Page 23 of Brutal Truths

Cort isn’t. He gets hit right in the face as blood continues to pulsate out of the wound. Serves him right for being so close when Drake chops it off.

He turns, loses whatever’s left in his stomach, the stench of undigested food filling the air. Then he drops where he stands, out cold, landing beside the severed hand right into the bloody pool.

Trent doesn’t hesitate or blink. “Aiden, get that fucker up and move him out of the way.”

His voice steady, like this is nothing more than a minor inconvenience. “Drake, grab a few of the men to dump these two at the nearest hospital. Leave the hand. He doesn’t get to keep that.”

The captain pauses just long enough to let that settle. “I’ll send it to him in a few days as a souvenir, so our new doctor friend doesn’t forget about us.”

Turning to his son, his expression hardens. “And Silas, stop grinning like a damn maniac and tie off his arm. I want him alive. He doesn’t get to take the easy way out.”

Picking up a clean glass, Trent pours himself a rum, and downs it in one smooth motion.

“As soon as this mess is cleaned up, we’ll sit down and chat with Mr. Theiss.” A flicker of anticipation crosses his face. “I’m looking forward to hearing what he has to say.”

Making a move for the door, he doesn’t so much as glance back. “I’m heading to my place. Don’t bother me unless you want to end up like them.”

Then he’s gone.

Fuck.

I don’t have time for this shit. Not when Isabel is out there and whoever took her is still breathing.

Chapter 7

Isabel

Determined not to let his parting words get inside my head without proof, I wait for the lightheadedness to ease before pushing myself upright. The room tilts slightly, forcing me to steady myself before I swing my legs over the side of the bed.

The bed appears unused. It has a soft mattress and a sturdy frame. That scent of freshness from the laundry clings to the still-stiff bedding. Same with the pillows. It gives a very different vibe that doesn’t match the rest of the room.

The room itself is falling apart.

The wallpaper peels at the seams, exposing cracked paint beneath. Once-bright colors have dulled into something lifeless. The same goes for the heavy and worn curtains covering the one large window.

From where I’m sitting on the bed, all I see is endless blue sky. No signs of buildings. No noise from the busy streets below. Silence. Suggesting my captors drove me far from the city and deep into the heart of the countryside.

I spent half my life in the country. There’s a peacefulness about it that always made me feel safe. Hopefully, that won’t change once I get the hell out of here.

Pushing to my feet, I fight back the nausea, giving myself time to regain my balance. It gives me a chance to take in the rest of the room.

A musty smell rises from the warped, dusty wooden floor when I shift forward. The dark stains on them correspond to the yellow marks on the ceiling. The discoloration, likely from a leaky roof, has long been ignored. There’s an oval section on the floor, untouched by time, telling me that a rug once sat there, protecting it.

I blink. Now that my head’s no longer spinning, I slowly turn it away from the window and take in the rest of the room.

Two lamps cast a warm glow across the room. They look new. Same with the polished dresser, where a misplaced vase sits on top.

The one chair in the corner isn’t new. Its worn, high-backed leather makes me wonder if it was left behind by a previous occupant. Clean, but well-used.

Shuffling, I move forward slowly. My body sluggish from the drugs.

The thought of how quickly my life could’ve ended with that second injection sends a wave of fury through me. Even without knowing what drug was used, my body’s reaction tells me everything I need to know.

One dose would’ve been enough. More than enough.

Even after I woke, I doubt I’d have been able to do much more than lie there. A second dose wasn’t necessary.

I’m lucky it didn’t kill me.