Chapter 19 #2
I stride forward with feigned confidence and cockiness, pulling out the blade I always carry with me, and pressing the point against the man's Adam's apple. If I’m remembering correctly his name is something like Sacherum, more like sack of shit.
He whimpers, trying desperately to move away from me the mere inches that the restraints allow, and slicing his skin against my sharp blade, until a trickle of fresh blood coats his neck.
I watch the drops rise and slide down his skin, mesmerized for a moment by their beauty, and by the desperate need to taste the copper within.
His breath stinks of smoke, desperation, and something sour, and it immediately offends my corporeal stalkers.
I turn to look at the pretty queen, winking in her direction, and am met with a sly glance, and an appraising smile.
A low, warning growl from her side catches my attention, and I turn away and back to my task.
I have a death wish, but even I don't want to die at a Cabano's hands.
“You know who I am, and what I'm capable of. You’ll answer my questions, but either way, your time on this earth is at an end.
It's how much pain you’ll endure before you leave it that's yet to be determined,” I state, my voice a sharp blade, and half-laugh, filled with giddiness.
I lean closer until I can whisper next to his bruised ear, "Please make it last. I desperately want to tear you apart and consume your fear.
I might even let you live while I fuck every one of your holes, before I rip your heart out.
" I allow my tongue to lick up one of his drops of blood, and the taste of rust bursts in my mouth, forcing a moan past my lips.
The mole’s mouth works back and forth silently, terror clearly present at my words and actions.
The smell of acrid piss fills the air, and forces me to take a step back, as I pull the blade away from his neck.
I get a glimpse of the puddle below his squirming body, and the yellow liquid spilling over the side of the table, and onto the floor.
I slam the blade into his meaty thigh, furious that he would dare soil himself.
"That's disgusting, you quivering coward, act like a fucking man! " I bellow with rage.
A scream fills the air, and words spill from his lips, cheap and thin, the kind of half-truths men hand over when they hope for mercy.
I've never had the inclination to be merciful before, and I have no desire to start now.
I remove the blade and slap my other palm down hard, on the bleeding wound in his leg, not to teach him how to scream or to stop him from bleeding out, but to make sure he remembers that I'm in control of whether he lives or dies now.
An amused chuckle exits my lips and bounces off the dense walls, the sound unhinged even to my ears.
It's a punctuation mark, filled with the weight of his sins.
The shadows lean in, delighted, ready for more pain and misery.
River watches, leaning against a bunch of stacked crates, arms folded, and his jaw tight.
He doesn’t like this, he never has. He thinks it's barbaric to torture our prisoners the way I enjoy.
He sucks all the joy out of the experience with his sullen face.
He shifts, discomfort unconcealed, flaring across his features, and I notice Julia appraising him from below her thick lashes.
Does she think he's handsome, like every female we meet?
A burst of jealousy rears its ugly head inside of me, and I slam my palm down once again against the mole's thigh.
He's mine. Even if she's a pretty, evil queen, she doesn't get to have him.
“This one’s not worth the trouble, he's not going to tell us the truth,” River says quietly.
“We gut him and toss him, his family too. Clean line, gone like he was never fucking here.” The syllables fall like the slam of a gavel.
Nothing about his tone is theatrical; it’s simple, pragmatic disgust. He wants the simplest solution: remove the rot and walk away.
The mole’s eyes flick to River, like a child begging an older brother to intercede.
He jerks his head toward the door as if someone out there can save him.
He’s wrong. It's too late for that now. River's look is empty. He’s done with the expensive kindness of men who talk morals when their hands are clean.
His are just as filthy and corrupt as mine and Cross's, and if he's honest with himself, he prefers it that way.
“Talk,” I demand again, leaning across the table, my fingers tracing over his limp cock in a warning touch.
I'm close enough that the mole can smell me, and the malice that lives within me.
“Who did you tell? Names?” My tone is a cleaver cutting through the tension and heaviness filling the space.
I squeeze his cock tightly between my fingers like deflated deli sausage.
