The epitome of brokenness was no longer caring. No longer functioning. No longer willing to exist.
Am I broken?
The blunt question sliced through my brain—taunting me with the weakness of the word.
The ultimate question was did I want to die?
I don’t want to die.
Did I want to live?
I don’t want to live like this anymore.
I grew hotter. Madder.
They’d taken everything. They’d taken too much. And yet they’d come back for more.
It isn’t fair.
I filled with resentment. Furiousness.
What are you going to do about it?
The confusion inside grew hot, evaporating to steam, billowing faster and faster with anger.
I won’t. I won’t be broken.
I was stronger. I was a fighter. I would die being true to myself.
I was livid. I was rabid. I went insane.
My mouth opened; I screamed, “Not this time, you f**king ass**le.” The tense moment shattered, raining around us in shards as I switched.
The frozen victim became a crazed warrior. I wanted his blood.
The man grunted in shock; his hands grabbed chunks of my hair—keeping my head locked against the mattress.
The pain in my scalp was nothing. Did he think I cared about a little agony after everything I’d been through?
Jerking manically, I screamed again, tearing the follicles free from my scalp. The pain reminded me of something I’d forgotten. Something I should never have taken for granted.
I’m Tess Snow.
And I would survive or die. I was done just existing.
The grip on my hair fell away. Fumbling hands tried to tie the blindfold behind my head, but I would no longer make it easy for him.
My hands flew up, connecting with a bristle-covered jaw. The facial growth shot an image of Q into my head. Where was he?
My heart ruptured and tore and shattered into useless pieces. They’ve hurt him. They’d stolen him—that was why he wasn’t there to save me. The thought of never seeing Q again was the last of my undoing. I was free. Utterly free from everything but that moment.
“You hurt him!” My fingers curled, turning nails into weapons as I dragged them down his face. “I’ll make you pay.”
My assailant reared back but I moved with him, slicing, swiping, connecting with his face, neck, and throat. His arms came up, knocking my hands away, but he didn’t pounce or pummel me into unconsciousness.
I didn’t know why he hesitated, but it would cost him. Never again would I let them take me. I either won this or I died. Two options and I didn’t really care which one.
The man’s legs stayed pinned on either side of me, squeezing, trying to keep me from wiggling free, but he didn’t have what I had: the clarity of destiny.
My mind turned blank. The fear of what had happened to Q disappeared. All I focused on was killing.
With curled hands, I struck anywhere I could. His chest, his thighs, his jaw. Each strike was met with an angry growl but no retaliation.
His hands tried to capture my wrists, but my anger made me a flailing mess to catch. The world spun and spun as I sucked in too much air.
White-noise crackled, roaring in my ears, deafening me to everything but my strumming heartbeat.
The sheets wrapped around my legs as I kicked and squirmed. His weight kept me trapped, so I did the only thing I could—I launched upright and head-butted him.
Stars.
Shooting stars. Comets. Fireworks.
Bright light replaced the darkness of my blindfold as our skulls clacked together.
The man groaned, cursing low. He rolled off me, dropping off the bed.
The instant I was free, I ripped the blindfold off. Not that it helped in the dark. Instead of running, I attacked.
Throwing myself onto the floor, I latched onto his back, punching everywhere I could. The pain in my knuckles was vengeance.
He reached behind, grabbing my na**d flesh to toss me off him. The carpet cushioned my fall. I kicked hard as I could in his direction. My bare foot connected with something far more perfect than a knee or thigh. It hit his prized possession.
“Fuck!” he roared.
My body stuttered just for a moment. That voice. Then white-noise stole me again, keeping me focused on my task. I shook my head. I refused to listen. I wouldn’t listen. Not to lies or promises or even the voice of the man who I loved more than anything. It wasn’t his voice. It couldn’t be, and I refused to be side-tracked from murder.
“Fucking bastard. What did you do? Where is he?” The anger and sheer-minded confidence was like a long lost lover, cocooning me with belief—belief I could win. How had I been so weak? How did I forget this velvety power of self-reliance?
I laughed suddenly. I was grateful. Even though I would kill him. He’d returned to me what I thought was lost forever.
Not one tear leaked from my eyes. Not one plea or beg. I was free.
Then a body collided with mine, slamming me against the floor. His hard form stole the breath from my lungs. My strength and fire flickered, sucking me back into tameless horror.
I went berserk.
Legs, arms, fingers—my entire body became a weapon.
“Fuck me,” he grunted, his voice hidden by the rage roaring in my ears.
Expect it. Any moment.
I tensed for pain. I knew it was coming. He hadn’t hit me yet, but he would. I’d drawn blood—I tasted it in the air. I’d made him angry—I felt it in his fingers as he tried to stop my flailing fists. He would strike and soon.
Kill him!
“Let me f**king go!” In a twist and a huge surge of power, I knocked his hands away and slapped him. My throat burned I breathed so hard.
“Fucking hell, stop!”
Stop? And make his kidnapping easy? As if.
I kicked, grinning with delusion when something crunched beneath my foot. Suddenly, he let me go, his body climbing off mine. I yelped as a hand wrapped around my ankle, dragging me toward the table at the bottom of the bed.
“No!” Carpet burn scalded my back. I tried to jerk out of his grip, but his fingers bit harder.
Something skidded off the table, slamming to the floor.
“Goddammit.”
That voice again. My heart lost its violent rage, coughing with confusion.
Then his body was back on mine, slamming my head down, planting a palm over my mouth. This was it. He’d inject me with something and steal me away. My chance to either die or kill would be taken from me.
He spun me onto my stomach, pressing my face against the carpet. With a sharp knee wedged in my lower back, he wrenched my arms behind my back, wrapping something unyielding but soft around my wrists.