That’s one-way glass, not a mirror.
I’ve spent my fair share of time in interrogation rooms over the years, and that’s not a fucking mirror. I can only see the dull reflection of the room I’m in, but I have no doubt that whoever is on the other side of that glass can see in here perfectly well.
I look around, searching for an exit. There are two doors in this small room. One looks like it’s made of steel, and is set into the wall.
The second door is slightly ajar, and leads to a small bathroom. Also windowless. A place designed for one thing: to keep me from getting out.
Well, to keep us from getting out, I think, as I stand up and realize I’m not alone.
“Well, well,” I mutter, clenching my teeth so hard they might crack in my mouth. “What do we have here?”
A beautiful woman, completely naked, and tied to a chair, legs spread and wearing a pair of patent leather fuck-me-now stilettos. Normally I’d call that an open invitation, but something about the way she’s teetering on the edge of death stops me from trying my best pick-up lines on her. I like to be in charge in the bedroom, but I prefer my girls to fight back. This one looks like I’d be risking necrophilia if I got too carried away.
I open my mouth, addressing nobody in particular. “If you’re trying to Punk me, Ashton Kutcher, this is a little much.”
I stare at the girl in front of me. She’s covered in blood, a nasty wound running along the inside of one thigh that seeps blood onto the chair. The same blood rushes to the edge of the seat and plinks down onto the floor in time with my thundering pulse, drip, drip, drip.
I reach instinctively for the gun I always shove into the back of my jeans. Gone. The stash of my drug is gone from my left pocket. Motherfuckers. The switchblade from my right pocket is gone too, leaving me with nothing but the clothes I’m wearing, the red heart-shaped pills Rosaline tried to steal stashed deep in my pocket, and a girl whose identity is rapidly becoming apparent to me as I study her face with my adjusting eyes. Everything from the Palatial Hotel comes rushing back, even as I try to convince myself this isn’t happening.
Fuck. It can’t be her.
It is her.
Avery.
Avery Capulet.
The urge to rush to her side and get her out of these binds bubbles up inside me, frenetic and anxious. But my desire to help her is quickly tamped down by my memory of everything that’s transpired since the last time I saw her. In the years since our families went from loyal allies to bitter enemies, our meetings, fleeting as they were, always happened under the cover of secrecy. A hall pass in study period to meet in locker rooms and bathroom stalls. A shared cigarette behind the stables where her beloved horses were kept. A stolen glance between a sophomore (her) and a senior (me) in the hallways of Verona’s most exclusive preparatory college. We were supposed to hate each other back then, but I could never bring myself to fall in line with the hate I held for the rest of her family. I knew she was her father’s pawn. I still burned for her anyway.
And after her sister died, I only saw her one more time — the day she got on the stand in court and perjured her little Capulet heart out. The day her lies sent me to prison. The day she destroyed whatever feverish teenage love I thought I’d had for her, and replaced it with a cold, brutal hatred.
That was almost ten years ago, and the most I’ve ever seen her since then is in momentary flashes through the window of my ruined mansion, as she parked her car or dove into her pool — at least, until they put up the privacy hedges and destroyed my view. After that, the best chance I had of catching a look at her was on gossip sites and in the newspapers. It didn’t matter, though. I still remembered how the little hollow of her collarbone tasted, how her hair felt in my fist. A fucking privacy hedge wasn’t going to take those things from me.
Now somebody — who, I can’t even begin to figure out — has served her up to me like Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings, the kind so delicious you’d glut yourself to the point of sickness just to devour it. I’ve never been that interested in food, but I’d gorge myself on a girl like Avery Capulet until there was nothing of her left, and still want more.
Even with the blood.
Maybe especially with the blood.
I push away the lust in my belly, seeing her laid out like this. Because really, she does look like she’s about to bleed to death. I’m groggy from the drugs, my head pounding from being kicked while I was down, but I’ve still got my bearings enough to know that if she dies, I’m going to look like the bad guy.
A set up. Is somebody setting me up?
Who?
