“We know you were fucking her, asshole,” I say, releasing the pressure as he tries to fold over himself. I squat in front of him, searching his eyes he’s trying to hide. “And if you think you’re screaming now, wait until Tawny’s husband comes to question you. Tell me everything and I’ll make it quick.”
Deavers pales, snapping his head up and shaking it.
“I didn’t know who she was at first,” he says, immediately falling quiet, thinking that was enough.
“I don’t give a shit about what you didn’t know, Agent,” I hiss. “You helped Tawny escape and now my girl is gone. So, where the fuck are they?”
“I haven’t talked to her since—“ his eyes shift to Oren and Lion, the light in the room just bright enough to show me his pupils dilating.
We learned these easy tells from an FBI profiler during our training. We were all trained together and I’m a little offended he thinks he can fool me with a lie. I press my thumb into his bullet wound, twisting while his screams bounce off the wall.
Deavers might be scared and might be in pain, but not enough of either to give me what I want.
“Perhaps you should sing him a lullaby before we send him off to this final sleep,” Lion taunts from the corner of the room. “It’s creepy and that’s what Mal does. Can’t promise you’ll have the same effect though,” he shrugs.
I pull my thumb from Deavers knee, and he slumps forward. I turn to walk over to the table of torture toys, picking out what I’m going to use next.
“You’d just love that wouldn’t you?”
Oren hides a snicker behind a cough. I meet Lion’s eyes and he gives me a toothy grin that’s all predator and amusement.
“It would definitely be more entertaining than this pageantry of a torture session.”
He pauses to chuckle, looking down at what I’ve picked up on the table, his smile only growing as I quirk an eyebrow.
“And I suppose some potential blackmail should my finger accidentally hit record on my phone.”
I grunt, not giving enough of a response to play into Lion’s games, and turn away from the two men with a knife in my hand. Malia had once told me killing with a knife is more exciting than a gun, because you can watch the life bleed from their eyes.
And that’s what I want to experience while I fight to get to her. I want to see every motherfucker’s soul leave their body while I drink it in up close, in her honor.
I watch as the water rinses the blood off my body and down the drain, my hands pressed against the shower wall and my head hanging forward. I’m both pissed off we hit a dead end and hopeful The Omen can force Deavers to give us something we can use.
My desperation and anger finally got the better of me; my restraint snapped and I forgot all about keeping Deavers alive. But I wasn’t alone. Lion was right there with me. If Elijah and The Omen had walked in five minutes later, we would’ve lost our only lead, because Deavers would’ve been in pieces.
Up to that point, Lion taunted me from his corner, his jokes only pushing harder on my rage’s defective detonator. Deavers’ cries and pleas carried on until he did a complete one-eighty and turned into someone both colder and more maniacal. When he started spewing obscenities about and against Malia, Lion and I were on him. It took Oren, Elijah, and The Omen to pull us off Deavers and lock us out of the room.
We may not respect each other, but there’s one thing Lion and I can agree on: Malia deserves respect and neither one of us will let someone live who speaks against her when she’s not there to defend herself. Probably even when she is, to be honest.
When my body is clean of the blood and God-only-knows what else, I go into Malia’s bedroom to rifle through the pile of clothes Oren brought me. I quickly get dressed and set out to find The Omen’s office on my own this time, studying the layout on my way. After getting lost and winding up on the wrong side of the house, I finally ask one of the staff members I pass in the hall to point me in the right direction. Before he can answer, a small blonde steps from a door to my left, carrying a cat I recognize.
“Lucifer?” I ask, frowning at the cat.
For some reason, he’s wearing a sweater.
“Oren brought him when you and Malia were sent away,” the woman says. “He’s taken to me a bit and keeps me company while Nate is dealing with his business.”
The woman is shorter than Malia and looks younger than me, maybe younger than Malia. At first, I wonder if her green eyes mean she’s a relation to the Olins, but I dismiss that thought when I realize they’re not the same bright emerald The Omen and Malia share. Her hair is white-blonde and slightly wavy, the complete opposite of the Olins’ trademark black curls. Genetics do weird things, but there’s nothing hinting this is another Olin.
Perhaps the small woman is another stray The Omen took in and gave a home, along with a life of crime.
“I’m Chantelle, by the way,” she says, and the name sparks a memory from the cabin. “Or Chan.”
Malia had told me her father had a woman staying with him and not much after besides he’ll be kept busy. I shudder at the thought.
“Are you the one fucking The Omen?” I ask bluntly because now I’m curious.
The picture I found of a younger Nathaniel in Malia’s room was with Akila’s mother, a blonde. Tawny is blonde. And this one… well, it’s obvious the man has a type: tiny and blonde.