Page 110 of The Dark Before Light

Oliver nods at Bradley, who pulls the gun from his belt and stalks toward me. His fingers dig cruelly at the corner of my mouth, pulling the gag off my tongue and yanking it down over my chin. He smiles at my wince of pain, his eyes promising more. The muzzle of the gun taps against my temple.

Oliver approaches and angles the phone toward my face.

“Kieran,” I croak. “I’m sorry.”

“None of that now, mo ghrá,” he says, his low, tender tone bringing tears to my eyes. “Are you all right?”

The gun presses harder to my head, squashing a brief impulse to blurt out Oliver’s name. My own mortality overwhelms me. Grief suffocates me, clogging my throat with tears.

“This isn’t your fault, Kieran. Remember that, please—” Bradley stuffs the gag back in my mouth.

“Talia? Talia!”

I scream around the gag as Oliver walks away. “As you heard, she’s fine. Do your part, and she’ll stay in one piece. You have sixty minutes. Goodbye, Mr. Hayes.”

Kieran yells three words before the line disconnects.

Oliver frowns at the phone, then sighs and swipes a hand over his hair. “I need a fucking drink.” He glances at me, a hint of apology in his expression before looking at Bradley. “No permanent damage. We might still need her.”

“No interruptions,” retorts Bradley.

Oliver’s lip curls. “I’ll be in my office. Don’t do anything stupid like untie her or kill her.”

He strides from the room.

Bradley taps the gun against my head. “Just you and me now.”

My stomach tumbles, but the sensation is distant—a physical reflex. In this moment, no fear touches me.

Kieran’s three words are my shield.

“Hold fast, Birdie.”

He knows who I am.

As the revelation settles, so does the conviction that I will do anything—even sell my soul—to get back to him.

Oblivious to the compass of my morality aligning to a new north, Bradley drags the muzzle of the gun down my neck and across my chest. He’s breathing hard, his eyes fixed on my breasts as he rubs the metal roughly against them. My nipples firm under the assault.

I ignore the violation, my mind churning through various plans of action. I’m getting the fuck out of here, and if a life is the price, I’ll pour Bradley’s blood in the Devil’s cup myself.

“Do you know how many times I’ve imagined this?” he whispers.

At his words, the final puzzle pieces align and lock. My plan solidifies.

I work my tongue against wet fabric in my mouth. “I’m sorry,” I say, the words garbled.

His crazed eyes find mine. “What’s that? You’re sorry?” He grins, sharp and humorless. “You think that will save you?”

I shake my head, my eyes conveying regret and helplessness. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He stares at my mouth, frowning as he tries to decipher the words. Come on, asshole, you know you want to hear my voice. After what feels like an eternity, he lays the gun on the counter behind him and yanks out my gag.

Before I can speak, he grabs me by the throat and squeezes hard. With his other hand, he rips my blouse open. His fingers roughly fondle my breasts. I don’t have to fake my cry of pain.

“How does it feel knowing you’re not in control?” he spits out.

The last knot on my wrists comes undone. I fist the rope to keep it from falling to the floor.

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