Page 64 of Grace

The man’s movements are unbelievably fast and precise.

The streetlight glints on something… A knife slides out of the sleeve of the gray hoodie. My eyes fly open.

The man buries the knife in Chop’s throat and leaves it there. Chop gasps for air, gurgling, his breath rattling. The baseball bat drops from his hand, thumping against the wet pavement.

He staggers toward the man on unsteady legs, his hands clawing at the knife lodged in his throat. The man hits Elijah in the groin, yanks the knife from Chop’s neck, and drives it into Elijah’s eye. Blood sprays everywhere. Chop and Elijah let out blood-curdling screams. The dark figure twists the knife in Elijah’s eye socket.

Bo’s grip on my arm weakens. He watches in shock as his crew is slaughtered.

“Goddamnit! Get him, Frankie!” Bo sends his last remaining crony to the man. I know he’s going to die just like the others.

A few quick motions and a few shouts, and all the three guys are lying there dead.

My ceaseless trembling eases a little, but I can’t make a sound. It feels like an icy hand is clamped around my windpipe—but when I come to my senses, I realize the cold comes from a pocket knife Bo is holding to my throat.

“You think you’re tough, eh?” he asks. The blade presses tight against my skin. “Another step and I’ll cut her throat!” he threatens.

The man halts, then crouches down. He places the knife—slick with the mingled blood of three men—down next to his trainers.

“Who the fuck are you? And why is this whore so important to you? Or are you some self-appointed hero?”

The silence drags on.

“Answer me!” Bo shouts at him, then kicks the pebbles under his feet—they hit the man, but he is visibly unbothered by this desperate gesture.

“Ask him who he is,” he commands me, grabbing a fistful of my hair. I let out a small hiss of pain and, little by little, swallow down the acidic nausea burning my throat.

“Who are you?” I ask in a barely audible, hoarse voice.

“Good girl,” Bo says. My body tenses—he sounds as if I belonged to him.

The man throws back his hood. Slowly, he lifts his face and after a few nerve-wracking moments, he looks at me. When I recognize him in the light of the streetlights, it feels as if someone had yanked the ground out from under my feet. My knees buckle as all my strength drains away. Not even Bo can hold me up.

I fall to the ground. Literally. I’m on all fours, looking up at him.

I’m panting, inhaling the smell of sewage mixing with the cool, humid air. My breath hangs in the cold. My skin is covered in a cold layer of sweat, because I’ve never seen such dark light in his eyes as tonight.

The tight, icy smile on his lips makes my heart skip a beat.

Chase is here.

He has come to avenge me.

Bo doesn’t pick up on our wordless exchange. He doesn’t understand why I’m clinging to his feet—trying to find refuge with one monster from another.

When he raped me with his gang, my soul was screaming for Chase to help me, to avenge me. To punish them. But after all these years, the first man I think of is someone else. It’s the man who holds me in his arms at night and puts up with my fits of anger and my panic attacks. Cyrus.

Bo kicks me, making me let go of his leg. “Get off me, little Grace. I’ll deal with this asshole, then we can continue our little party. Thankfully, I won’t have to share you with anyone now.” He yanks my head back. “But please, don’t keep moaning Chase this time.”

The air is knocked out of my chest, and my heart slams against my ribcage.

Chase looks at me.

For a second, our eyes meet, and my heart skips a beat. Still, I know that everything I felt toward him was because of my Stockholm syndrome. Nothing else. After he’d taken Poppy from me, I had nothing but him.

“Say it again,” Chase demands. His hand, hanging beside his shoe, clenches into a fist, making the thick veins on it stand out even more.

Bo yanks me up by my hair and pulls me closer. Pussy. He uses me as a living shield.