I begin to mentally catalog my mortal enemies, until I realize there are too many and I’m not yet privy to whatever this game is. I can’t make a move until I’ve been dealt all the cards, so I do what my conscience has been screaming at me to do: I help the damn girl.
Right now I know nothing. Can presume nothing. Just because we’re enemies, doesn’t mean she has anything to do with this. We also share other, mutual enemies. Some of the other influential families in this city dislike both of our families. Then there are the Russians. Cameras and serial killings are probably too sophisticated for them, but what the fuck do I know? There are rival drug cartels who don’t like the way her father launders blood money from certain associates through his banks and refuses to touch funds from others. All of these enemies don’t even cover the legitimate business dealings her father has that could have gone awry and triggered a revenge plot against the family.
Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, my father would say to me. I’ve been a sinner all my life.
So I do what I can for her; I make sure for now, that Avery Capulet doesn’t die.
I untie her from the chair, wincing as she slumps in my arms, naked and bloody and deep in some unconscious world I’m not privy to. I realize as I lay her on the thin mattress that I haven’t touched this girl in almost a decade. She still uses the same fucking shampoo. I lean in a little without realizing, breathing in the fresh smell of oranges that clings to her dark hair, and then I set to making sure she doesn’t bleed to death in front of me.
I bandage her wound with dressings I find in a medical kit in the bathroom. The kit is small, but stocked with all manner of things — gauze, rubbing alcohol, superglue. Scissors. My eyes light up when I see those. I slide them under the mattress as casually as possible, trying to ascertain which of the seven goddamn cameras I can block with my body. Whoever is watching us probably saw me. Whatever. As if they’d expect me to give up without a fight.
I have to superglue Avery’s thigh wound shut to stop the bleeding. I have no idea if I’ve made things worse, if she’ll somehow keep bleeding subcutaneously, if superglue is going to slowly poison her. She’s shaking, shivering, her whole body covered in gooseflesh. Her nipples look hard enough to cut through the glass window that separates us from freedom, even though I try really, really hard not to look at them. I take off my t-shirt and dress her in it, covering her as best I can, wincing every time I accidentally touch one of the fresh bruises that continue to spring up on her pale skin like some macabre watercolor painting.
The whole time, she stays limp, her pulse slow and thready. I try to pretend I don’t care. That it wouldn’t destroy any semblance of a life I have left if she died from this. But I guess I’m a liar, too. Because deep down, I know if anything happened to her, if she died, I’d most likely lay down on this dirty floor, swallow the pills I still have in my pocket, and die right beside her.
I sit in the corner and watch her breathe. It’s so dark in here, I can’t make out any detail of anything. Just the steady rise and fall of her chest, the proof that, moment to moment, she’s still alive.
Then, after what seems like forever, Avery Capulet wakes up.
Fear in her eyes as she shrinks away from me. That fills me with a grief I’ve never known. Does she really think I could ever hurt her like this?
She does, I can tell, at least at
first.
Because eventually, the real madman in all of this comes back into the room, a gun in his hand, a mask covering his face.
And that’s when the nightmare really begins.
His gun holds me at bay at first. As he picks Avery up and throws her down on the table that sits in the middle of the room. She’s still wearing my shirt, but she’s got my jeans on, too. I’m the half-naked idiot in the corner, my palms raised in false surrender as I watch him put a revolver in her fucking mouth and push it so far, she gags.
A gun? You’re putting a fucking gun in her mouth?
He cocks the hammer and I crouch down, reaching for the scissors tucked safely under the mattress.
The next part happens in slow motion. I yell something at him — I’m not sure what, now. Get away from her, or Don’t fucking touch her, or something like that. Whatever it is, I’ve got the scissors in my hand, and I’m moving toward him, every muscle in my body coiled and ready to attack. I have momentum. I have speed. I have a weapon in my hand.
And then the world explodes.
Not the whole world, you understand? Just mine. The gun isn’t in Avery’s mouth anymore. It’s pointed at me, and I’m slammed against the wall by the force of a bullet.
