The Sunstone Brooch : Time Travel Romance Katherine Logan (no david read aloud TXT) 📖

head. “Take the morning off. If I don’t let you rest, my dad will reach down from heaven and shake me silly. So do me a favor, will you? Just take it easy.”

He nudged her shoulder again, letting her know he was there to protect her, and she didn’t need to protect him.

“Okay. You win. Get some sleep.” She walked away with her bedroll, knowing Tesoro’s eyes were on her, and she could almost hear him smile.

33

Chicago, IL (1885)—James Cullen

Awareness returned, but JC knew if his breathing changed, or if he even twitched, Sten and his thugs would know he was awake, and the beatings would continue. From what little he’d seen from beneath swollen eyelids, he was in a cold, uninhabited meatpacking plant.

Sten had stripped him of everything. He wasn’t going to risk JC escaping again.

JC was well-schooled in a Tibetan esoteric meditative discipline. He could control his breathing and block the pain sensations from going to his brain, but he couldn’t escape Sten’s determination to torture him until he died.

His wrists were bound together by a rope looped over a meat hook hanging from the ceiling, with his bare feet dangling only a few inches above the floor. Before he passed out for the third or fourth time, the two beefy men from the alley used him as a punching bag, laughing as each man landed a heavy blow that swung JC in another direction.

He had a broken nose and broken ribs, and he’d probably be pissing blood for weeks…that is if he survived round three and four and five before they killed him.

The rope had cut into his wrists, and blood was running down his arms, mixing with his sweat. Blood gushed from his nose and ran over his lips, his chin, to his chest.

Sten wanted to know where the Keeper kept the MacKlenna brooches, but JC would take that to his grave—which would probably be in the Chicago River.

He was under no illusion that he would survive whatever Sten had in store for him, but could he die with dignity?

Or would he scream and piss himself? That’s what terrified him most.

Jack Mallory had survived weeks with cotton balls shoved in his ears to muffle all sound and his head stuffed in a canvas sack. He could see nothing, hear nothing, smell nothing, except the stink of his own body. Jack would have gone crazy without the ability to escape through meditation.

It was the only chance JC had of dying with honor. He would never give Sten the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

“I know you’re awake, Fraser, and I know all about your training at that monastery. But we’re not in a hurry. Either you’ll tell us what we want to know and die a quick death, or you’ll die a slow, painful one. You might be able to control most of the pain, but there is a limit to what even you can control. Tell me where the brooches are hidden, and death will come quickly.”

“Don’t know…anything,” JC said, spitting blood.

“I don’t believe you. You know why, don’t you?”

When JC didn’t answer, the thug who broke his nose hammered him in the gut. JC didn’t see that one coming and didn’t tighten his abs to take the hit. He groaned.

“Sten asked you a question.” The thug pounded JC again. This time a rib snapped. The broken bone could pierce his lung. But since he was going to die anyway, maybe it would help him escape sooner…into death.

“We’ve searched your clothes, your gear, the room at the hotel. Where’s the brooch you traveled with?”

“It got…hot. Threw it…away.” JC’s muscles bunched, and every part of him fumed. Every inch of him craved vengeance, craved to kill Sten with his bare hands. What had he done wrong? He’d fought three people before and won. What happened this time? Where’d he fail?

The thug came at him again, and JC braced himself. He took a hard right low on the chest, knocking out his breath. His fingers twisted to form a fist and retaliate. But his hands were tied, his arms and shoulders stretched beyond endurance, and while he could probably have pulled a Houdini and freed himself, he couldn’t manage it while the men continued to beat him.

The other thug planted his boots wide, squared away at JC, and threw a blow with all the weight of his massive shoulders behind it. He hit JC full at the jaw hinge, breaking his jaw and knocking out a few teeth. JC’s head snapped back, and he didn’t have it in him to straighten it again. Blood gushed out of his mouth and splattered on the wood-planked floor.

“Tell me!” Sten demanded.

When JC didn’t answer, the goon slammed a punch into JC’s kidneys. How much more could he endure?

Whatever it takes.

He would never betray the family.

“Take him down. Chain him to the floor.”

When the thugs dropped him, JC crumpled, his stomach doing flips of fear. Before he could try a defensive move to free himself, Sten and the thugs had him spread-eagled and handcuffed to spikes nailed into the floor.

“This is getting tiresome, Mr. Fraser. Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll cut your throat and bring an end to your discomfort.”

“Don’t have…one. Got too…hot. Dropped it…in the woods… Maryland.” JC’s fingers kept flexing with a primal urge to make fists. But if he tensed up, his body couldn’t control the pain as well.

From the sliver of vision he had left, he watched Sten choose a knife from an open black case on a nearby table and then hold it up for JC’s inspection.

It was a flaying knife.

JC had seen them in Tibet. On top of the blade was a stylized lion’s flayed skin pierced by a Tantric thunderbolt as its handle. Sten held it aloft. “Do you know what this is, Mr. Fraser?”

“It cuts…up…disbelievers and kills…ignorance.”

“I have no personal interest in killing you. But I want the brooches and will go to whatever lengths are