Gangs Aren't My Style (A Black Death Novel)

Chapter 21 - Twas a Night Seared to Memory

Gangs Aren't My Style

Book I of the Black Death Trilogy

PART ONE: Tears Fall When You See The Truth

Chapter 21 - Twas A Night Seared To Memory

Walls drenched in pitch black surrounded her from all sides. Ally huddled in one back corner, her frail limbs stinging with numbness that came from lack of motion. She could not see her skin but knew from the previous week -when her captor had allowed her a short stint outside of her prison- that it was a blaring alabaster. Her veins popped beneath the skin, a bright blue that shone through her sickly flesh.

When she took in a breath, Ally was immediately reminded of his visit the previous night. Her broken ribs seared her with agony at each intake of oxygen. Her scalp ached from where he had wrapped a single hand in her hair and pulled her roughly to him. She could nearly feel the handprints of his violent handling on her hips where he had held her still and her spine still felt the impact of being slammed into the back wall.

Then, light pooled into the small closet. Ally flinched and hugged her legs closer to her, as if the action itself might save her, but she knew exactly what was coming. The door shut behind her captor with a bang, obscuring the light. However, it did not disappear quick enough for her to miss the vicious glint in his obsidian eyes. Those black orbs promised pain and his rigid stance promised pent up anger that would soon be released on her.

She screamed as he grabbed one arm and yanked to her feet. A hard punch to the jaw quickly silenced her loud protest and she sobbed in defeat.

Ally's eyes flew open, flicking nervously across the darkness surrounding her. Her breath erupted in harsh pants, ice rushing through her veins. Her throat was raw and butchered from a scream that she had not been conscious of releasing. Her nightmares had returned.

James heard her cries from his office. He swished the vodka around the bottom of his glass, observing the live footage of his only lead into the disappearance and probable death of a comrade. Daniil's former personal slave whimpered in her sleep, flinching as if she'd been hit. James observed the sight without sympathy, wishing neverending agony onto the traitor who had sided with his sworn enemy Adam Soverage. As if granting him his wish, a long, tortured scream tore from her throat then. If he'd been a decent human being or the least bit sensitive to gang torture tactics, he might have flinched from the horrid sound. As it was, James drowned the rest of his alcohol in a single gulp and continued to watch the footage indifferently.

She was close to breaking and it was nearly for his final move.

Tomorrow, he resolved, standing to his feet and heading in pursuit of his interrogation room once again. Tomorrow he would break her.