38. Beatrix
38
BEATRIX
“ W hile I was scrolling through my phone this morning in bed, I saw a woman who had a prosthetic eye that she had specially made and the iris was glittering pink ,” Knox says with excitement as he practically skips over to the embalming table where I stand waiting. “How cool is that?”
I chuckle as I take the scalpel from his hand.
“I have a sinking suspicion that they cost a lot,” I point out. “But it would be very cool.”
Knox opens his mouth to reply, but it’s Thatcher, leaning against the wall of refrigerators watching the two of us with his arms crossed over his chest, that speaks up first.
“Knox has always had expensive taste. Why would it be any different when it comes to this?”
“I didn’t always ,” Knox counters, shooting him a glare. “You guys made me that way. You spoil me.”
“I think you just brow beat us into submission,” Thatcher objects. “And how could we refuse when you use that talented mouth on us?”
Knox snickers as I shoot a skeptical look over at my stepbrother. Freshly showered, there’s some pink in Thatcher’s cheeks this morning. His hair is carefully combed back out of his face, held in place by gel, like always. Dressed in an expensive, tailored, all-black suit with a matching black tie and shoes, he looks ready for a day of helping the bereaved.
“I’m not sure if you can complain about Knox’s taste and the price it comes with when you’re dressed so sharply,” I point out calmly.
“Exactly, thank you , bestie,” Knox agrees at once with a sharp nod.
Thatcher holds my gaze as a smile creeps across his face. That smile, along with the darkening of his eyes, reminds me of the day he’d appeared here in Bright Starr. He had stood in the cremation chamber with my bullies at his feet and with one goal in mind.
“We’re here to take over your life, Little Sister.”
I wonder if he realizes he’s succeeded. He, and the others, have consumed my life. In the beginning, I’d been afraid of him. Now, though, things are different. Looking at my stepbrother, whose gaze darkens further as it smolders, I find I’ve never felt so cherished. It’s more than that, though. Thatcher not only provided a safe space for me, but his love—as convoluted as it is—has made me stronger. When he first appeared, Thatcher had been there to take care of the men messing with me. Now, I’m the one about to finish this with Ronald. Between Thatcher and Sagan, I’ve been given a safe space to explore this side of myself.
My heart swells as I finally look away from him.
“Siding with Knox will only get you in trouble,” Thatcher warns.
I shrug. “Maybe I’ll have Knox teach me some tricks so that I can win you over with my mouth as well.”
The two of them laugh, the love laced in the sound is so beautiful that I can’t help but smile along. My smile doesn’t fade as I stare down at my client. Ronald is nearly lifeless. The color is all but gone from beneath his skin, his lips dry and cracked. His cheeks have hollowed and deep, dark shadows hang beneath his sunken eyes. There are ugly bruises—some old, some new—covering his naked body and cuts that haven’t healed. The worst part about him now, other than he’s still alive, is the odor radiating off him. God, does he stink . I’ve put some peppermint under my nose to keep from gagging. I’ve had corpses on this table that have smelled better.
“Good morning, Ronald,” I greet him. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
His eyes flicker, but that’s all the response I get. It pleases me. I hope he’s in there, in his own head, screaming. I hope he feels helpless and scared, too.
Last night, Knox had forced Ronald to eat his own cooked dick. It had taken prying Ronald’s mouth open, breaking teeth and probably his jaw, but Knox got every little bit down his throat. It was a sight to behold and a beautiful revenge, if I do say so myself. Knox would’ve slit his throat right afterward, but I stood up and halted him just before he could strike.
“Knox? Can I… play?”
My question had earned me three wide shit-eating grins from the guys around the table.
“Absolutely, Shining Starr! Would you like to do the honors?” Knox asked, flipping the knife around in his hand, so he held the sharp blade while presenting me with the handle.
“Not like this,” I shook my head. “I want to take him down to Bright Starr in the morning.”
Now here we are. Knox had his revenge, and now I get mine.
“I’m just going to make a quick incision and then we can begin, ok?” I tell Ronald, talking to him as if he was any other corpse on my table. He doesn’t respond, and I find I don’t care. I have a sinking suspicion he won’t be quiet for long. Not with what I have planned for him.
I reach down and take Ronald’s wrist in my hand. He tries to pull away. The motion is weak and gets him nowhere. Suddenly Thatcher’s hand lands on my shoulder. At the same time, Knox shoves his hand into my back pocket and gives my butt a squeeze.
Taking a deep breath, I take the scalpel and create a deep short slice in the crease of his arm where his forearm meets his bicep. Blood immediately wells up from the brachial artery. I place the scalpel down.
