Broken Hands

131. Countdown

Grayson was locked away again, this time in a space even smaller than before. A tiny window with rusted bars let in just enough light to remind him of everything he had lost. His head spun, his body felt weightless—too light—like he might float right off the floor if not for the dull, ever-present ache beneath his skin.

They had been injecting him with something. It dulled the pain, numbed his senses, but he could still feel the weakness in his limbs. He couldn't even sit up straight. His hands trembled. His breath was shallow.

Maybe painkillers or something strong.

He had woken up like this. Again. A mess. They let him use the restroom when they felt like it, but it was just another cage—a filthy old toilet in a room with no window. No way out.

Now, he lay on his back, trying to move as little as possible, trying not to make the pain worse. He hadn't dared to look at his own injuries in a while, but he knew they were bad. His ribs. His side. The bruises. The swelling. Horrifying. They had beaten him more than once, trying to make him do things he refused to do.

Grayson knew—deep down—he wouldn't last more than two days like this.

Either they'd kill him, or his injuries would.

The sound of the lock clicking sent a sharp jolt of fear through him. His body reacted before his mind could catch up.

Two men entered first. Then a woman.

She was in her forties, but nothing about her looked weak. A baddie. Elegant but dangerous. Mafia was written all over her face.

She paused a few steps away from him, eyes scanning him like he was just another job.

Grayson's instincts screamed danger, but his body betrayed him—too weak, too drowsy.

The woman gave a look of disapproval. "He's such a mess," she muttered.

One of the men leaned against the wall with a snort. "He's a little shit."

The woman moved closer, crouching beside him. Grayson flinched away on instinct. His back pressed into the cold wall.

What did she want?

Were they—?

She reached for him. Her touch was firm. Grayson jerked his arm away.

The man behind her scowled and took a threatening step forward. "Don't fuck around. Let her do her job." His voice was a growl, laced with irritation.

Grayson barely acknowledged him.

The man took offense, ready to lunge, but the woman cut him off with a glare. "Beat on him one more time, and he'll be dead before you know it," she warned. "Then you can explain that to Mandor."

The man growled but backed off.

The woman sighed, standing. "Leave. I need to work in silence."

The men hesitated. "Not happening."

She shot them a glare. "Fine. Then do it yourself."

They tensed at her threat. Then, after a long pause, they left, shutting the door behind them.

Grayson swallowed hard. He wasn't sure if he preferred her over the men. But it was less threatening.

The woman met his eyes once before reaching for him again.

He recoiled, pressing himself harder into the wall. "Don't touch me." The words came out determined but weak, shaking against his ribs. The drug was wearing off. Pain was creeping back in, curling around his bones like fire. He didn't want it back.