I swallowed down my growl as Hail studied him for a moment. Finally, Hail nodded.
Tate sighed out what I assumed was relief and inserted a key into the lock. The door swung open to reveal the same room he’d been staring at on his phone.
A bare room. A camera in the corner near the ceiling. A toilet. A mattress with no sheet or blanket.
And Bianca.
She was curled into a tight ball on the bed, not moving. A long white shirt covered her body. From where she was lying, I could see the curve of the bottom of her pert ass, letting me know she was without panties.
I swallowed and stared at her, my face emotionless.
“Bianca. We have guests,” Tate called out.
She didn’t move. My heart skipped as I studied her tiny body. She didn’t even look like she was breathing.
Tate reached out and lifted her head off the bed. She stared up at him through swollen eyes. In fact, her face was so swollen I wouldn’t have known it was her if I didn’t recognize her mass of blonde waves.
He gave her head a shake before dropping her unceremoniously onto the bed. She still didn’t move, but her body trembled. I noted his hands shaking as he stepped away from her.
She wasn’t doing well. In fact, she looked like she was on her deathbed.
“Fuck, Tate, what the hell did you do to her?” Drake demanded, a look of pure disgust washing over his face.
“Nothing she didn’t ask for,” he said, reaching into his pocket to pull out a capped syringe.
“What the fuck is that?” I stepped forward, ready to jam the needle up his ass.
“She does better on this. It’s some of that horsemen shit. Makes her brain work correctly.”
He plunged it into her neck before I could beat it out of his hand. She didn’t even whimper. She simply lay in the same spot, her body limp, eyelids slitted the smallest amount and her cracked, swollen lips parted.
“You’re the one who has been stealing from me?” Drake asked, frowning.
Tate shrugged. “I wasn’t stealing really. Just doing what I needed to do, I guess.”
“Let’s get this show over with. Put her out of her damn misery,” Hail said before Drake could snap at Tate. “She looks like she’s on her last leg anyway.”
I didn’t even know if she could see us through all the swelling around her eyes and face.
“Fallon, showtime,” Hail said, pulling out a small video camera and aiming it at her on the bed.
“What the fuck do you want me to do?” I demanded as Trent thrust a black ski mask at me.
“Put the mask on and fuck her. You wanted to fuck her. Now’s your chance before we put a bullet in her pretty head. I’m going to send the video to De Santis. Get him riled up so he isn’t thinking straight. I need him to be clumsy with this, so he doesn’t fuck us when we go to kill him.”
I let out a hiss of disgust despite the idea forming in my head.
“You want me to fuck her?”Un-fucking-believable.
“Either you do it, or I’ll let Tate have a final go at her. I did promise her pussy to you. I’m just making good on it.”
Fucking prick.
“Do it or I’ll just shoot her in the fucking head and skip letting Tate do it. Seriously. I’m feeling merciful today.”
There was no way out of this. Either I did it or I’d have to watch Tate fucking do it. He’d hurt her enough.
I moved to the bed and stared down at her for a moment. Her breathing was shallow, every visible bit of her skin bruised. There was a metal collar locked around her delicate neck. My vision flooded with anger as I tried to even my breathing. Motherfucking Tate. Collaring her like a fucking dog.