Page 69 of Faithless
“I don’t want to fuck you anymore.” I was already dead, most likely, so why stop at half truths? The dam was broken, so I might as well let it all out. “I’ve never wanted you. I’ve hated every moment of being with you. So send me to the black box, I don’t give a fuck. At least I won’t have to touch you ever again.”
“I see.” She sounded calm, eerily so. Her ego was so overinflated, none of what I said probably hit where it hurt. Though I’d hopefully scratched the surface.
Blair stood from the couch and calmly crossed the room. She went to the doorway I usually came out of and knocked softly. The door opened, and a few minutes of quiet conversation passed. Then she turned and walked across the room to the guest doorway, not glancing at me once as she passed through.
“Butcher.” A pitmaster appeared in my doorway and beckoned me forward. “Your session is over.”
I went to him, ready to be escorted to the bowels of the colosseum. A sudden, panicked thought flashed through my mind that I must have fucked up seeing Rori tonight. Shit, what would they tell her? As a paying guest, she could demand to see me. But would she?
A sharp pain cut across my jaw, jerking my head to the side. I tasted blood, and realized I’d been too in my head to see the hit coming. Another one crashed into my gut, and it felt like a battering ram swung into my stomach.
I doubled over, and my legs seemed to stop working, so I fell to my knees. My vision swam while I tried to catch a breath. When I looked at the hand that had clutched my stomach, red blood streaked across my palm. I patted my stomach again, wincing at the pain and wetness that was definitely my blood.
I looked up to find three pitmasters standing over me, all of them brandishing fancy brass knuckles with spikes on the ends. Shit.
“Not every day we get to whale on the fuckin’ Butcher,” said the middle one gleefully, lifting his brass knuckles to admire them more closely.
“Hey!” The left one snapped his fingers in my face, prompting a snarl from me. “Your sandy ass has another guest to serve tonight. Don’t fuck it up this time.”
“Yeah, stand up. Show us whatcha got,” the third one piped up.
I was beyond sick of everyone ordering me around, but I also had too much pride to remain on my knees for these assholes. With no small amount of effort, I rose to my feet. My stomach muscles screamed in protest, spasming from my injury. The spikes didn’t go deep from what I could tell, but they hurt like a bitch.
No sooner had I stood to full height than a hit came swinging for my jaw. I dodged it, but then got a crash of metal to my temple that made my skull ring like a bell. I went down again, my vision darkening. More drops of blood fell on the floor, and all I could think about was cleaning it up before Rori stepped in it.
Another jarring blow came to the back of my head, and then darkness swallowed me up.
25
RORI
Ipaced the opulent room for nearly ten minutes after my appointment was supposed to start, and Santos was still nowhere to be seen. Thoughts raced through my head while I chewed down the nail on my index finger. Did he not want to see me after all? Well, it wasn’t like he had a choice, which just heightened my anxiety even more. Maybe he didn’t have any open spots today or was with another client. No, Nella managed his schedule and would have said something.
“What the hell?” I grumbled, my feet intent on wearing a hole in the rug. I was so frazzled after seeing Torr, and it made me extra anxious to see Santos. I needed the distraction of those warm eyes and that gorgeous smile, even if it was for the last time.
The door across the room finally creaked open, and my heart leaped at the sound. “You know, it’s rude to keep a lady waiting.” I spun to face him, grinning, but all humor fell away as my jaw dropped open. “Santos!” I cried, rushing to him. “What happened?”
His face was bruised, swollen, and scratched deeply in several places, like his jaguar had swiped at him, although that was impossible. He also held a hand to his stomach and took small, pained steps into the room. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” His voice was quiet, scratchy, defeated. And it broke my heart.
“Come sit down.” I took one of his arms. “You can lean on me. I’ll get you water.”
“I can walk,” he said but grimaced as I led him toward the couch.
I let him keep his pride, despite wanting to throw his arm over my shoulder and force him to use me as support. He sat down with a groan, and I rushed to the minibar for water and some cloth napkins. The scratches on his face looked fresh, and some were still bleeding.
Once settled next to him with my supplies, I wet a napkin and reached for his face. “Turn your head, let me see.”
He leaned away from me instead, shaking his head. “No. It’s not your job to take care of me.”
“Right now, it fucking is,” I snapped. “Come here, Santos. Please.” The last word came out softer, a genuine plea. “I don’t like seeing you hurting. Let me help.” I leaned forward with the cloth again, and he remained still, so I took my chance.
He allowed me to dab at his jaw and temple for a few silent minutes. “Who did this to you?” I asked, getting up to check the other side of his face.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does.”
“Really, it doesn’t.” He lifted those dark eyes, which now looked empty and sad, to mine. “It’s just what they do to us.”
