Chapter 17
Koby
“Can’t you just shut up?” I mutter, adjusting the gag in Phill’s mouth for the fifth time.
He’s been screaming like a choir of demons for the last hour. The old, worn rag I shoved between his teeth muffles the worst of it, but he’s making awful wheezing noises that drill into my skull, summoning a badass migraine.
I’d love to say I’m above getting annoyed by such things, but I’m not.
Not even a tiny bit. Especially today, when Leilani’s words loop in my head.
I can’t stop thinking about all those fucked-up things Anton did to her.
Can’t stop imagining the way she described Octavius looking at her.
.. Can’t stop fantasizing that instead of Phill, it’s Anton strapped to this chair.
I’m agitated, furious, fucking deranged. My mind’s on the highest spin setting and I’m only on the third little piggy, which means Phill won’t shut up anytime soon.
If his agonizing sounds could drown out Leilani’s stories, I’d torture him for days, but somehow, his screams only amplify the horror she narrated.
“This little piggy had roast beef...” I mutter, lining up the pliers under Phill’s nail.
The wet, crackling tear of flesh is fucking grotesque. The kind of sound that raises the hair on the back of the neck and burrows deep under the skin.
It bothered me when I first started... made me so nauseous I had to bite back my own bile, but I’m immune now. I’ve had years of practice. I know how to grip, how to bend, and how hard to pull.
Phill spasms in the chair as if he’s plugged into the mains. Sweat beads at his hairline, trickles down his temples, and his pink-veined eyes leak bloody tears.
The not-yet-mangled hand holds the metal armrest of the medical chair Carter brought from Lakeside. I love that thing to death. It’s my favorite toy ever, and I’ve been using it a lot over the past few months. So much so that I had to replace the worn leather straps last week.
Phill’s screaming yet again.
I sigh, knowing damn well that getting noise-canceling headphones, however tempting, would be a bad idea.
Torturing and interrogating the fuckers we drag into the warehouse would be tricky if I couldn’t hear them beg for mercy. And it would slow me down too much having to peel aside a headphone every time it looked like they’d started to squeal.
I take a long, hard look at the torn nail squeezed between the pliers, then toss it aside. Two to go on this hand, five on the other, though our guest might not last that long. The pain’s starting to overwhelm him. It’s clear from his begging, fearful stare that he’s nearing a breaking point.
I drop my gaze back to the job at hand.
Pun fully intended.
Phill’s glassy eyes remind me of when Leilani spoke to Anton and I can’t fucking look at them for long.
I grip the pliers tighter.
It’s been almost a week since she told me she was never raped. And while the admission calmed me down, I know there’s more to her story. I’m fucking certain, but she hasn’t said anything else, and as hard as it is, I don’t push.
She’ll come when she’s ready.
She knows I’ll listen.
She trusts me.
And that trust nearly fucking broke me last week.
Her moans bled through the walls into my bedroom, the most erotic symphony I’ve ever heard. I lay there staring at the ceiling, one hand wrapped around my cock, the other fisting the sheets.
The sounds she made dictated my rhythm. I stroked, biting my tongue to keep quiet while crushing my every instinct to cross the hall, kick her door open, and take what she was already giving.
She wanted me. She moaned my name.
And I stayed put because I’m terrified of pushing her too fast. Terrified of becoming another Anton in her head.
If I had burst into her room, would that have been her choice or mine? Would she have let me touch her because she wants me, or because she thought it’s what I expected?
Was she intentionally loud or was it an accident?
Was she summoning me consciously or—
Overthinking, much?
That’s an understatement.
I know how much I want her. She knows it too. I’ve hardly been subtle about it. Which is why I couldn’t risk it. One wrong move and I’d have undone all the ground we’ve gained.
I almost didn’t finish, caught between restraint and obsession, second-guessing every option. It’s a fucked-up rollercoaster with this girl: my want, my fear, her trauma, her past.
Baby steps, I guess.
For now, I’ll take the small wins. I love how she’s settled into my apartment, doing whatever the hell she pleases while bossing around the owner.
Namely me. I’m the owner.
She knows I’ll obey her every request. I’ll jump if she tells me to. I want her to own every square inch of my life. I want her coffee cup on my sink, her clothes in my dryer, her scent in my bed, and her moans bouncing off my walls.
Her gasps have been stuck in my head for days. The way her groan built until she cried out while I lay on the other side of the wall, fists full of sheets and cock.
And then you teased her about her orgasms.
Yeah... that was me.
I meant well, I swear. I tried loosening the tension, but it backfired. All I did was drive her out of the room.
God, I shouldn’t have said anything.
I fucked up. Plain and simple. I just hope I didn’t shove myself straight into the friend-zone.
The thought makes me want to scream louder than Phill.
“This little piggy...” I grip his pinky, then pause, frowning. “What was the fourth one?”
“Had none,” Ryder supplies, his legs swinging from the metal table he’s sitting on.
Right.
“This little piggy had none.” I hum the melody, a sick jolt of satisfaction running down my spine when the nail comes off in a sloppy tear.
Given Phill is Octavius’s truck driver, it’s admirable that he’s lasted four nails. We know what he does, but Carter wants details: times, dates, who oversees the deliveries, how many guns are involved. He’s looking for patterns in Octavius’s behavior, hoping for a good time and place to hit.
I could ask him in plain old English if he’s ready to talk, but pain is a language in itself. One I’m fluent in, so I know he’s not there yet. Close, but not there.
He’ll signal me when he crosses the line. No need for polite requests or losing my focus. I roll my neck and wipe my forehead with the back of my wrist.
“Here we go again,” I tell him, grabbing his thumb.
