Lazarus (The Henchmen MC 7)

Coffee.

I needed about a gallon of coffee.

Maybe the caffeine fix would help me feel more human.

"So this is where you've been hiding."

A sliver of ice stabbed deep into my heart, freezing out any good that had been growing there, reminding me that there was nowhere safe for me.

I turned around so fast that the room spun for a second, making my hand slam down on the table, the glass salt and pepper shakers clicking together.

But as soon as my vision cleared, I not only saw the source of the voice, but Chris and Sunny as well.

"It really didn't take too much legwork either," Mitchell went on. They were an intimidating group- all in slacks and dark button-ups, all with shining watches wrapped around their wrists, all with my future in their hands. "Your little Henchmen saving the day really made this easy for us. Saw him leaving this morning."

I was no hero.

I was nothing compared to the three of them.

I turned and ran toward the door.

If there was a sound, I didn't hear it over the whooshing of my heartbeat in my ears.

I had my fingers on the chain, ready to slide it, when a hand slammed down between my shoulder blades, slamming my entire body against the unyielding door. A sharp pain exploded across my cheekbone as it collided, making my vision go white for a second as a yelp burst from my lips.

His hand moved up my back and into the hair at the base of my neck, curling in in a way that was becoming familiar with me- but there was nothing teasingly erotic about it. When Sunny pulled, he did it to cause the highest level of pain possible. The sting seemed to take over my entire scalp, making my eyes water. He yanked back then slammed forward, this time making my eye socket battle the door, losing yet again. The swelling sensation was almost immediate as his body pressed into mine. His breath was warm in my ear. "Don't even fucking think about screaming," he demanded, yanking my hair again. "Understood?"

My head jerked as much as the grip on my hair would allow, making him take a step back.

I wasn't sure that screaming would help me anyway. Not after Lazarus talked to all the neighbors about me detoxing already.

He used my hair to guide me, pulling me back toward the table. His hand landed on the back of the chair and pulled, making it scrape across the floor before he tossed me down onto it.

"Now sit and listen to what Pops has to say," Sunny growled, moving behind me, blocking any possible escape.

Fear was a swirling feeling inside, a sweatiness to not only my palms, but seemingly every surface of skin. I swallowed hard, finding my mouth way too dry as I looked over at Mitchell.

Dr. Mitchell Andrews.

And his sons, Dr. Christopher Andrews and physical therapist Sunny Andrews.

They were an entire organization to themselves.

Their evilness wasn't masked by their professions.

Oh, no.

Their professions were the source of their evilness.

"What did you think you were doing, running away?" Mitchell asked, voice bland, but I had known him long enough, had seen him on a daily basis for half a year. There was a muscle ticking in his jaw. There was a tightness to his eyes that made wrinkles form beside and underneath them.

Generally, he was a good looking man. He was long and lean with salt-and-pepper hair, hazel eyes, and good, aristocratic bone structure. His sons inherited most of his looks but where Mitchell and Chris were thin, Sunny was solid from his relentless hours in the gym.

But if you knew him, if you really knew him like I knew him, all you would see is ugly when you looked at him. You would take the curve of his lips as nothing but maliciousness or condescension. You would see the light of his eyes not as friendliness, but opportunistic enjoyment.

"I wasn't running away." That was true enough. I had almost died then been held mostly against my will and then just... didn't go back yet. Mitchell's hand waved out in a casual invitation to explain myself. And in that moment, the fear seemed to take a turn toward anger. "I was fucking overdosing." My voice was like a whip in the silent apartment, the crack of it making Mitchell's brow raise slightly. "And then detoxing," I added, resisting the urge to reach up and touch my throbbing cheek and eye. The area around it felt tight- a sure sign of more swelling.

"And?" Mitchell's tone was bored, like every word out of my mouth was a waste of his precious time. It was a sound I was familiar with. In fact, it never occurred to me before how similar his way of speaking to me was to the way my father spoke to me.