Page 95 of Ruthless Salvation
Keir flashed a rare wolfish grin. “Sounds like plenty of fun to me.”
* * *
Connerand another cousin had taken Damyon out to an abandoned meat processing plant that we owned and used for miscellaneous purposes. Nefarious and illegal purposes. It was one of my favorite properties because I rarely left the place feeling unsatisfied.
Keir and I made our way past the front offices and into the main facility where the beltway of hooks overhead could easily identify the old assembly lines. Remote, well-insulated, and forgotten—it was the perfect place to conduct business.
A heavy metal door led to a small room with no windows and thick walls. My cousins waited inside for us, along with Damyon, who was tied to a chair with a rag duct taped in his mouth.
“Thanks, guys.” I nodded appreciatively. “We’ll take it from here.”
“Storm okay?” Conner asked.
“Yeah, everything’s fine. She’s out of surgery and doing well.”
“That’s great, man.” He gave me a clap on the back. “You need anything else, let us know.”
The two slipped from the room.
“I take it no one ever told you that real men don’t hit women.” I stalked closer to Damyon until I hovered over him. “Stormy’s strong as fuck. To make her as scared as you did … I can only imagine you must have been brutal.” Images of her curled up on the floor where we’d found her at Moxy flashed in my mind, fueling my fury. “I’d like nothing more than to hurt you in every way you hurt her—every bruised and bloody lip—but a year’s worth of abuse would take more time than I have to give.”
Without warning, I leveled a devastating right hook at his cheek, reveling in the feel of his jaw breaking under the force of my fist.
While his face was still turned to the side, absorbing the strike, I leaned in close. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t have some fun.”
I stood tall again as he straightened himself, wanting him to feel powerless beneath me the way Storm would have felt in his presence.
Damyon tried to speak. The sounds were unintelligible through the rag, but he continued trying, his attempts growing louder and more enraged.
I slowly shook my head. “Your time for words is over. I don’t give a flying fuck what you have to say.”
His head jerked as if trying to spit at me.
Chuckling, I tore open his shirt, pulling it over his shoulders to expose him from the chest up. He was tatted, as I knew he would be. Black ink only. I didn’t give a shit about any but the two stars near his shoulders.
“Keir, think you could grab the can for me?”
“You got it.”
I began to pace around my captive slowly. “Not sure if they told you, but this place was a meat processing plant back in the day. Great insulation. Even without A/C, it’s always pretty cool inside. This room especially, which is ironic. It looks like it could be an industrial fridge and feels that way, but that’s not accurate. You see, these operations end up with a lot of waste byproduct that has to be disposed of.” I looked around the room and up at the concrete ceiling that contained circular openings at regular intervals. “This room housed the industrial incinerator. It’s located right beneath the smokestacks you may have seen when you arrived.”
Keir returned, setting a red gas can at my feet along with a rag and a box of matches.
The Russian never even flinched. I knew because I kept my eyes glued to him, wanting to soak in every ounce of his fear. He was ballsy; I’d give him that. His anger overrode his fear instinct at the moment, but that would make it even more satisfying when he eventually cratered.
I went to a tool box we kept by the wall and took out a pair of large pliers, then returned to the gas can. I unscrewed the lid and removed the pour spout. Once I had the rag wound around the end of the pliers, I tipped the can just enough to wet the rag.
“That’s a nasty burn mark Stormy has on her chest.” Malice darkened my voice. “Seems only fair you know what she suffered since you were the one who put it there.”
I stepped away from the gas can then took out a match. Elated anticipation flared in my chest with the scrape of phosphorus bursting into flame.
Damyon’s body coiled tight before he forced the muscles to relax.
That’s right, fucker. This is gonna hurt.
The match never had to touch the rag before the flame lept from one to the other, flaring hungrily as it consumed the rag.
I leaned in. “You never deserved these in the first place,” I goaded quietly before bringing my makeshift torch to the star tattoo under his right shoulder and holding it in place.