Page 6 of Unorthodox
“Get up,” Max says, his words sharp and low. “If you don’t, I’ll put this gun in your hand, and we’ll pull the trigger together while we aim it at your fucking brother.”
“What doyou want out of her?”
I look up from my laptop screen, away from the latest intel sent by my men. The feds are getting bored again, running in circles trying to tamp down on what went wrong in Miami and how they can use it to their advantage.
What went wrong is sixty-one kilos of coke ended up in the wrong hands, thanks to Christopher London. That’s nearly eight million dollars that should’ve been in my pocket,gone.
As it is, I no longer give a fuck about the money.
There’s something better waiting for me.
I close my computer, lean back in my office chair, my eyes on Ben’s as I answer his question. “Obedience.”
Ben arches a brow, his hands clenched on the back of the chair across from my desk. He’s young—early twenties. Spends most of his time down in Mexico working for me. But for Addison London, I called him back up to South Carolina. Temporarily.
“Any lines I shouldn’t cross?” he asks, a hint of a smile tugging on his lips as he straightens, runs a hand through his sandy blond hair.
I steeple my fingers beneath my chin, holding his gaze as I debate his question. I think about Addison’s silence on the drive here. She was blindfolded, but she kept quiet. Didn’t ask stupid fucking questions. She knows how this goes.
It wasn’t until she stepped foot into my house that she had to be drugged.
That’s when she started fighting, the fear shooting adrenaline through her small body, forcing her to act. Valiant effort, but ultimately useless. There’s no escape for her.
“No broken bones.” I shrug. “No permanent…marks.”
I see Ben’s blue gaze dart to my hands, then quickly back up, to my face. I clench my hands into fists, put them in my lap as I keep my eyes on his. My father had no qualms about leaving permanent marks. No issues with broken bones. He was content to let me scream. Completely at ease with having his medical team take care of my internal injuries when he and his men were done with me.
Addison islucky.
Ben nods once. “You got it, sir.” He turns to go.
“Ben,” I call softly, and watch his shoulders tense as he turns back to me, his expression apprehensive. “Her mouth and her hands are the only thing that should have your dick in them.”
He flicks his brows up, comprehension dawning. “Christopher must’ve really fucked up.”
I clench my hands into fists, thinking about how much he’s cost me. How much I’ve got to gain now, thanks to his fuck up. “She’ll make up for it.”
I’m going to run.
The second day that Ben comes for me is before the sun is up. I hear his footsteps from far down the hall, the subtle shift of my guard by the door.
Last night, I was exhausted. I was drugged,for a second time. I didn’t know it at first. Didn’t know the food I puked up had been the reason the pine scented floor cleaner hadn’t assaulted my senses like it did when Max first led me in here.
But now, still groggy and still sore from everything Ben did to me yesterday—I push it from my mind—I can smell it again.
The scent makes me gag, and for a moment, I’m right back there. I’m right back in that bathtub with Danik and my uncle and... I clamp a hand over my mouth, trying to hold back the bile rising up my throat.
Don’t think about it.
There is one window of opportunity and I’m going to miss it.
I fling my covers off, wincing as my loose tank top rubs against the wounds on my back.
He beat me.
Ben beat me with a fucking whip.
I grit my teeth, the wooden floor cold beneath my feet as I climb out of bed. I snatch the razor from my nightstand. It’s a plastic one that was hidden beneath the cupboards of the bathroom. It won’t do any real damage, but I feel better with it in my hand. I have no practical use for it, thanks to the fucking wax I endured yesterday, but I sliced a small cut into my inner forearm to mark the days I’m here.
