Resurrection of the Heart (The Society Trilogy 3)

“Check the window,” the big one says to the wiry man as he reaches into his pocket to pull out what I realize is a switchblade.

“Painted shut,” the other man confirms.

“Get me another zip tie,” the one with the knife says as he walks toward me. “You, get up.”

I stand and turn, assuming he’s going to cut the ties. But he grips my arm above the elbow and holds the knife to my throat. With a slight shifting of his hand, I feel the slicing of skin, the warm trickle of blood.

Tears burn my eyes as I try to stand perfectly still.

“You try anything, any fucking thing, and I’ll slit your throat ear to fucking ear, you got it?”

"Yes,” I manage, terrified.

“Your asshole brother fucked up,” he says, roughly taking one arm as he slices through the zip tie.

The other man walks in with another zip tie as I wipe my neck with the back of my hand. It comes away smeared with blood, but it’s not bad. He barely cut me. A warning. I look down at my bloody wrists, the skin rubbed away.

“It hurts, please,” I start, but the man with the knife wipes my blood off his knife on the bedsheet and signals to the wiry one to rebind my wrists in front of me. But at least they’re in front.

I hear the click of the switchblade as the big one closes it, and they both walk out the door.

“When is the doctor coming?” I ask before they close it.

“Not soon enough.” The door closes.

The first thing I do is try the window, which I know won’t open. Both Abel and the other guy couldn’t get it open, so I doubt I’ll be able to. I could probably break the glass with the nightstand, but they’d be in here before I could climb out, not to mention I’d have to contend with the shards of glass.

I go into the bathroom and switch on the light. It blinks twice, then goes on with a buzz. It’s fluorescent, and I think about the lighting at the manor. How dim it is. How subdued and soft. I think about Santiago and wonder what he thinks has happened. If he’s looking for me. He must be. I don’t even know where I am. I think we drove for a good hour from the safe house, but I can’t be sure. How will he find me? And if he does, will he be in time?

A feeling of loss overwhelms me suddenly. This need to be home. To be safe.

Home. Home in Santiago’s house. In my bedroom even though it’s felt more like a prison than anything else.

He must be so angry. I ran away from him. I took his baby from him. I tried to kill myself even if I did change my mind. I knew what could happen when I took all that aspirin. It wasn’t a conscious choice, though. I was desperate. But desperate for what?

For his attention.

For him.

And now we’re farther apart than ever.

My throat feels tight as I turn on the water and wash my hands and face. I run cool water over my burning wrists. It only makes it worse, though, so I dry my hands on my pants—the towel looks nasty—and return to the bedroom.

My stomach rumbles at the smell of the food. I haven’t eaten in so long, so I open the bag and take out the cheeseburger. I unwrap it and take a bite, then another, and before I know it, I’ve finished it. I look inside the bag for more, but it’s empty, and I get up and go back into the bathroom to drink water from the tap.

That’s when I hear commotion outside. A car door slamming. Voices in the living room.

This is it. He must be here. The doctor.

I hurry back into the bedroom just as the door opens, and the big guy walks in, followed by a thirty-something man in a suit. He looks shabby in the worn-out suit, and the bag he’s carrying is tired-looking. His dark hair is oiled back and curling behind his ears like he needs a cut, and overall, he gives me the creeps.

“You must be Ivy,” he says, his smile making my skin crawl. “Your brother said you have a little problem you’d like to be rid of. Why don’t you come lie down on the bed, and we’ll take a look-see.”

“No, my brother was wrong. I don’t want to get rid of the baby. This is a mistake. I just want to go home,” I plead, holding out my arms in appeal, almost forgetting my wrists are bound because for a moment I think I have a chance. A choice. He’s a doctor. He won’t force this. He can’t.

He smiles as the big man closes the door and moves toward me.