•TOM KAULITZ•
I wake up with my hands tied over my head, suspended by a meat hook. This is not a great position for me. I'm a tall dude, and all that weight hanging from my arms for god knows how long makes them feel like they're about to be pulled out of the sockets.
Plus my head is fucking banging.
The last thing I remember is some dude that wasn't actually a dude doing the tango across the stage.
Now I'm in some warehouse that stinks of rust and dirt. Under that, a cold, wet, rotting smell.
And it really is fucking cold.
Even in my leather jacket, I'm shivering.
Maybe it's the after-effects of the drugs. My muscles feel weak and shaky. My vision keeps switching from fuzzy to clear, like a pair of binoculars going in and out of focus.
Drugs.
Someone drugged my drink. When I was sitting with...
TYRA!
I whip my head around, looking for her.
Thankfully, she's not hanging from a hook right next to me. But I don't see her anywhere in the deserted space. All I see is a table, covered with a stained white cloth. Which is not, generally, a good sign.
I want to yell for Tyra. But I also don't want to draw attention to the fact that she's gone. I don't know how I got here, and I don't know if she was with me or not.
My shoulders are screaming.
My feet can almost, but not quite, touch the ground.
I try twisting my wrists, turning them against the rough rope to see if there's any chance of wriggling free.
The movement makes me rotate slightly, like a bird on a spit. But it doesn't seem to loosen the knot.
The only good thing is that I don't have long to wait.
The Butcher enters the warehouse, flanked by two of his soldiers. One is slim, with white-blond hair and tattoos down both arms. The other looks familiar — he might have been one of the bouncers at Pole.
Oh, fuck.
He probably was.
But it's the Butcher who draws my attention.
He fixes me with his furious stare, one eyebrow permanently quirked a little higher than the other.
His nose looks beakier than ever under the harsh light, his cheeks hollower. The pitted scars along the sides of his face look too deep to be from acneit might be shrapnel wounds from some explosion long ago.
Zajac pauses in front of me, almost directly under the single overhead light. He lifts one finger and touches my chest. He pushes, making me swing helplessly back and forth from the hook.
I can't help grunting at the increased pressure on my arms.
The Butcher gives a small smile.
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BOUND BY HATRED | TOM KAULITZ
Romance𝗧𝗵𝗲𝘆'𝗿𝗲 𝗮 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵 𝗺𝗮𝗱𝗲 𝗶𝗻 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗹. The Kaulitz's and the Käutner's have been battling for control of Tokyo's underworld for generations. Their rivalry has always been flammable, but it reignites with a fury when Tyra, the youngest a...
