Page 63 of Unorthodox
Max doesn’t look away, but I see his hand move inside of his pocket. There can’t be a weapon in there, unless it’s a pocket knife or a razor blade. But the gun on his hip would work better than that.
Unless... he plans to torture us before he kills us.
His hand goes still, and I force myself to look him in the eye. “I don’t want to repeat myself. If I have to ask you again,” his eyes cut to his guard, “I’ll show you just how many pounds of flesh you’ve got to carve from a man before he finally fucking dies.”
Dante still doesn’t move.
I’m gripping the sheets so tight in my fist, my hand aches. “It’s not what it looks like,” I start to say, even though that’s bullshit. “We didn’t do anything—”
Max doesn’t wait to hear what wedidn’t do. He pushes away from the door almost violently, crosses the room and rips the sheet from my hands even as I try to tug it back, away from him. It’s useless.
He flips the blankets down the bed and straightens, glaring down at my bare legs. I extend them out, cross them tight as I try to yank my shirt down to cover myself. He leans down and grabs both of my wrists in one hand, the other clamping down around my thigh.
I’m aware Dante has gotten off the bed. I see him behind Max, but he’s taking steps away from us, almost slowly, like he could actually sneak out of here.
Max is staring down at my leg beneath his hand, his grip painful on my thigh and my wrists.
“Max, it isn’t—”
“Stop talking, Addison.” He doesn’t look up, and instead, he rotates his hand, pulling on my thigh, trying to force it open, away from my other leg. “Uncross your legs.”
My chest tightens, and I try to pull my hands from his grip. He doesn’t let go.
I glance at Dante, and at that moment, Max’s eyes find mine.
He smiles. “Uncross your legs, or I’ll break his.”
I shake my head, inhale deeply, breathe in the beachy scent of Max, and something that smells like tobacco. “No,” I tell him. My voice is rough, little more than a whisper, but it’s all I have.
He slaps me.
For the first time,hehits me.
My head spins to the side, hot pain along my cheek. It’s enough to startle me into limpness, and as soon as his hand leaves my face, he uncrosses my thighs with his hand. But I move fast after that, scrambling away from him, pressing against the wall beside my bed as I escape his grasp.
My hands are balled into fists at my side, planted knuckle down into the mattress, but they start to shake.
“No,” I whisper, fear coursing through my veins, and icy numbness replacing the sensation of contentment I’d had just moments earlier.
He stands at the end of the bed, his hands planted along the mattress, nostrils flaring with every breath. The only visible sign of his anger.
“Dante,” he says, while still looking at me. “Get your fucking pants on.”
I watch Dante start to move, eyes on the floor where his pants are crumpled up in a heap, Max’s eyes still on mine. But just as I shift my gaze, see the bodyguard put one leg in his pants, Max sighs and says, “No, never mind.”
Dante looks up, hands still gripping the waist of his pants, and when I look to Max, I find him staring at me.
“I want her toseeyour bones piercing through your skin. I think that’s a far more effective lesson than justhearingthem snap.”
I can tellshe didn’t love her time here.
The soundproof room is nothing but cement floors and empty, grey walls. There is no light, no windows, and save for chains affixed to the wall, no décor of any kind.
Until about ten minutes ago, when Mamie put a projector in the room, unbeknownst to either traitorous piece of shit I accompanied up here.
When I nod toward Addison to enter after Dante, she wraps her arms around herself and trembles.
Biting her lip, she glances into the room where Dante has already disappeared, and then her big green eyes go to the gun in my hand.
