“Well, at least you still have some fire in you.” He leans forward, bracing his elbows on the desk. “You do this for me, and I wipe your debt.”
I straighten in my seat. “Completely?”
“Yep.” He pops the word and raises his eyebrows. “You have thirty seconds to decide.”
I freeze. “Wait. You’re not going to tell me what it is? What I have to do?”
The room presses in on me with the weight of decision. Of the risk that’s going to be involved in saying yes—or no. I desperately want revenge… but it’s the desperation that gives me pause. It’s a weakness. An exploitation.
And I’m already here because he exploited a need.
He winks, ignoring the indecision on my face. “I can’t ruin the fun.”
I narrow my eyes. “Then, no.”
“Great.” He beckons me forward. “Give me your hand.”
“Why?”
He glares. “You ask too many questions.”
Abruptly, he rises and circles around the desk. I hesitate when he stops beside me. He’s just an inch taller than me and built like a bulldog. Squat and packed with muscle. His hair is dark with streaks of gray. And more than that, he gives me a creepy feeling—like all the negative energy of the bar emanates from him.
Our similar height doesn’t factor when he towers over my chair.
“Here’s the deal, invisible girl. You owe me money. And unfortunately for you, I can’t just let you walk away from that without penalty. How would that look?”
I swallow.
“Every day, your debt grows bigger. Interest, you know. I have a business to run.” He squints at me. “Give me your arm.”
My stomach twists. I suddenly wish I hadn’t eaten the fries before I came in, because the nausea is at the forefront of my thoughts. And not losing what little I ate on his shoes.
The gleam in his eye is a test.
At the end of the day, I choose nonviolence, so I do as he asks and give him my arm. It’s a weak attempt to placate him.
He takes my left wrist, running his finger across the underside of it, then stands and pulls my arm flat across his desk. I tug back, sudden fear strangling me, but he holds firm.
He moves to his side again and locks a cuff on me before I can get free. It’s attached to his side of the desk, the chain coming up and barely allowing any wiggle room. My arm is stretched out across the surface, my body halfway out of the chair. I shove against the desk with my other hand, but he comes to the other side and snatches that one, too.
“What are you doing?” I promised myself to never show fear around men like him—and here I am, trembling against his desk. I can’t even keep my voice from wobbling, like I’m on the verge of tears.
You’ve survived worse.
He ignores my question and goes to the fireplace.
I yank at my wrists again, but the metal cuffs don’t budge. What sort of sadistic bastard is he?
He grabs a metal rod and frees it from the flames, then circles back around to his chair.
“Such pretty skin.” He traces my left wrist with his free hand. “This is the consequence for being unable to pay me.”
“A brand?” I can’t take my eyes off the glowing white-orange end of the rod. Loathing and fear turn my stomach, and I press my lips together to keep from gagging. “You can’t be serious. I will get your money—”
“You might think I’m the scourge of the earth.” He’s turning this into a damn conversation. “And you’d be right.”
He shows me the hot end, so I can see it clearly: an hourglass.
Chills sweep down my back.
“Kronos is the Titan of time and the ages. We choose our names when we enter into this life. It’s a rebirth, of sorts, or an awakening. I’ve always been obsessed with time. How it slips through our fingers.”
A Titan—I knew he was in one of the gangs, but I have a sudden feeling that it’s more than that. I’m going to be sick. And on top of that, I’m ashamed of myself.
“Please don’t.” I pull again, although it’s pointless. I know I can’t get free.
Eyes are the windows to the soul, aren’t they? That’s what everyone always says. But my pleading doesn’t soften his—if anything, his expression deadens. “I did you a favor. And you repay me with insolence and trying to escape your debt—what, without lifting a finger?”
I shudder. “I didn’t try to escape it. I needed an extension—”
He reaches out and pinches my cheek. He stares into my eyes and lets me see behind the curtain. Just a peek. And what I see scares the shit out of me. There’s nothing but depravity in his expression. “I hope you scream.”
Every bad thing that’s ever happened to me comes roaring back—but this time, fear takes a back seat to fury. If he was so serious about not doing business with me, he should’ve kept refusing.
I spit at him. “Fuck you, old man.”
He smirks. He doesn’t even wipe away the saliva that drips down his cheek. He just steadies my left hand, palm up, and lifts the rod. I can’t look away as he flips it around, until the glowing white hourglass hovers above my skin. The heat burns into me, even inches away.
“Stop, stop, I’ll do whatever you want.” I’m reduced to begging, but I can’t seem to stop the words from slipping out of my mouth. “I’ll do it—”
“Your thirty seconds passed. And I’d be remiss if I didn’t say that I’m going to enjoy this.”
He meets my gaze for a moment, before his attention returns to my wrist. The same wrist that has held more bruises in the shape of fingerprints than I can count. The same wrist that’s been broken more than once. There’s a thin scar farther up my forearm where the bone went through my skin.
My arms have endured a lot of trauma at the hands of others.
So when he holds down my arm and presses the hot metal to my skin, I don’t feel it for a moment.
Just a moment, though.
And then the smell of burning flesh hits me, and agony rips through me. I clench my teeth so hard, I catch the edge of my tongue. Hot blood fills my mouth, but it helps me suppress the scream the bastard wants.
He pulls the metal away, and my body flashes hot. God, it’s like my skin is on fire.
I fall forward onto the desk. My forehead rests on my forearms for a moment. I have to push aside the throbbing pain and rein in my desperation to get out. My panic rides up, closing my throat. I’ve got a weight on my chest that makes it impossible to breathe.
I don’t do well being trapped and hurt.
He laughs and shoves the brand back into the fire, probably to prepare it for the next unsuspecting victim.
He sits in his chair and tips back, crossing his legs, and ignores the way I’m hunched over his desk. He scoots forward, until my curled fingers are inches from his chest. And he watches me with far too much amusement.
This is his position of power.
With people stretched out across his desk. Defeated.
“I warned you,” he eventually says. “I warned you that we didn’t do business with little girls like you. But I will enjoy our next meeting, if it’s anything like this one.”
I shudder. “You’re a fucking sadist. Let me go.”