I bite down on my tongue when the bullet enters my flesh. I taste blood in my mouth as I bleed rivers from a dirty hole in my bare shoulder. I crumple like a rag doll, choking on the pain as my thoughts pulse in time with my heart.
I’ve been shot. I’ve been shot. I’ve been shot.
It’s bad for me. I might die. But it’s worse for her. There is a violence in tenderness, and whoever this man is, he shows it to her. I want to move. I want to save her. But all I can do is watch.
I’ve been shot. I’ve been shot. I’ve been shot.
Chapter Fourteen
AVERY
I’m woken by rough hands, picking me up and dragging me to my feet. In the split-second that I first come to, I forget what’s happened. Confusion floods me as I question everything — where I am, what’s happening, who’s grabbing me. Instinctively, I strike out with my closed fist, looking to hit whoever has hold of me.
Why can’t I see anything?
My fist hits what feels like a hard cheekbone covered in cloth, and the person holding on to me grunts in pain. That’s satisfying. But my satisfaction is short-lived, as a fist returns the blow out of nowhere, hitting me square in the nose. I gasp as blood explodes from my nostrils, the pain white-hot and unexpected, and for a moment I can’t hear anything but a static buzz.
“Hey!” I hear a male voice protest. Rome. It’s Rome. My ears are still ringing, and his voice sounds faraway. Like I’m underwater. Like I’m drowning. Can’t see. Can’t see. It’s like one of the nightmares I have almost every night. Nightmares where it’s me drowning instead of Adeline, and it’s Rome Montague’s hand fisted in my hair, holding me under until I take a breath and fill my lungs with cold water.
“Leave her alone!” Rome roars.
That’s odd.
Isn’t Rome meant to be the one punching me? Not the one defending me? Wouldn’t my pain please him?
I don’t have long to think about that before I feel hands at my throat, dragging me.
“Don’t touch her. Don’t fucking touch her!”
Gloved fingers squeeze at my cheeks, forcing my mouth open. I try to bite down, to close my mouth, but whoever this guy is — he’s too strong, and I’m too drugged to react quickly enough. Something cold and metallic is shoved between my teeth. I don’t register what it is at first — until I hear the click.
“A gun!?” Rome yells, at the same time I realize, yes, there’s a gun in my mouth. A revolver. The clicking sound was the hammer being cocked.
I have a loaded gun in my mouth. I whimper around the cold gun barrel as it scrapes against my teeth, trying not to gag.
Why can’t I see? Am I blind?
“You’re putting a gun in her mouth?” Rome’s voice echoes through the tiny room.
I’m trying desperately to breathe evenly. I’ve never considered what a gun barrel might taste like before, but even if I had, I could not have imagined this. The metal is cold, and it makes a sickening scrape against my teeth as my captor forces it past my lips. It tastes oily, and metallic, and I’m struck for the first time by how similar a gun tastes to blood.
“Jesus, fuck, leave her alone,” Rome grinds out. I can hear the raw edge of panic in his voice, a voice that was controlled before.
Not anymore. Not down here. We’re in the wild, now. The gun is suddenly gone from my mouth, and I suck in deep breaths, choking on the air I didn’t realize I needed.
A hand comes to rest at the base of my throat again. I blink rapidly, why can’t I see? I try so hard to grab onto my consciousness long enough to figure out what’s happening.
There’s material against my eyelashes. I’m blindfolded again, still rubbery and pliant from the drugs. That’s why I can’t see. I want to fight back, to kick and claw at the violent hands at my throat, but it’s such an effort to even breathe. All of my energy was focused on that single punch, and now I’m ready to pass out again.
My prayers are answered; the hands let go of me. I fall through the air for a split-second, and then I’m landing on something hard, something flat that the back of my head thwacks against. It’s blissful, that millisecond when I’m suspended mid-air, a relieved moan escaping my lips as I fall in slow-motion. My captor's hands are no longer on me. But the hard surface of what feels like a table breaks my fall, knocking the wind out of me. I’m sprawled awkwardly, my legs bent at the knee, dangling off the edge of what must be a table, or a countertop. With every ounce of energy I possess, I lift my arms to my face and tear off the material blindfolding me.
