Page 5 of Veiled Vengeance

Anthony releases a derisive laugh and addresses the two men but maintains eye contact with Dahlia. “Have at her, gentlemen.”

“Don’t look, Spencer,” Asher demands, but I ignore him. I won’t leave Dahlia alone in this moment. I was alone before—no one deserves that emptiness. The people who take are already leaving her with nothing; I don’t have to do the same. It doesn’t matter what she’s done to me, I won’t turn my back on her. Noone deserves to be alone when they already feel helpless and weak.

Dahlia’s eyes meet mine. The fear there is unmistakable, but it quickly fades, and resolve replaces it.

One of the men unbuckles his belt while the other yanks down Dahlia’s pants without care. For the next hour or more, the room is a rotating door of variousemployeestaking turns with Dahlia’s body. She doesn’t let out a single cry. Tears leak from the corners of her eyes, but she remains stoic. Each teardrop of her eye pairs with ten or more of my own. Asher trembles with irate energy as each man finishes with Dahlia.

Anthony watches the entire scene like it’s a nighttime sitcom, telling each man “good job” when they’re done.

This isn’t the first time she’s endured this—that much is evident. But I’ll make sure it’s her last.

CHAPTER 2

ASHER

Anthony Fucking Cole is going to die. Slowly. Painfully. I’ll make sure of it.

I hated him before—more than any other person I have ever known. But now, the hate in my soul has found a new level.

Dahlia.

I should have seen it. I should have known.

Spencer isn’t a trained CIA operative. No matter how hard she tries to keep the attention off herself, there’s no way for her to go unnoticed in a crowded room. Anthony was bound to find her, and the fact that she remained hidden from him for almost three years is either a testament to her vigilance or his stupidity.

With how busy Anthony is, of course he planted someone in Spencer’s life to watch her. But from what I could tell, there was no malice to be found in Dahlia’s friendship with Spencer. Even now . . . She knew what would happen when she didn’t follow Anthony’s unspoken orders.

She passed out from the pain just moments after the last man left.

Anthony watches her unconscious body with a triumphant glee. When he turns to me, his face changes instantly. Revulsion takes over his features.

“Your turn.”

I shrug. “Sorry. I don’t think I’m their type.”

Anthony’s eyes narrow to slits. “If that’s how you want to play it.” He snaps his fingers, and two more of his men approach me. They use a couple of pocket knives to cut the tape binding me to the chair, then secure my wrists together with more tape. I let them because I know what’s coming next. I need my strength.

“What are you doing to him? Leave him alone! Don’t touch him!” Spencer thrashes in her chair next to me. The tape digs into her skin—her precious skin.

“Shut up!” Anthony backhands her.

She better not have scars after this—she doesn’t need the reminder. And if she does, I’ll have to figure out how to bring Anthony back from the dead so I can kill him all over again.

My wrists are lifted above my head and attached to a hook, just like the one Dahlia is hanging from. One man tugs on a chain a few feet away, and I’m lifted up from the chair. The man has to give the chain another tug to make it so I’m dangling with the tips of my shoes hovering just above the cold floor.

The pressure around my wrists is uncomfortable but bearable. It’s the searing pain that radiates from my shoulder that makes me almost black out. The bleeding has stopped, but the movement causes a fresh gush of blood to pour from my wound. The recovery from this shit isn’t going to be fun, but I’ll manage.

I imagine pulling the pain from my body and shoving it into a box. I lock the lid, throw away the key, and the box gets stored in the back of my mind.

It’d be nice if Rio and Zane would hurry the fuck up.

“Stop it!”

Tilting my head back, I turn to her. “It’s all right, Princess. I’m fine.” My voice is more strained than I intend.

Anthony pulls out a set of brass knuckles and places them on his right hand. I see the blow to my ribs coming a mile away. I harden my abs to lessen the damage, but the impact still stings. I can’t stop the grunt that makes its way past my lips. “Like butterfly kisses,” I mutter.

“Don’t make me tell you again. Don’t talk to her! She’s not yourPrincess;she’s not youranything!”

---