He whimpers, shaking like he’s been locked in a freezer for hours. His pupils blow wide, but he’s still putting up a fight.
“Relax, sweetheart. I could’ve started with your teeth.” I position the pliers, lining them up under the nail. “This little piggy cried wee, wee, wee...” I yank hard, Phill tries to echo my pig squeal impressions through the rag, “...all the way home.”
He thrashes against the brand-new leather restraints. His eyes crisscross, and more muffled screams pierce my ears as blood pours down his hand, dripping onto the filthy concrete.
“You think he’s ready?” Broadway pushes away from the wall, popping a cigarette into his mouth.
Ryder stays perched on the metal table behind Phill’s back, much more comfortable enjoying the show from the sidelines.
“As entertaining as this is, I don’t have all night,” Broadway adds, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.
Fucking fine.
Any other night I’d tell him to shut up and wait. I love a good torture session. Normally, I could sit here for hours, but now Leilani’s under my roof, I’d rather be home with her.
“Alright, let’s see.” I rise to my feet, rolling out my shoulders. “Ready to chat, Phill?”
He nods like his life depends on it.
Good choice, because it does.
Broadway yanks the gag out. “Talk.”
“I—I don’t know much...” he gasps, voice cracking. “I swear, I’m just a truck driver, man. Grey calls, I pick shit up, drop it off, cash in hand.”
“You’ll have to do better than that.” I step closer, pressing my knife against his throat, the blade glistening under the industrial lights. “What, where, and when?”
His eyes dart between us. “I have a regular monthly pickup at the docks. There’s a container waiting but I don’t know what’s in it! I swear! It’s sealed, no markings.”
“We know what’s in it,” Ryder pipes in. “Women. From Europe. Does Octavius oversee the pickup or the drop-off?”
“No, no, it’s his brother. He’s been doing it for a couple of years now. Sick bastard.”
“Anton?” I ask, spitting the name out.
“Yeah, that’s right. He’s messed up. Seriously messed up. Something’s wrong upstairs.”
My grip on the blade tightens.
“He’s worse lately,” Phill continues. “Rumor is Octavius took away his girl. He had some teenage girl locked up for years, Leilani or whatev—”
I drive the knife into Phill’s neck, slicing clean through the artery, and jump back as blood gushes down his chest.
“Koby, fuck!” Broadway punches my shoulder once Phill goes still and finally quiet. “What did I say when we got here? I said don’t fucking kill him!”
“Sorry. My hand slipped.” I pull a clean, white cloth from my back pocket, wiping the seven-inch blade clean. “Wasn’t on purpose.”
It was so on purpose.
“Well, as long as you didn’t mean to,” Ryder snorts.
“You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?” Broadway reaches for the tarp to wrap the body, then tosses it aside and lights another cigarette. “Are you going to kill everyone who mentions her name? I can get Arthur in if you can’t handle your shit.”
“I seem to recall the time you choked a guy with his own dick. On purpose.”
He drags a palm down his face, then straightens, eyeing me warily. “Did Leilani tell you what Anton did to her?”
Observant as always. He knows I’m a patient man; I don’t slit throats on a whim. Well, not unless we’ve got all the information we need from whoever’s in the chair.
My fist flexes around the knife hilt, then unclenches only to flex again. Too long a pause, and they both notice.
“Koby,” Ryder prompts, sliding off the table. “What’s worse than rape?”
I reach for a water bottle from the crate, and twist the cap to busy my hands so I don’t take a whole lot more frustration out on Phill’s corpse.
After the latest story time, Leilani said she knows Carter will want details about her time with Anton... and she asked me to relay what she went through.
“You heard how he talks to her,” I say. “You saw what she looked like during that FaceTime.”
“Like a child,” Ryder mutters.
“Like a doll,” I correct. “He stripped away everything that made her who she was. He bathed her, brushed her teeth, dressed her, read her children’s books, fed her like a toddler in his lap. She wasn’t allowed to do anything by herself. No cursing, no opinions, no talking unless asked a question.”
I start pacing, but there’s no shaking the feeling that my skin’s peeling off layer by layer.
“If she did something he didn’t like, he locked her in the closet or told her she was having a tantrum and put her down for a nap.
If he left the house, he watched her on a nanny cam.
” I run my hand through my hair, tugging hard.
“She was there for three years. Forgot her own fucking name at some point.”
Silence follows my words. No snide remarks, no banter, just three men in a room that reeks of sweat, iron, and death.
“Fuck, that’s... heavy,” Broadway says. “I would’ve never guessed from the way she kicks ass.”
A smirk twists my mouth, bitter at the edges.
“It’s a defense mechanism. He still has a hold over her.
She flipped back into his doll within seconds during that FaceTime.
She’s getting better, but the damage is done and now she overcompensates, doing the opposite of what Anton wanted. She’s loud, bossy, mouthy.”
“Feisty,” Ryder adds with a chuckle. “It’s good that she’s consciously flipping the narrative. She’s healing.”
“Yeah, but there are things rooted so deep she doesn’t even notice.
Chocolate for one. Anton only allowed her a piece a handful of times.
There’s always a mountain of sweets on my coffee table, but she never touches it.
Deep down she doesn’t think she deserves it.
You know how much chocolate I bought to try and undo that shit?
Half the fucking store. And she still rations it, only takes one when she feels she earned it. ”
I stare down at my hands, at the blood drying around my knuckles, the tremor in my fingers.
“She’ll be okay,” Broadway says firmly. He knows a thing or two about traumatized women, so I don’t scoff. “It’ll take time, but she has you to help her along.”
She does. And if I’m lucky, she’ll always let me.