Page 179 of Savage Hearts

I chuckled nervously. “Right. This isn’t funny. Let me go.”

He shook his head and stood from the chair, taking his warmth with him.

I shuddered.

For the briefest moment, I thought I saw a hint of regret on his face, but not enough to stop him from doing whatever the hell he was about to do.

I pulled on my hands, the cuffs clanging against the metal bars on the chair.

“Please,” I begged, a note of desperation entering my voice. “Fuck. Please.”

He ignored me and went to the huge desk that held a metal tray covered by a square of black fabric.

He swiped the fabric away, and I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t help it. My eyes took in the six items on the tray. A scalpel, a needle with some sort of clear liquid in it, a medical sewing kit—the needles curved like the ones on a medical TV drama—scissors that were obviously to clasp the needle to stitch the person’s skin, disinfectants and finally, a small black plate with a tiny object resting on the center of it. Upon closer inspection, the object was a little glass tube, slightly bigger than a grain of rice, with some electronic device inside.

Fear took hold.

What the hell was he planning on doing to me?

He frowned. “This would have been easier on you had I drugged you first, but I didn’t want to do this without you knowing about it.”

I laughed, the sound off even to my ears. There was nothing humorous about my situation.

“Is this your messed-up interpretation of consent? Because I don’t fucking consent to whatever the hell you think you’re going to do to me.”

He brought the tray closer to us, but set it on the small side table he carried over as well. My heart picked up speed when the scalpel gleamed in the light.

Fuck, but how was I supposed to get out of this?

He sat down beside me, and I flinched.

Petting my hair, he didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “You’ve been busy.”

My eyes narrowed at him.

“You’re trying to escape.”

My heart sped up. I wanted to deny it, but judging from his eyes, there was no point. He knew. Was this my punishment for trying to escape the three savages of Chicago?

Was that such a huge sin in their book?

“What are you going to do to me?” I asked, a tremor in my voice.

His hand moved down from my head down to my back, his fingers tracing the knobs of my spine.

I took a harsh breath, especially when his hand stopped somewhere in the middle of my back.

“Tracking you,” he answered, nothing in his voice betraying how he felt. We might as well have been talking about the weather.

“Tracking me?”

What the hell did that mean?

My eyes widened when I realized there was only one thing that could mean.

“Like a fucking dog?” I snarled, yanking on the handcuffs once more. Tears pricked my eyes but didn’t fall. Small fucking blessings. “You can’t do that to me!”

His eyes told me otherwise.

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