Only whimpers greet my ears, and tears slide down his battered face, as I add his balls to my vice-like grip, disgusted by the feel of his urine coating my digits.
I slam the blade into his other thigh, careful not to hit an artery, and yank it back out before heading to his toes, and slicing his pinkie off.
I grab the wet digit in my grasp and make my way back toward his face, shoving the offending lump of flesh up one of his bloodcaked nostrils.
"I'll keep cutting pieces off of you and rearranging them.
You'll become my personal 'Mr. Potato Head', fucker. "
Next, I slice one of his forefingers off, and use the bloody stump to trace the word 'cunt' across his forehead.
I lean in, close enough for the man to see the veins in my neck, and the deadness in my eyes.
I let him smell me, the salt, sweat, and madness, mixed with the metallic tang of the room.
He tries to gasp for air, when I use my palm to seal his mouth shut, and it's a ragged noise through only one nostril, as he forces his pinkie deeper into his nasal cavity with his actions.
I bring the blade up and shove it slowly through the meat of his shoulder, digging my weight down as I stare into his eyes.
"I'm going to cut off your tiny cock, and force you to swallow it, and shove each and every one of your fingers up your asshole. Don't worry, you'll enjoy it, promise."
I allow my fingers to trail down his blood-soaked chest, writing my name in his life essence, before making my way to his lower abdomen, and using the tip of my thumb to push into his hairy belly button.
His body tries to bow off the table, but I use my forearm to force it back down.
I have a reputation for not being gentle.
What can I say? It's all part of the Morell family charm.
The voices chatter loudly in my ears, force their names from his lips, slice him open, eat his liver, rip his heart out.
They tell me his betrayal is akin to that of an animal betraying its master, and biting the hand that feeds it, enjoying the taste of flesh, and that animals can't be restrained once they've done that.
I obey, losing slight control and slicing over and over, until ribbons of flesh appear before me, bloody and ragged across his chest and stomach.
I use the blade to cut a perfect circle around his belly button, until only fat, blood, and sinew tissue remain.
It's beautiful, a masterpiece done in flesh, muscle, and bone.
I bring my fingers to my lips and paint them with his blood, retracing the marks I had made with the unhinged princess's lipstick, and wishing it was her blood I was tasting.
"Jesus," River grunts, but doesn't turn away.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Julia take the necessary steps forward, her heels clicking off the floor with a staccato rhythm, before one of her blue-painted, long fingernails drags down the ruined flesh, forcing a desperate scream from the mole's lips.
She meets my gaze without flinching, the corner of her mouth quirking upwards. "I like your style, psycho." She winks.
"Julia!" The one word is like a bullet fired in the room, and it has her immediately retreating to her father's side. My glance catches her rubbing the mole's blood between her fingers, savouring it.
The mole crumbles, and starts desperately with excuses, his voice pain-filled and hysterical.
It's the sound of a frightened man trying to bargain his skin for a promise.
His words are slippery, and noncommittal, like a man trying to keep both sides safe from harm, but he's a traitor. His safety ended the minute he pried his lips open and betrayed us. He's giving me nothing, so I press harder, burying the blade deep into his other shoulder. I’m not interested in his survival. I’m interested in the ledger of our lives.
I want to know how many of us are marked, and whether anyone we love is walking into a courtroom with handcuffs because of this liar.
"You have a daughter, if I remember correctly.” I lean forward and lick his cheek, tasting his fear.
“I'll be paying her a visit after this. I have a nice cage she'll spend eternity in, on all fours, with my collar around her neck. Don’t worry, she’ll be used to satisfy the dark hunger in our ranks as a cumdumpster. "
"PLEASE! PLEASE, NO!" The mole screams, his body spasming over and over, as real fear and nightmares fill his mind.
He knows I'm not just saying the words. I kept a man in a cage for months while he starved nearly to death, for merely pissing me off.
His breathing is laboured now, and it won't be long before he takes his last breath, so I know I have to speed this up if we’re going to get anything out of him.