pull up at the station and park, the whole club behind us waiting in solidarity for their queen to be released. I swing the door to the precinct open and wait as Bates and Saint follow in behind me. I walk straight up to the desk and hit the buzzer repeatedly until a harassed-looking woman in her late forties-early fifties appears.
“Yes?” she answers, sliding back the reinforced window a little.
“Reign Foster. She was brought in an hour ago. We have her lawyer on his way and her family en route from LA. They’re all cops and are really fucking interested to hear what you have to say about arresting their daughter and sister for something she didn’t do. Fuck, she wasn’t even in the state when it happened.”
She frowns at my words but checks the file on her desk before shaking her head.
“The arresting officer called in to say there had been an accident. I’m sorry, but it seems the squad car she was meant to be arriving in went over an embankment, and they couldn’t reach it before it was engulfed in flames,” she tells me regretfully.
The world slows down in that second. Every heartbeat is painful and sluggish as my brain tries to process what she’s telling me.
“Where?” I yell, refusing to believe this bullshit.
“Sir, you can’t—”
“I said, where is she? That’s my fucking old lady,” I shout at her.
Eventually, she answers, probably breaking protocol to do it, but I don’t even stop to thank her as I tear out of the police station with the guys hot on my heels.
Once outside, I bend over and suck in as much air as I can. Christ, it feels like I’m having a heart attack.
“What is it? What’s going on?” Roman asks as Bates drops to his knees and roars.