Hands are tied. Sorry, Tongue.”
I give Tool a thankful grin for being on my side. I didn’t expect that. Out of all people, I thought he would hold me down while Reaper burned Tongue.
“Get Tank. I’ll need him, you, Bullseye, and Skirt to hold Tongue down.”
“No! Please. I said champion. I said champion! Why doesn’t it count?” I ask, desperately pulling at my hair. I’m willing to do anything.
Tool exits, and a few minutes later returns with everyone. “Lock him down,” Tool orders. All of the men move at once. Their footsteps march, the beating of their boots in sync with one another, and Tongue doesn’t fight them when they get to his side.
Tank and Tool hold down his arms. Skirt and Bullseye hold down his legs.
“Please,” I give one last attempt to offer myself instead. “I’ll do anything. Please, don’t burn him. You don’t know the damage,” I repeat, hoping Reaper will listen. “You have no idea what you’ll do.”
“Stand or kneel,” he says, which I find an odd request, but I do it anyway.
“It’s going to be okay, Comet. It will be over soon,” Tongue says without a single hesitation in his eyes. It reminds me of a scene from a movie where a man is about to get executed. Instead of straps holding him down, it’s people. “It’ll all be over,” he repeats, resigned.
Where will we go after this? I’m not going to have us stay here knowing they would use Tongue’s fear as a punishment tactic. There are only so many times broken pieces can be put back together again until eventually, some broken pieces are lost forever. Let’s face it, when things are broken one time, the integrity is never the same.
Reaper unbuckles his belt and whips the black leather out from the loops in his jeans, then folds it until it can’t bend any further. “Open your mouth,” he tells me.
Confused, I do as he says.
“Now, bite down.”
I clench my teeth together and the burst of worn leather dissolves across my taste buds.
“Good. Now, keep doing that because this going to fucking hurt.” He tugs the strap of my tank top down my left arm.
“What?” Tongue suddenly shouts, on the edge of delusion. “No! Let me the fuck go. Tank, let me go!” He manages to get an arm free and punches Tank across the cheek. Tank takes the punch in stride and catches Tongue’s hand mid-air, then digs his knee into Tongue’s shoulder until Tongue’s warrior cry pierces the air.
My body quakes in fear from anticipating pain.
Tongue’s back arches off the floor and he lifts the men with him, but he still doesn’t break free.
“Christ, ye a stronger mother fucker, ain’t ye, Tongue?” Skirt grunts, fighting Tongue as if he were wrestling an alligator.
“Big bastard.” Bullseye lays his body across Tongue’s legs to keep him still.
“I’ll fucking kill all of you. You hear me? Don’t you touch her! Don’t touch her!” Tongue screams, his lungs exerting every ounce of air he possesses. His inability to save me echoes in the frequencies of his pleas.
“This is going to hurt,” Reaper warns me again.
My eyes roam to the door. Everyone is watching me, but I’m not going to back down. If they want a show, they got one.
I nod, letting him know I understand.
“You’re crazy,” he mutters, not intending for me to hear as he exhales and inches the hot poker closer to my chest. My heart is trampling, bruising my breastbone the closer the flaming iron gets. The hot poker has my skin reacting, the scalding heat still inches away yet already stinging my skin.
Crazy people will do insane things for the people they love.
And I’m one of those people.
“Daphne! Comet! No, please, don’t do this.”
Sweat drips into my eyes, but it doesn’t stop me from stealing one last look at Tongue. He is begging me, brows pinched and lifted.
No way in hell will I ever run from this. I bite down on the leather, keep my eyes on Tongue, and thrust my chest forward onto the flaming orange tip.
The first millisecond of sizzling has the smell of burnt flesh drifting in my nostrils. The belt in my mouth muffles my screams, and my teeth dig into the leather until I feel it give. I cry, tears as hot as the poker against my skin. Tongue’s livid, panicked shout numbs my ears. My throat is raw from screaming, and the air from my lungs is being stolen from me, a sick game of tug-of-war.