I walk over and flip the lock. The door shoves forward, knocking me back. Chastity gives me a wide-eyed look before the Protector who grabbed her thrusts her aside, enters my room, and slams and locks the door behind him.
“Get on the bed.” He isn’t familiar—his brown eyes, brown hair, and pockmarked skin nothing to remember.
I scoot back across the floor until my back hits the wall next to the bathroom. “You can’t be in here.” My stomach churns, acid splashing up my throat.
“I’m a Protector, bitch. I can do whatever the fuck I want.” He glowers. “Except the one fucking thing I want the most. But I’ll make do with everything else.”
“Please—”
He rushes forward and grabs a handful of my hair, then wrenches me off the floor. I scream and slap at his forearm as he yanks me to the bed.
“Bitch.” He draws back one hand and slaps me.
My ears ring, but I keep fighting, clawing at his arms.
He slaps me again, and this time I taste blood. He’s yanking at my clothes, trying to rip the dress off me. I keep screaming, hoping Chastity or even the Head Spinner will burst through the door. But they don’t. The dress tears along the seams, the material cutting into my skin as it shreds.
“Fucking bitch!” he yells as I scratch his face, then wraps his hands around my throat.
I try to pry his fingers away as my throat burns, my eyes water, and I can’t draw a breath. He settles on top of me, his crushing weight only added to the pressure at my throat.
I’m going to die like this. The hate in his eyes tells me that’s the truth. I will end because of his violence. He squeezes tighter, and I can’t feel anything except the burning in my lungs, the pain at my neck.
A crack shatters my agony, and he collapses on top of me. Warmth rushes over my face as I gasp in a breath, then another.
His weight lifts as Adam throws him to the floor, then Adam fires another shot into his prone body. Without casting me so much as a glance, he strides out of the room.
“Clean this mess up.” He spits the words at the Head Spinner who comes into view just outside the door.
She frowns at the body, then at me as she rushes in. “This is your fault. You tempted him in here with your whoring ways, and now he’s dead because of you.”
I can’t summon the energy I need to be incredulous. All I can do is relish the oxygen returning to my lungs despite the burn that accompanies it. Is that what happened to Georgia? Did she die of idiotic rage? No. That can’t have been it. The memory of the crime scene photos resurfaces—the marks carved into her body, the elaborate way she was staged. Her death was no thoughtless act. It was a well-planned sacrifice.
The Head Spinner snaps her fingers. “Are you listening, Delilah?” Her voice has dropped to a lethal tone.
“I am.”
“Good. I expect you to have Protector Newell’s body cleaned and laid out neatly on your bed when I return in a few hours.”
“What?” I croak.
“Get to work.” She swings the door shut behind her, and I’m left alone with the dead man.
I just lie there for a few long minutes, breathing. Being alive. My throat swells, the skin hot to the touch as I gingerly feel the damage. My hands shake, and a tremor rockets through me every so often. My brain tries to piece together what happened, because my recollection is jumbled. When did Adam come in? Concentrating, I go through the attack step by step. Adam appeared at the end. He killed the man who’d hurt me. The scene came together like a movie where I was only a spectator—a piece of dust floating lazily in the corner. Adam killed a man without a second thought. But did he kill for me?
Sitting up seems to help my breathing, though I have to inhale and exhale to clear the black dots swirling in my vision. I touch my fingertips to my cheek. They come away red. My haze begins to clear. The bed is splattered with blood, and crimson streaks up the wall along with chunks of gray matter.
My stomach heaves. I bite the back of my hand, trying to keep from throwing up. It would be just another thing the Head Spinner would make me clean.
Another soft knock at my door makes me jump. I stand on wobbly legs and skirt the dead man’s boots, then open the door.
Tears fall down Chastity’s face. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” My voice is a rasp, and it hurts.
“Can I come in?” She has towels piled on one arm and a container of Clorox in the other. “Please?”