Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3) Read Free

They could have men guarding me, waiting until I gain consciousness. Then what would happen?
    Interrogation?
    Torture?
    I steady my breathing, sucking in deep breaths through my nose, and listen.
    No one is talking. I can’t detect any physical movement—no shoes scuffling along the floor, no one sniffing or coughing or taking a drink. No pages of a book turning or quiet breathing . . .
    No sharpening of a razoresque blade to cut me apart.
    There is nothing to hear except the constant repetitive plink of water escaping and connecting, one drop at a time, with the surface that halts its course. It’s not the same as a leaky faucet—contained and protected by a sink—there’s another dimension that accompanies the sound—an echo that occurs when it strikes.
    What’s it hitting? Cement? Stone?
    I take assessment of my body. I don’t feel injured. I’m not in any real pain, except that my muscles are sore, like I’ve been in the same position for too long and need to stretch.
    Involuntarily, my body shifts to remedy the insult, but the movement is cut short. I’m bound by cuffs constricting my wrists behind my back!
    Anxiety electrocutes me. Jesus!
    Fuck!
    I can’t help it, I immediately lurch forward, trying to free myself. My feet and legs are loose, but I can’t stand! I roll up to my knees.
    Full of panic, my breathing becomes erratic as I cry out, “Nonononono . . .” and pull and yank at the chain that holds me captive, willing it to let me loose.
    The links protest and grind. I’m going nowhere.
    Oh my God! There is nothing as frightening as this—no comparisons, nothing my mind can process as a connection—nothing but terror.
    Quickly, I move what I can, anything I’m still free to control. I create small twitches in my toes and then my calves. Almost microscopically, I clench the muscles in my belly, my glutes, my arms. I twitch my biceps and elbows, adding my fingers and neck, jaw and tongue. Tiny movements that remind me I can still move of my own accord.
    It’s really just a mind game. A trick to relax—I know that—but it still seems to help. I won’t get out of this if I panic. I have to be smart.
    When I get closer to normal breathing, I realize that no one’s said anything. No one is touching me. A temporary sensation—not quite relief—allows me to regain some composure.
    My clothes don’t feel wet. I’m warm enough and dry.
    Except for my head—and the bass-like pulsing sensation trapped behind my temples—I conclude that I’m mostly unharmed.
    But what I can remember is a vague, frayed thread I’m barely able to follow through the thick, murky haze plaguing my mind. It’s like I do and don’t have amnesia at the same time. Like attempting to retrieve a word as it sits on the edge of your thoughts and the tip of your tongue, but you can’t quite capture it. There, but elusive.
    I may not know exactly where I am, or how I got here, but I absolutely remember why .
     
    Ryder

     
    I chase the skip up the neglected back stairs of the housing project. I hear babies crying, and a few people watch us from their dirty windows or back porches. He slides down a garbage strewn hallway and ducks into an apartment.
    The sound of grinding metal on metal comes from the other side of the door as the locks engage.
    “Now that just pisses me off,” I tell him, looking threateningly through the wrong side of the eyehole. “If you make me come in there to get you, I’ll shoot you in the leg for the fucking trouble.”
    No response.
    “Excellent decision because I haven’t shot anyone all day,” I announce before blowing a hole between the lock and the cheaply-made doorjamb.
    He shouts in surprise. I like that he didn’t expect me to do that.
    “You scream like a baby,” I taunt.
    “This is, uh . . . illegal entrance!”
    “Call the cops.” I shoot out the jamb next to the second lock.
    “You need a warrant, motherfucker!”
    “Stop fucking swearing, douchebag,” I scold before