Page 93 of Wanna Play A Game?
Ben struggles against his bonds. “Girlfriend? Cali! You fucking cheating whore!”
I see red. Did he just call my girl a whore? On top of everything else? I snap, punching into Ben’s body, punch after punch, keeping just enough of my head not to hit his face so I can keep him alive. I sense Sawyer on the other side doing the same.
A commanding voice rings out. “What the hell is going on?”
My haze clears enough for me to look back. It’s Ryder.
He leans against the doorway with a blank look on his face. “You playing without me again, boys?”
Chapter 45
Ryder
Neither man responds.
I glance over the man on the table. He mouths something unintelligible, bleeding out of his mouth.
I raise an eyebrow at my men. Miles’ chest is heaving. He’s out of control. He takes a few deep breaths, then straightens. “I have something else in the car. Sawyer, I’ll kill you if you kill him.”
Miles pushes past me and mutters, “Keep your hands off him, Ryder. He’s mine.”
Miles is being so possessive. I glance back at the man on the table. He’s moaning about something and crying for someone to help him.
Usually, Miles lets us help him chase them down. What is different about this one?
I make eye contact with Sawyer for a second. His eyes are dark and haunted again.
Fuck. I thought I fucked that out of him. Both men are spiraling. Jesus, we need this kill, and then we need another good fuck.
Miles returns and throws a jerry-rigged cage and a bag on the ground. It’s full of…rats.
I realize what he’s doing, and my dick gets hard. Damn. This kind of torture isn’t Miles’ normal thing.
Sawyer snaps out of whatever haze he was in. He leans down over the man. “I’m going to show you just how much she belongs to us.”
Tightness fills my muscles. “Belongs” to them? She’s just a toy and a dangerous one, too. Not a fucking girlfriend.
Miles grabs some items from the bag and asks, “Wanna play a game, motherfucker?”
Chapter 46
Cali
Iwake up partially when Miles and Sawyer come downstairs. I’m exhausted, and my body feels heavy with sleep. When was the last time I slept well?
I lie on the couch, lucid dreaming. Faint arguing filters into my dreams.
The angry voices trigger a flashback. It starts off like it always does. Normal.
I’m perched on the armrest of the floral print couch. I know that if I pray to Tinker Bell, she’ll let me fly.
I clutch my toy. She has a sparkly green skirt with a yellow bun on her head. She’s pretty, like my mom. Like my grandma.
The textured couch digs into the bottom of my five-year-old feet. Grandma tells me that if I’m a good girl and pray, then my prayers will be answered. And I’ve been good all week.
I close my eyes hard and pray that Tinker Bell will please, please let me fly. I trust her, and I trust my grandma, who says prayers are always heard. I take one breath, excited, my toes tingling. Then, I jump.
For a swooping second, I fly. Then I hit the shag carpet with a thud. The fluttering of my chest takes a minute to calm down, and slowly, a hint of sadness flits across.
