Page 143 of Shattered Veil
“No. You know I’m a—”
“Touch her cunt, and you die.”
The doctor straightens, holding the laser. Facing Wes, he says, “I’m still a fucking doctor.”
“You have a one-star rating on all medical review sites with multiple allegations and judgments against you. Why do you think I called you?”
Because a reputable doctor would tell Wes to fuck off.
“Wesley, please. Let him give me something. I promise, I’ll... I’ll be a good girl for you. Please. You’re right, Balor doesn’t want a wife or children. I’ll... I’ll give them up for adoption. Just don’t...hurt me anymore. Please? I’ll do whatever you want.”
Wesley’s jaw ticks like he expected me to keep fighting him. “I knew you’d come around. Give her something, quack.”
“I have to set up an IV,” the doctor says, sweating.
“No. You’re not putting anything in my veins.”
“I can prepare a local.” He tosses the laser into a dirty duffel and stomps to the suitcase he brought.
I’ve always held doctors in high esteem. Balor’s brother cemented my view of a handsome, polished doctor, above reproach and committed to the sanctity of life.
How do people like this quack lose their way?
“Do you have a lighter to sterilize the needle?” he asks Wes, sounding annoyed.
“You didn’t bring antiseptic?” I yell.
“I was told not to, and—” He doesn’t get out another word.
An ear-piercing eruption of gunfire follows, and I scream. The doctor’s head explodes, my skin coated with blood and flesh.
Through the smoke, a giant man cloaked in black emerges, the gun still pointed.
Wesley jumps, his gun waving at the now kicked-in basement door.
“No,” he yells, but a thud silences him.
Through squinting eyes, I see him on the ground, several men pointing guns at him.
Then all I see is...
Balor.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Balor
Riordan storms up to Wesley first. “On your fucking knees.”
Griffin Quinlan cracks him on the head with his Smith and Wesson.
The prick’s trembling jaw scans the room and all the guns pointed at him. Wisely, he drops his gun and lowers to the cement.
More shouting dissolves into the background as I take in Ella. My brain tries to process everything. She’s half-naked, covered in blood, both her own and from the other victim. A guy who tortured her on this table is dead on the floor with his head blown off.
All her tattoos are now a graveyard of bloodied, chewed-up skin. Her wrists are raw from the coarse ropes. Cursing, I cut her free with a knife, but I don’t know what to address next.
With her arms no longer bound, she grabs me and cries. “Balor, I’m sorry.”