Page 69 of Twisted Devotion

That happened fast.

Seth and I text back and forth throughout the day, and Allison spams me with photos of different apartment listings she and Monica are apparently searching through. I wasn’t aware they were looking for a place together, but it makes me smile. They’ve been through a lot—we all have—and they deserve to find a place to enjoy their lives together.

When it comes time to pack up and head out, I take my empty ceramic mug back up to the counter and thank the barista even though it’s a different girl than the one who made my drink hours ago. With a defeated sigh, I shoulder my bag and leave the café, the bell above the door ringing, alerting me of another failure of a day.

Walking down the sidewalk, I pull my keys out of my bag and head for my car. I had to park several blocks away this morning when I was unable to find a spot closer to the café, but I don’t mind the walk. The night view above me is calming, the hues of deep blue painted through the sky without a cloud in sight. I’m not used to seeing it so clear, especially in the city. It’s nice.

My shoe catches an uneven part of the sidewalk and I stumble, dropping my keys with a curse as I catch my balance before face-planting into the concrete. I bend to retrieve them and I barely have time to recognize the sound of boots pounding the sidewalk behind me before I’m struck from behind.

Here we go. Finally.

The world around me blurs as I straighten and spin around to face my attacker, only to be back-handed across my face. I grunt in pain—my cheek burning—and knee the guy in the stomach. Not hard enough to do any damage, but enough to make it appear like I’m fighting back. Like this isn’t a setup. My pulse races like it’s real, though—being hit in the face tends to get a person’s blood pumping.

The man advances again, his face hidden in the shadows of an oversized black hoodie. He grabs me—his fingers digging into my shoulders—and spins me around, caging my arms in his grip. My heart pounds, screaming at me to fight back, but I push down the urge to destroy this guy. I could end him in three seconds flat, but that isn’t the plan.

Stick to the plan, I chant in my head, until I’m not fighting the urge to smack this guy’s head against the pavement.

A black delivery van with tinted windows speeds around the corner, pulling up to the curb and braking so hard the tires squeal.

Oh god, this is like a terrible action movie.

Two other men jump out of the car and grab me, dragging me toward the backseat and throwing me inside. My head smacks the armrest and I cry out, but they don’t care. I struggle a bit, thrashing back and forth, until one of the men presses a gun to my temple.

“Don’t fucking move,” he demands. “Sit down, shut up, and maybe I won’t put a bullet between your pretty green eyes.”

I bite back my snarl. This guy has no idea that a bullet wouldn’t kill me, not like it would have the night these monsters killed my foster family. But I stop fighting and sit in the seat closest to me as the other men take their seats and the door slams shut. The driver peels away from the curb and hits the gas hard, fleeing the scene.

My pulse is still racing as I glance back and see my laptop bag on the sidewalk.

Great.

I hope Nikolai grabs that before they tail us to wherever the hell these goons are taking me.

We’re in the car for over an hour before the driver pulls off a main road and proceeds down a dirt drive. When the car stops in front of a run-down warehouse, I sigh inwardly. The stereotypical setup of this whole thing is making me want to deal with these guys myself even more. They aren’t worth the time my friends are taking to handle the situation; and while I wholeheartedly believe they need to be punished for their actions, death seems more convenient at this point. It eliminates the problem altogether. Though perhaps death is too easy. Even drawn out and painful, there is still an end to it.

The second the van is parked, I’m dragged out of it and into the warehouse. It’s a large, mostly empty room—poorly lit, with mostly broken or burnt out fluorescent lighting in the ceiling—and it reeks of dampness and dirt. I hold my breath as long as I can, already feeling the beginnings of a headache in my temples.

The guy who hauled me in here shoves me onto a ratty old couch, and I cringe. He grabs a chain from the cement floor and secures it around my wrists and ankles. “Don’t move. Try anything and you’re dead. Understand?”

I nod without saying a word, shifting a bit. When the metal touches my skin, I inhale sharply, my eyes pricking with tears.

Son of a bitch.

The chains are made of iron. I’m not going to be able to break out of these. I fumble around until my clothing is covering my skin there, breathing hard, but the men don’t seem to notice.

They can’t know I’m fae. They can’t know fae exist.

This has to be a cruel coincidence.

The six men gather around a table, a few of them lighting cigarettes and drinking from beer bottles that have been sitting there for god knows how long. Something tells me they don’t care. They’re far enough away that a human wouldn’t be able to overhear them, but I push my senses outward and pick up on their conversation easily, moving my gaze around the warehouse so it doesn’t appear as though I’m listening. Windows line the top of the walls surrounding the space, but the dirt and grime covering them is so thick, the light barely manages to break through save for the few sections in each window with smashed panels.

At the table, the bald one takes a drag from his smoke and asks, “You think she knows who we are? Why she’s here?”

“Well, she hasn’t begged to know why we’re doing this, so I’d say so.”

That’s the one who drove the car. They all seem to look to him. I’m guessing he’s the one in charge around here.

Was he the one who killed my foster parents? Kyle?

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