Page 18 of Bleed the Shadows
A fresh flood of fear coursed through my body at the memory of the words, because if they weren’t going to mark me, what exactly, did they plan to do?
Meathead and Mr. Skinny seemed relieved to step away now that they’d gotten my clothes off. I took some satisfaction in the fact that Meathead seemed to be breathing heavy behind his mask. At least I’d put up a fight.
I thought of June. Had she put up a fight too? It was the question that gave me nightmares: wondering if she’d been scared, if her death had been painful. Wondering how long she’d suffered at Chris’ hands before he strangled her to death.
I forced myself back to the present. I was in trouble. I needed to think.
The Observer walked back and forth in front of my suspended body. Unlike Meathead, who seemed like he’d had one too many pizzas and a few too many beers, the Observer was fit.
Not huge like the Butchers, but definitely in shape, with defined muscles under his T-shirt and no visible ink, unusual in the Hunt, where all the men — even Meathead and Mr. Skinny — had tattoos, although Mr. Skinny’s were spare and cliche, like they were trying to make a point more than anything else.
The Butchers spent time in the loft’s home gym, but that had felt like a necessary component of the work they did (whatever that was). Other than Remy’s obsession with nutrition, which was less about how he looked and more about how he fueled his body, I’d never witnessed an ounce of vanity in any of them.
They were beautiful and dangerous but they only cared about the dangerous part.
The Observer was different. He cared about his body, took pride in it. I saw it in the way he walked slowly back and forth infront of me, his mannerisms almost preening, like he wanted to make sure I was watching him.
I turned my head, if only to deny him what he wanted.
I was shaking, fear and shock coursing through my veins, the cold of the tunnel seeping into my exposed skin. I’d never been overly modest, but I hated the fact that these assholes were seeing me naked.
“Look at me, bitch.”
I ignored him, focusing on a divot in the dirt floor to my left because whatever this guy wanted me to do, I was going to do the opposite.
I barely had time to register his footsteps coming toward me before I felt the crack of his hand across my face.
“I saidlook at me!” he roared. “Fuckingbitch.”
This time, I obeyed. My teeth had rattled with the force of his blow across my face, and the rage in his voice sent a primitive thrum of terror through my body.
It was one thing to be brave with a gun in my hand. One thing to be brave when I could run. But strung up naked in the tunnels, it was impossible to pretend I wasn’t scared out of my mind.
But the Butchers were out there. They would find me.
They had to.
I switched tactics. “Why are you violating the rules of the Hunt?”
I didn’t know for sure that he was violating the rules, but I’d had three weeks to think about it. Three weeks to replay the first Hunt, to decipher the meaning of everything that had happened.
And I just needed to keep him talking. Keep him talking long enough for the Butchers to find me. It was all I could do.
“Rules.” He said it like it was a joke he found genuinely funny. “Rules are just a projection of society’s desire for order. I make my own rules.”
“You won’t be able to play again,” I said. “Bram won’t let you. Not after this. Not after he marked me.”
I knew it was true despite the way Bram had treated me. Knew it with a certainty I couldn’t have explained.
“Jesus fucking christ.” The man removed the knife from his jeans as he stalked toward me.
My head buzzed with fear, my vision growing fuzzy and black at the edges like I might pass out.
Stay awake, M. You have to stay awake.
June’s voice brought me back and I forced myself to watch as the Observer raised his knife to my face.
15
