“You are making a severe mistake,” I warned softly.
Thorne stepped closer, his fingers digging aggressively into my shoulder.
“Shut up,” he growled.
“You’re coming to the holding room.”
They dragged me down the sterile, fluorescent-lit basement hallway.
The same basement where my mother used to sleep on a cot between her janitorial shifts.
My heart hammered against my ribs, but I refused to give them the satisfaction of fear.
They shoved me into a windowless interrogation room.
Vance locked the door with a heavy clack.
He didn’t reach for handcuffs.
Instead, he reached into his tactical bag and pulled out an electric hair clipper.
The harsh buzz of the motor filled the suffocating silence.
“Let’s see how much attitude you have,” Vance whispered, his eyes gleaming with malice, “when we strip away that crown of yours.”
He lunged forward, grabbing a fistful of my thick, natural curls, and jammed the buzzing blades against my scalp.
Part 2
