Page 145 of Savage Roses
Stephen Talbert, the man who bought me, thought he’d have his way with me. Instead I had my way with him… equipped only with the stiletto that was once on my feet. I lodged the sharp heel into his face, his eyeball, and hisbrain, and a sick feeling that was borderline orgasmic washed over me.
Comparable to the first time I killed. Only so much better.
Knowing I was inflicting lethal pain on a man who sought to hurt me was as good as any other pleasure that’s been inflicted on my body. Even better that I was in total control, deciding when and how I jammed the stiletto heel into his eye socket, driving it as deep as it’d go, watching the blood squirt out, staining my fingers.
But that’s just it—I want more. More blood. More pain.More suffering.
And I won’t rest until it happens. Regardless of what anyone says.
“You need some shuteye,” Stitches says. “We’re all human. Humans need sleep.”
I ignore him, studying the map we’ve confiscated of one of Lucius’s compounds. It’s the compound in Old Northam, where we believe Salvatore is being held. I’ve technically been, though I wasn’t made aware of the location as a ‘product’; I was bound and blindfolded, taken wherever was dictated at the time.
“Delphine,” Stitches says slowly. His hand clamps shut on the curve of my shoulder. “You need rest just like anybody else. Put the map away. We’re gonna save him.”
I shrug off his touch. “I go to bed when I want to go to bed. You already know this.”
Stitches stands still behind me. His urge to object is palpable, its own mood in the air. He resists without uttering another word. His hand drops from my shoulder and he turns away, walking out of the room.
I don’t draw another breath until he’s gone and I’m alone again.
Some would say I’m losing it; I’m fixated to an unhealthy extent. They’d probably be correct—but it’s been a week and we’re no closer to rescuing Salvatore.
Planning out the logistics of a rescue mission takes longer than the mission itself.
While Stitches and the other men loyal to Salvatore insist on mapping out every detail, I’m ready to rush in, guns drawn and blazing. He won’t last much longer.
I know this deep in my being. If we don’t act soon, I’ll lose him forever.
Lucius will kill him… or he’ll finally succumb to the inhumane treatment he’s been subjected to.
It sickened me, seeing him. Salvatore has always been dominant, unendingly unbreakable in both how he presented himself and the strength of his body. He was a different man inside the walls of Lucius’s compound—his skin was decorated with bruises and his body no longer bore the exquisite cut of healthy muscle, similar to a masculine sculpture made of hard stone.
He was sick. Injured. Starved.
His skin was cold and pale and as desperately as his build clambered to hold onto its muscle, when I touched him, for the first time, I feltfrailty.
They were… destroying him. Lucius was destroying him, relishing in every moment he withered his son away into nothing but a shell of his former, powerful self.
Even more heartbreakingly, he’d wrapped his arms around me. Held onto me as thoughIwere the fragile one in need of protection—and maybe I was, in his eyes. I was bruised and clammy and shaken.
But in no capacity was I as tortured as he was. I was only just entering captivity. He had been there… for weeks…
I close my eyes the more my mind delves into what happened that day. I had almost been forced to service Cesar—in front of Salvatore.
The ordeal at the Mill and what happened the day in the interrogation room will have lasting effects on me. I can sense how it’s impacted my psyche, my very being, though so far, I’ve refrained from concentrating on it. I’ll deal with the trauma of it later.
Right now, as my gaze sweeps across the map of the compound, I can’t rest. I can’t give in until—
“Delphine,” pants Fabio. He’s been in bad shape since the attack on the safe house. He was shot twice and came close to death (so I’ve been told). His left arm rests in a sling and he’s been using his right to walk with a cane due to the gunshot wound to his thigh, which had almost hit his femoral artery. He appears in the doorway with eyes wider than saucers. “You’ve got to follow me.”
I acquiesce without question, following him down the hall. He leads me around the back of the compound where one of the emergency doors is. Before I can protest and ask what he’s doing, I slow up and my demeanor changes.
The anxious energy pinging through me disappears. The air in my lungs does too, no longer existing in a capacity helping me to breathe. My mouth opens and then closes, and I blink staring at the approaching ghost before me.
Tears come. They blur my vision. My legs develop their own mind, breaking out into a desperate sprint.
I run to him.