He tightened a fist in my hair and yanked my head back. “No one is coming. They all think you’re dead.”
The walls started closing in on me, and a shudder chilled my bones. The floor felt like quicksand, threatening to swallow me whole. My heart raced, and tears stung my eyes. I wanted to fall to my knees, but I refused to let him win.
They all think you’re dead.
It all made sense now.
Drug overdose.
My dad’s tearful goodbye.
Being trapped inside my own body.
I was here to prove a point, to settle a score.
I’d been taken.
Kipton nodded his head toward the circular room. “I believe it’s your turn.” Then he shoved me into the center of the room.
I stumbled, but quickly caught my balance.
A dark-haired man who looked a little older than Lincoln looked up from his place at the table. “Name,” he said simply. His voice was harsh as his gaze ran over me from head to toe.
I flipped him the bird.
Kipton walked to the center of the room, stopping right behind me. He brought his arm around to the front of my body, placing a blade just below my collarbone. “I would hate to make this messy. Give them your name.”
“Grab a mop, asshole, because I’m not giving them shit.”
He pressed down on the blade, splitting my skin open and slicing a trail down my chest, over my breast, stopping just above my nipple. A river of blood trickled down my flesh and stained the pure silk. My eyes watered at the white-hot agony that sparked through my entire body.
“Should I keep going?”
“No! Stop. Jesus. It’s Lyric. My name is Lyric Matthews.”
The man on the end stood up. He looked like he belonged on a magazine, with his dark hair long enough to hang in front of his piercing blue eyes, and perfectly symmetrical features. James Dean looks with Cary Grant style. His plush mouth twisted in a grin. “This one’s mine.”
Kipton wiped the bloody blade off on the leg of his pants and smiled. “Lyric Matthews, meet Grey Van Doren. He owns you now.”