Page 42 of Blood Owed (Blood Mafia 1)
When a door slams and the wall shakes, I grin at the door to my room, waiting to meet him in all his rage filled glory.
Mateo
My feet are heavy, and I slam them into the ground, pounding down the hall to where Colt and Grayson wait.
Demi’s meowing echoes inside my head, taunting me and kindling a fire within me I can’t contain. I’m going to explode, and not in a good way.
She taunted me, accusing me of being weak. I’m not. I know this, but I want her to know that. I have the strongest desire to go strangle the life out of her. If I didn’t think she’d die with a smile on her face, I would do just that.
The demented woman wants death so badly she reeks of desperation.
I kick down the door into the office. Colt and Grayson are standing at the far side of the room, ready to fight.
I barrel into them, taking them down at the same time. I’m older and faster than both of them. They’re no match for me, especially when I’m filled with fury. Colt’s blood grazes my cheek; Grayson’s moans of pain send ripples of annoyance down my spine.
“You had one job.” I hiss the words at them as I continue to smash my fists into their faces. “One fucking job. You failed. I’m assuming the squadron is dead. Don’t you see what she’s doing to you?”
My other vehicles never returned. The soldiers are dead, I know it. Never mind that they’ll heal. It’s been nearly fifty years since my soldiers have died during a business meeting. Demi’s to blame. I don’t know how, and I don’t give Colt or Grayson a chance to explain. They’re as much to blame as she is.
When I’ve beaten them to near death, I fall back onto my ass and heave out a frustrated breath. “Don’t you see what she’s doing?”
This time I’m not sure if I’m asking them or myself.
Demi
The bastard never comes. I wait and wait for him to show up and explode, but he doesn’t. The longer I wait, the more my anger dies, turning into an empty feeling.
Why are they prolonging this? It’s worse than if he came in here and snapped my neck or drained my blood in one fell swoop.
Instead, I agonize for hours over how it will be done, when it will be done. Will they ever come to do it, or will they slowly watch me starve to death? Taking pleasure in my pained cries?
At some point I fall asleep, only to be woken by a young girl, probably fifteen at best.
“Who—” I begin to ask but my throat is too dry from all the screaming I’d done earlier.
She gives me a pitying look and lifts a thin paper cup to my lips —the kind you get in a waiting room for a hospital. Water splashes into my mouth, and I greedily swallow the liquid, marveling in how wonderful it tastes and feels.
“Who are you?”
She pats my arm and uses a damp cloth to clean my wounds.
“Who are you?” I ask again, growing irritated with the girl. She can’t be a vampire, she’s carefully wiping away my blood. Her movements are controlled, the cloth soft and moist against my burning skin. Her pupils don’t dilate. She’s unaffected by me.
I jerk in the seat, startling the girl, and scream, “Who are you?”
She grimaces and shakes her head, before reaching the damp cloth out toward my wound. I pull away, and she sighs heavily.
When I jerk away from her a few more times, she grunts in irritation before throwing the towel into my lap and leaving the room.
I hang my head, hating the way the restraints dig into my wrists and ankles. I’ve broken skin where they’re clamped, the raw flesh rubbing against the irons makes me cringe.
“Kill me!”
I scream the words over and over until my voice has grown hoarse. Still, no one comes. The speaker doesn’t even crackle. Damned box.
“Please, kill me.” I don’t cry, but there’s a distinct edge of pleading every time I say it. “Please.”
No one comes.