A hand immediately goes around my throat again, as I take in the features — or rather, the lack of features — of the man cutting off my air supply. He’s dressed differently now, a black hoodie pulled snug around his ears, the black balaclava still on underneath. The hoodie casts a shadow over his face, and I can’t make out any of his features; not the color of his eyes, the only things visible through the twin holes in the tight material, nor the shape of his head. Nothing. I follow his outstretched arm, the one that isn’t pinning my throat, finding the gun in his hand. It’s pointed at the corner where Rome’s voice was coming from.
A hand grabs at my wrists, yanking them above my head, and a second later I feel heavy metal circling them. I try to move my arms, but they’re stuck — handcuffed to the top of the table. It’s so dark in here, I can barely make out anything other than superficial outlines.
I turn my head to the side, my eyes struggling to make out the figure in the corner.
“Fuck her,” a deep, distorted voice sounds from the hoodie guy. He’s looking at the figure in the corner.
He’s looking at Rome.
My captor’s voice is unnaturally deep, as if there’s something against his mouth, under that black mask, that’s changing the sound. He sounds like a mixture of Christian Bale’s gravel Batman voice, and the abrasive voice-changer the murderers used in the Scream movies. It probably wouldn’t be so terrifying if I were listening to it on a TV screen, but I’m not, am I? This is real life. This is happening. This isn’t make-believe, or a nightmare I can wake up from.
This is brutal, violent truth, and it’s only about to get worse.
“Fuck her, or I will,” the deep voice repeats.
A wail starts deep in my belly and fills the room. Fuck her. Of course I’m chained to a table with no way to escape. Of course there’s blood all over my face, down my throat, making me cough every time it drips a little down my nasal passages and slides back down my throat. Of course I’m wearing the clothes Rome gave me while he stands in the corner wearing nothing but his boxer shorts. Of course.
Rome moves closer to the table. “I’m not fucking her,” he spits. “And you’re not touching her.”
In the next moment, three things happen that
make me understand that things are not the way I believed them to be. Firstly, Rome charges at the hoodie guy. Second, there is a deafening shot as hoodie guy pulls out a gun and shoots Rome, who goes flying back into the wall with a crash, sliding down to the floor and leaving an oily streak of red in his wake.
Nonononono.
My ears scream at the sudden gunshot, their timbre settling to a steady ringing that makes my teeth hum and drowns everything else out to static buzz. My jeans — Rome’s jeans — are ripped away from me, and I’m naked from the waist down again. Masked Psycho doesn’t bother getting the t-shirt off this time, I guess because my hands are restrained above my head. Instead, he pushes the shirt up my stomach, right up to my neck, so that my tits are visible. He presses a hand over my mouth to stop the screams that I can’t control, and if I thought his mouth on me was bad, this is something unthinkable. The faceless nightmare of a man who looms over me undoes his fly slowly, every movement a taunt of what’s to come, as we communicate silently. He cocks his head to the side and eases the pressure of his palm on my face just slightly, and somehow I know what he means. He’ll take the hand away if I stop screaming.
I nod, pressing my lips together as tightly as possible, and the hand on my mouth disappears. I take a great gulp of air.
“You shot him,” I say, dazed.
My captor nods. My ears scream with static. Fingers drag up my thigh, closing in on their destination with horrifying speed.
“Please don’t,” I beg, craning my neck. “I’ll do anything.”
A low chuckle sounds from under his mask, the vibration traveling through his fingers that clutch my thigh, sweeping through my body, a horror I don’t fully understand but know I will. His fingers leave my thigh and sweep across my pussy, my muscles tensing in shock. “Anything?”
I let my head loll back onto the table, the weight of holding my head up too painful. “Anything but that.”
His leather-gloved fingers reach around my neck and squeeze, as he uses his other hand to reach for something in his pocket.