The Guily Ones

A Deal with the Devil

I screamed, high-pitched and undignified, as Tom collapsed at my feet.

It took me a moment to realize he had only collapsed, not turned into a pile of goo. Tears streamed down my face—tears of fear, grief, and most of all, relief. Across from me stood Eric, panting heavily, his hand bloodied but, to my immense relief, not clutching Tom's torn-out heart.

He had spared him.

However, my relief was short-lived. 

Before I had time to recover from the shock, Eric was on me again. He grabbed me, slamming me against the nearest wall, his blood-smeared forearm pressing against my throat, the sticky blood of my former lover coating me, making me nauseous. 

"Why did he call you Annie?" Eric snarled, a wild panic flickering in his eyes. I had never seen him this restless before. I couldn't answer—partly because he was choking me (again), but mostly because I didn't want to. 

Everything that had crashed into my life and steamrolled me because of Eric had already taken too much from me. This small memory, this nickname, was mine. I had shared it with Tom, and that was already biting me in the ass. If I was giving away any more of me, I would soon stop existing...

Eric's grip on my throat tightened, as did the pounding in my head. My eyes felt like they might burst from their sockets. Giving in wasn't an option. He leaned closer, growling, and if I had had the air, I might have growled back, even though I was clearly in the worse, nearly hopeless, position. Sometimes I was stupidly stubborn like that. 

"Damn it, Eric, let go!" I gasped, struggling for breath. Slowly, his grip eased, though his gaze remained wild. A calculated, controlled Eric was already dangerous enough, but this version of him, unhinged and homicidal, terrified me. 

Still, I'd rather take my chances with this almost-murderous Eric than spend another minute in this hellhole.

His grip loosened just enough for me to breathe, though he still held me off the ground. At least he wasn't actively trying to crush the life out of me anymore—a small victory. 

Moving my feet, dangling in the air, was no option. Kicking him would probably only result in me breaking me feet or him choking me again. So I did the only thing I could think of. I cupped Eric's face in my hands, forcing him to look into my eyes. To my surprise, he didn't resist but allowed it. Strange.

"We need to get out of here," I whispered. His gaze remained fixed on me, his stare an ominous mix of looking at me and looking straight through me. 

Seeing Eric so passive, so quiet, scared the hell out of me. This whole ordeal had left me with more questions than answers, and my heart had been shattered—figuratively, thank God, not literally like what had almost happened with Tom. And whatever "relationship" or connection I had with Eric now seemed irreparably broken. The only question left was whether he would help me escape or throw me to the wolves—or rather, the vampires. I hoped for the former, if only to spite the bastards who had trapped us here and get some answers he seemed to be yearning for himself. 

My thoughts raced as I sensed we were being watched. Every gaze in the room bore into us, though for different reasons. Tom still lay unconscious on the floor. James's eyes flicked between his brother and us, filled with hate, grudging admiration and jealousy. Monroe lounged on a chaise, feigning dominance and ease, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him. And the little girl with tear-swollen eyes gazed up at Eric like he was her hero. 

That did it. I didn't know when or why, but I saw it—I saw myself in that girl. I could've been her once, looking up to some authority figure, desperate for protection, regardless of how dangerous they were. God, I didn't just see her as I once was; I saw myself in her even now. I wanted nothing more than to be rescued from this nightmare, to go home and collapse in bed, crying. Ironically, I wanted that old Eric back—the one with the sharp wit and lewd comments. The ruthless Viking who'd bulldoze through anything to get what he wanted and then leave you on your doorstep, shaking, when he was done with you, instead of pretending to be decent.