“Usually, I make an incision at the carotid artery,” I murmur. I’m not sure if I’m talking to Thatcher, Knox, Ronald, or myself. “But I feel like that would make this too swift.”
Before I can continue, one of the double doors opens to the preparation room. I don’t have to look up to know it’s Sagan who’s entered, but I do. How could I not? That dark energy that crackles around him, thick and intangible, nearly chokes me. Thatcher and Knox hold this same type of energy inside them. They hide it, wanting to lure people in with their perfect smiles. But Sagan? He doesn’t have finesse like them. He doesn’t want it. Sagan doesn’t care who feels his malevolence. He is who he is: my stalker. A devil. A killer. He owns me, like the pet he claims I am.
I love being owned by this madman.
The chemical smell of bleach hits my nose, causing it to wrinkle. He yanks off the old gardening gloves he’d been wearing and plops them beside Ronald’s head, where he stops and looks down at me.
“I’m glad I made it in time to see my Little Viper strike,” he says, a hint of a smile teasing the corners of his mouth.
I beam back at him.
“Took you long enough,” Thatcher deadpans coolly.
Sagan’s gaze flickers to his twin for just a moment before he looks back at me. “Sorry, pet. Forgive me for being late?”
I nod sharply. “Apology accepted, Sir .”
Sagan flashes his teeth in what I think is supposed to be a grin. To anyone who didn’t know him, he might as well have bared his teeth like an angry dog.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice deepening.
A wave of heat rushes through my body, and I can’t stop the way my breath catches. As my toes curl, I force my gaze away from Sagan and down to Ronald. Our guest doesn’t make a sound or react to Sagan’s presence. He simply stares up at the fluorescent lights overhead.
“Alright, this might pinch a bit, but,” I warn him, “That’s the least amount of pain you’re going to feel. It should get worse from there.”
I shove the metal tip attached to the tubing of the embalmer beneath the skin where I made the incision, sinking it deep into the artery I’ve opened. The blood that’s been leaking from his arm is dripping into the divots of the table and slowly trickling down toward his feet… or rather, ankles. Ronald doesn’t flinch.
“So, what’s going to happen?” Knox asks curiously, the hand in my back pocket squeezing my butt again.
I give him a one-shoulder shrug. “I don’t know. Theoretically, as the embalming fluid enter his body, the blood vessels should begin to explode, which should be slow and pretty painful. Then, as he suffers, his body will grow stiffer and he’ll harden from the inside out.”
“Sounds like it’s going to suck to be Ronald,” Knox declares happily.
I nod in agreement. “Will you flip the switch, please?”
Knox turns to the embalming machine beside him and turns it on. Immediately, it starts up. We watch as the creamy, pinkish fluid is pushed through the rubber tubing, down toward the opening in Ronald’s body.
“I’m supposed to be draining the blood while the embalming fluid enters your veins,” I tell Ronald absentmindedly. “But where would the fun in that be? You’d be dead too swiftly that way.”
His mouth parts, but nothing comes out. Not until the embalming fluid creeps into his system. At first, it starts as pained groans. A twitch here and there turns into a full-body flinch. His arm turns red, then purple as the blood cells rupture and react to the chemicals. The same reaction happens all over his body. The deep coloring blossoms across his chest, down his abdomen, up his neck, into his other arm. It’s a bloody firework display happening just beneath his skin.
His yells are raspy and twinged with much pain. The heavy flinches rushing through his body turn into hard, dramatic vibrations as he weakly fights the agony he must be in. The screaming doesn’t last long. His body seizes, and the chemical works its way into his brain and heart, halting their functions. Ronald dies with his mouth open in a silent, permanent scream.
“Wow, that was fun!” Knox exclaimed. “Now, I’m starving. We have, what? An hour before Bright Starr opens? I’ll run and get us some breakfast if you guys are game.”
I look down at Ronald, watching as his body grows stiff while the embalming fluid continues to make its way through every inch of him. A smile pulls at my lips. These three entered my life and ripped away the people who hurt me. Now, I’m capable of doing it by myself.
Pride warms me from the inside out as I mentally pat myself on the back.
“I could go for a raspberry croissant,” I say.
“A bagel sounds good,” Thatcher announces. “Get a dozen of them, I’m hungry too.”
“Don’t forget the jalapeno cream cheese,” Sagan adds.
“Alright, got it!” Knox’s hand slips out of my back pocket, and he saunters over to the door. “Be back soon! Man… if we start doing more kills in the morning, it’s going to make getting up early a lot easier.”