Jesus. Her voice. Her fucking voice.Seeing me like this pains her. That’s etched all over the tortured edges of her tone.
She says it again: “Oh, Kian…”
I refuse to make eye contact. She should know better than to act like she cares in front of him.
She whirls on the Greek. “What have you done to him?” she demands. She smacks him in the chest, but he flicks her aside like a horsefly.
“Only what he deserves,” Yannis replies with a shrug.
She shakes her head in horrified disbelief. “What are you going to do with him?”
“Now, that’s a much more interesting question,” he acknowledges happily. “The best thing to do, of course, would be to dispose of him.”
Her body jerks, but her eyes fall back on me. She doesn’t say anything. It’s as though she’s realized what a vulnerable position she’s just put herself in.
“Is that what you’d like, Renata?” Rokiades asks. “Would you like if Kian O’Sullivan were to simply”—he snaps his fingers—“disappear?”
She never takes her eyes off me. She looks angry, but is that anger directed at me? A part of it definitely seems to be.
“How did you even manage to capture him?” she asks.
Rokiades scoffs. “It was easier than his reputation would have you believe,” he says. “My men and I ambushed him. He fought… but not hard enough.”
Of course he’d change the story to make him sound tougher. Like I said, he’s a pitiful man. I don’t bother to dispute him.
“I had a bad cold that day,” I explain in a pained wheeze. “Sneezing so hard I couldn’t fire in a straight line.”
“Karl,” Rokiades growls.
One of his goons steps forward and slugs me in the stomach. I grunt. Blood flies out of my mouth. Across from me, I hear Renata gasp despite the sudden ringing in my ears.
Rokiades eyes me, wondering if he’s done enough to put me in place. I drag my eyes up to meet his, even as my head whirls with pain and deliriousness.
“Seriously,” I bite out through a cough, “had to bring a pack of tissues with me to the firefight and everything.”
The Greek snarls angrily. “Again!” he roars.
Confirmed: the man really doesn’t like humor.
I’m prepared for the second punch, though. I barely feel it—mostly because I’m waiting for Renata’s reaction. She’s cringing away from me, her eyes half-averted, and half-peeled, as though she can’t decide whether to look away or not.
Rokiades signals for the man to keep going. Karl rains blows on my exposed torso. I think I feel a rib crack at one point, though by now my whole body is such a blur of pain that I can’t be sure.
After a while, the Greek raises a hand and his thug stops assaulting me. “Would you like a go?” Rokiades offers, pushing Renata forward toward me.
She almost trips in her ridiculous high heels as she tries to push him away. “Stop this,” she whispers, so low I barely catch it.
“What was that?”
“Please… make him stop.”
Rokiades holds up his hand and his goon melts away into the background. I glance up to Renata, hoping that she’ll pay attention to the purpose in my eyes.
Let me be the one to suffer, I’m saying. I have the strength to get through this.
I don’t dare say the other part: that I fear she may not be strong enough for what he has in store for her.
“You care for him, don’t you, dear?” Rokiades asks.