Bound By Blood: (The Betrayed Series Book 2) (23 page)

After another few heartbeats pass, I gesture for Cooper to enter the warehouse. Entering the enclosure, his sharp eyes go right for the one-man forklift by the opposite wall. He strides several paces into the room when that sense of unease hits me like a swift kick in the gut. A tiny speck of silver glints in the sunlight, catching my eye. Turning my attention to the shiny substance, I’m discombobulated when a brief burst of light flashes before our eyes.

An extremely powerful wave washes over us, the ground quaking under our feet as the wall behind the forklift explodes. Chunks of cement detonate toward the street. A fine layer of dust coats the inside of the warehouse like a thick haze. In the back of my mind, I register the fact. I yell, “Cooper,” but it’s all happening in slow motion. My body won’t move fast enough . . . I can’t get to him fast enough. There is not enough time. Tightness constricts my throat, making it difficult to breathe. Time languidly suspends, progressing painfully slow. The excessive ringing in my ears causes me to swallow hard, covering them with my hands, flinching as I watch the scene unfold before my very eyes. The blast from the explosion demolishes the forklift, fragmenting it . . . splintering it into thousands of tiny pieces. Unable to maneuver quickly enough, the wheel from the forklift hammers Cooper in the side, throwing him into the opposite wall.

Sailing across the room, his arms flail violently as his gaze latches onto mine. My legs go weak, my knees crashing into the hard, unrelenting floor as our eyes remain tethered. It’s said that when death reaches you, your life flashes before your eyes. I’m not sure if that’s true or not, but what I did see was enough to scar me for the rest of my life. Fear . . . unrelenting fear.

Feeling that extreme terror, that gut clenching fear of death, and not wanting to die, but feeling certain that it was going to happen, and there wasn’t anything you could do to stop it. That . . . that is what I saw in the depths of Cooper’s eyes. Our gaze breaks as his back hits the wall. The air audibly leaves him in a rush. Cooper’s head clashes against the wall, his eyes rolling back so that only the whites are visible. His body sags, dropping to the floor in a jumbled mass, his chin lolling forward, body limp, unmoving on the concrete floor.

A small tremor runs through my hands as I stare at Cooper’s slack body. Shaking off the shock, I propel myself into full swing and spring into action, vaulting over the rack I’m crouching behind. Racing across the room, I dive, sliding on my knees, coming to a stop next to his unresponsive body. With shaky hands, my fingers search for a pulse. The tips of my fingers slide off his neck.

Cursing, I scream, “JESTER, GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE STAT!”

Deep red blood hemorrhages from Cooper’s ears, descending the length of his neck and pooling in a bright red spot on his chest. Pain lances through my already battered heart. Hot shards of mental anguish pummel me from every angle. As I stare at Cooper’s battered body, I whisper to my brother, my friend, “Come on, buddy, don’t leave me. It’s not your time yet. I swear I’ll watch those stupid sparkly vampires with you.” Ignoring the tears that jab the backs of my eyes, I continue to frantically search for a pulse.

With blood-slicked hands, I finally find purchase on his thick neck, a faint thrum humming beneath the tips of my fingers. With tear-filled eyes, I whisper a silent prayer of thanks. Tapping the COM, I bark, “Jester, where in the fuck are you?”

“I’m here,” Noah says, coming to rest on the other side of Cooper.

“What the hell took you so long?” I ask, irritation edging my voice.

“I was attending to Brighton. He’s fine. Don’t worry. Move over. Let me look at Cooper, and after this, you and I are having a serious fucking discussion on training everyone in field medicine.” Noah cuts me a pointed look.

Sitting back on my haunches, I give him room to work. Watching Noah attend to him gives me a newfound respect for the man. Not just the quick efficiency in which he’s treating his injuries, but the gentle way in which he’s handling him with compassion and care. It’s a new side to Noah that I’ve not experienced before. Then again, we haven’t really had an injury this extensive in . . . well, in ever. We are the best for a reason.

Noah sits back, clearing his throat. “Okay, he’s pretty bruised up. Coop hit his head pretty hard. He definitely has a concussion, hence the bleeding ears. The force of the blast could have possibly ruptured his eardrums. We honestly won’t know until we get it checked out. We also need to make sure there isn’t anything else going on like internal bleeding. The tire hit him on the side. It doesn’t look like it cracked any ribs or anything. He’s going to have one big ass bruise, though. To make a long story short, he’s going to hurt like a motherfucker. Coop’s gonna be a walking eggplant for a little bit. We need to get him back and have him checked out. I hate to say this, Alpha, but it looks like this was a setup.”

Noah’s words sink in as that knot in my stomach grows like a cancer spreading through my body. Fuck. Things just keep getting worse. Nodding, I stand up. Colonel Parker comes up behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder. Squeezing lightly, he says, “From what I can tell, it was an IED set on a delay that was buried between the forklift and the wall. It looks like we triggered it when we entered the door.”

