Page 58 of Cole: Bloodlines
Us? Savannah jerked hard, her spine slamming against the cage bars when a massive silhouette eclipsed the doorway—a hulking figure that dwarfed even her kidnapper, its shoulders nearly scraping both sides of the frame.
The smaller figure slinked back a couple of feet, yellowed fingernails still curling in that hypnotic beckoning motion.
What if Cole and Gabedidn'tcome back? She would be trapped in the cage, defenseless against the rapist. This feralcreature terrified her to her marrow, its inhuman movements sending electric jolts of primal fear through her limbs. And that mountainous shadow behind it—broad as a doorframe with hands that could crush her skull like an eggshell—might harbor even darker intentions. But she knew with bone-deep certainty that her kidnapper meant her grave harm. If she stayed here... and Cole and Gabe didn't return... she would die with her screams echoing off concrete walls, her blood seeping into cracks where no one would ever find it.
Savannah wiped her eyes with trembling fingers, salt stinging the raw scratches on her face, and moved shakily toward the cage door. The hinges shrieked as she pushed it wider, making her flinch. The slinking figure's breathing quickened, its head twitching at an odd angle as she crawled out, knees scraping against the rough concrete.
“Come... come...”it called, voice almost that of an excited child, and scurried over to the hulking figure with a noticeable limp, one ankle slightlykinkedas if it had been broken and improperly healed. The giant reached out and grasped his small companion’s hand as he leaped with unsettling agility onto the huge man's back, thin arms—corded with wiry muscle—snaking around his thick neck.“Come...”
Feeling naked and exposed in only her dirt-smudged underwear, goosebumps rising on her flesh in the damp chill, Savannah walked uncertainly toward the two strange figures, each step a gamble between monsters known and unknown, wondering if she was walking away from—or toward—her death.
CHAPTER 25: MEAN MEN & PRETTY BABIES
“Fuck…”Daniel ground out between clenched teeth as he packed the ragged, seeping wound with gauze. Blood oozed between his fingers, warm and sticky, as he pressed the white cotton against torn flesh. The makeshift bandage turned crimson almost instantly. He taped it with trembling hands, then tucked his ripped, blood-soaked shirt back into his pants, the fabric clingy and wet against his skin.
Byrne leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching him without any expression and offering no assistance. His eyes, cold as river stones, followed every painful movement. “You should have listened to me,” he said dryly, a hint of satisfaction curling at the corner of his mouth. “Now you know.”
“Know what?” Daniel muttered, sweat beading on his upper lip as he jerked open the bottom drawer of the desk. The ancient wood splintered at the corners, flakes of varnish crumbling onto the floor as he pulled out another Glock. The metal caught the dim light as he shoved it into his empty holster with a satisfying click.
“That I'm all you got,” Byrne said, pushing off from the wall, his shadow stretching across the floor between them. “All you've ever had. I'm your legacy, whether you like it or not.”
Daniel looked at him with eyes as vacant as abandoned wells; he had heard what Daniel told Henry. His face remained a mask of indifference, carved from stone. Byrne would not retaliate against him—the hunger for his father's approval was etched into every line of his tense posture.
“What happened with the boy?” Daniel asked, shifting gears, his voice dropping to a mocking drawl. “Looks like he fucked you over good. I assume he escaped.”
“A minor setback,” Byrne drawled, running his thumb along a fresh cut on his jawline. “I'll find him. For now, we have others to deal with.” His gaze shifted over his father's blood-soaked bandages, nostrils flaring slightly. “You up for hunting with that hole in you?”
“I'm fine,” Daniel growled, shoving past his son with a wince he couldn't quite hide. The office door hinges squealed as he yanked it open, paint flakes spiraling to the floor. Byrne followed, boots crunching over debris. “Let's deal with these fuckers and get back to the matter at hand.”
“And what's that?” Byrne asked, fingers absently tracing the knife hilt at his belt. “Now that turning Henry isn't an option anymore.”
“Then I make him suffer,” Daniel whispered, his face twisting into something barely human, his eyes gleaming feverishly, “make him watch while I destroy those he loves, one by one… scream by scream… until there's nothing fucking left for him to live for.”
The smallermanslid off the giant’s back and landed before Savannah, dropping to his haunches briefly before rising slightly. Savannah gasped and flinched away from him, hugging her exposed body. Her large aqua eyes widened fearfully as the “creature” walked beside her. Well, not so muchwalkedas jittered and scuttled around her, back and forth, with an awkward gimp—his twisted foot partially dragging—as theymoved forward, as if he were incapable of holding still or walking calmly.
Histwitchinesswas creepy, but it was the way he repeatedly “chomped” his sharp teeth that scared her so badly—like he might suddenly take abiteout of her. His longish hair hung in dark, stringy strands around his face, and the rare times he stood fully upright, Savannah noticed he was about Abel’s height and didn’t seem much older than her brother. It was hard to think of him as a young man in his early twenties when he hardly seemedhuman.
Where had he and the giant come from? Did theylivein this place?
“What’s your… name?”
Savannah wasn’t expecting him to ask questions, and she just stared at him, hugging her body, trembling. Her jaw worked as she tried to answer, but her fear and the bitter cold constricted her throat and tightened her chest.
Cocking his head, the “boy-creature” looked at her. In the shadows, his eyes were dark pools, the color impossible to detect.“Pretty babies… should have pretty names.”
Pretty babies? That’s what he’d called her back in the cage—Pretty baby—just before he started stroking her hair. Did he see her as achild?Her large eyes and stunted body often caused people to think she was younger than her actual age, but never a youngchild.
She tensed when he reached out and stroked his long nails through her blond strands. He didn’t seem to notice—or care—that her hair was dirty and limp.
“Pretty hair,”he cooed.“Like the boys.”
Savannah didn’t know who “the boys” were, and shivered.
“What’s your name?”he asked again.
Savannah swallowed, her throat working as she whispered shakily, “S-Savannah.”
“Savannah.”He repeated her name again and again, as excited as a child receiving a gift.“Savannah is a pretty name. Pretty, pretty, pretty.”He practicallyhoppedaround her despite his gimp ankle, singing her name.
