Stealing the Wrong Treasure
I fought against my restraints, desperate to speak, to warn him about Rosemary, but only muffled cries escaped.
Bradley's voice, icy and detached, floated from the speakers, "Fond of thievery, are you? Let's see how you fare without the use of your hands."
With a casual flick of his finger, two shadows stepped forward: one pinning my hand, the other brandishing a three-inch nail and a hammer.
I knew what was coming.
I thrashed wildly, shaking my head at Bradley's image, but my pleas were silent.
Helplessly, I watched as the nail approached, piercing my skin and burrowing into the nail bed.
Bab Populer