Damn, Cooper just happened to choose the wrong place for cover. Wrong place, wrong time. Thankfully, none of his injuries seem life threatening . . . But at this point, I guess it’s still too early to tell. Glancing down at Cooper, I swallow hard, trying to reel in my emotions. After several attempts, I’m finally able to look at the team and say, “All right, load up. We need to get Cooper medical attention and figure out what the hell just happened.”

That sensation that I’m missing something brushes against me. Tossing my head back to the ceiling to blow out a breath is when it happens. I see them. Every. Single. One. All along the wall above the door we entered are black and white 8x10s photographs of my Goddess. Bound. Naked . . . and being tortured.

“G
ET UP.”
M
Y MOTHER NUDGES
me with the corner of her boot. Scrubbing my hands over my eyes, I blink a few times. When did someone decide to pour a bucket of sand into my eye sockets? Ignoring her, I roll over, the contents of my stomach violently protesting each of my movements.

“I said get up. You’re coming with me.”

“No,” I moan.

“Now,” she screeches.

“I’m still not feeling well. The water you have here is awful. You’ve not exactly been accommodating, either,” I say, pointing to the gashes in my abdomen. Having nothing left to lose, I just want to be left alone to wallow in my self-pity.

Letting out a heavy sigh, she points to me with her index finger. In a shrill voice, she demands, “You will get up right this second, or I will make you get up . . . and make no mistake about it, Ttal, if I have to make you get up, it will not be pleasant.”

Resigning, I surrender to fate’s cruel plans. Grunting, I mumble, “Fine.”

I feel like a decrepit old woman trying to come to a stand. A haggard old lady that’s feeble, fragile, and no longer able to take care of herself. Wobbly and unstable legs allow me to tower over the mini torpedo that terrorizes me daily. How is it that such evil can fit in something so fun-sized? Ha! Fun-sized.

“What is so funny?” She questions. Damn. Did I laugh out loud? I really need to get better control of my thoughts.

“Nothing,” I say, giving my head a little shake.

“Come with me.” Without so much as another word, she turns, leaving the room. The other girls silently watch with fear in their eyes . . . except Nari. Something’s there underneath the carefully constructed mask, some unnamed emotion.

“Ttal.” My mother’s apical voice cuts through me like a knife.

Hurrying out the door, I follow her down the long, narrow hallway. Drawing my bottom lip into my mouth, I nibble, sinking my teeth deeper with each new step taken. Searing pain radiates from my toes, through my bruised and battered feet, up my calves into my legs. By the time we come to a stop in front of a small wooden door, my breaths are coming in short waves. Eyeing me critically, she points to the heavy wooden door with her slender finger.

“Inside, now.”

Tentatively, I take a step forward. With trembling hands, I grasp the handle of the door. After several unsuccessful tries to twist the handle, my mother exasperatedly pushes me out of the way and exclaims, “Will you get on with it already!” Swinging the door open wide, it crashes into the offending drywall with a loud clunk.

Gasping, my mouth falls open, my eyes bulging as I stare in dismay. What in the ever-loving hell? This makes no damn sense. Placing her diminutive hands on my back, she gives me a nudge, pushing me through the door. With an about-face, I’m left staring at her petite frame in the bathroom doorway. Her keen gaze drops to a bag on the edge of the sink.

My eyebrows quirk up in response. Adjusting her clothing, she tries to hide her aggravation. Clearly back in control, she points to the bag, her tone condescending when she states, “I trust that with you being a teacher and all, I will not have to read the directions to you. I’ll be back in five minutes. You know what to do.”

She turns, hesitating before looking over her shoulder and saying, “Do not do anything stupid, my dear. It wouldn’t be in your best interest.”

With that, she turns, closing the door. The lock clicks from the other side. What is it with these places having locks on the outside? Do they like specialize in these things over here? Inhaling deeply, I wipe my hands on the flimsy lingerie and reach for the plastic bag.

“Holy. Fucking. Mother. Of. Pearl,” I whisper.

Good grief, I’m starting to sound like Emma now. The thoughts whirling in my head trail off as I glare at the bag. The urge to jump out the window and run far . . . far away charges me. Why? I don’t understand why. Pregnancy?

I’m lightheaded, reeling with the possibility the tiny box offers. Is it possible . . . is there even a chance? No, I mean, yes, we had sex, but we used protection . . . didn’t we? Searching the recesses of my mind, I look for clues as to why she would want me to take a pregnancy test. I’ve been sick the last few days, yes, but she’s sliced me open, beaten me, and poured bacteria infested water down my throat.

The longer I ponder the circumstances, the angrier I get.

“This is stupid,” I growl. What purpose does this serve?

“UGH!” Frustrated, I yell into the empty bathroom.

Sinking to the floor, I wrap my hands around my knees, hugging them to my chest. I don’t get it. I just don’t get it. Try as I might, I know deep down I’m going to have to do what she wants. She will come back here, and if I haven’t taken the thing, she’ll force me to do it. Even if that means she holds it while I pee. Yeah, so not happening.

This is ridiculous. I’m not pregnant. Well, there’s only one way to prove it. Standing, I apprehensively approach the little box. Even in another language, the damn thing looks the same. Chewing my fingernail, I stare at the offensive little box some more.

“Screw it, Kylee. Just do it already,” I mutter.