Chapter 32
“He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”
–Friedrich Nietzsche
“Would you like a drink?” Senator Abbott asks as he leads me toward the kitchenette area. The suite is massive, with a living room, a small dining table, a kitchenette, and a separate bedroom.
“Not yet, but thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” He shrugs and pours himself a glass of whiskey before gesturing to the couch in the living room.
I take a deep breath and follow his lead, still nodding politely and pretending to care about the stupid shit he’s saying while shoving down the revulsion flooding through me.
When I perch on the far end of the couch, he sits too close for comfort, and his thick, heavy cologne nearly chokes me.
“You're even more beautiful up close,” he says with a slimy smile as he places a hand on my knee. It’s a test to see how much I’ll let him get away with, and I swallow my pride and manage not to flinch.
My skin crawls at his touch, but I force myself to smile back. “Thank you.”
His hand inches further up my thigh as he asks me questions about who I am, what I do for work, and where I’m from. I lie easily, but my mind is on the knife in my purse.
This time, I have a real plan. I’m just not sure if it will work.
Panic flutters in my chest as I realize just how much larger he is than me, how easily he could overpower me if he chose to. For a moment, I'm back in my house with Joel, overwhelmed by the same helpless terror.
But I'm not that girl anymore.
I'm the hunter now, not the prey.
When his fingers slip under the hem of my dress, I laugh nervously and scoot back.
He takes it as a challenge, closing the small gap I’ve put between us and becoming more aggressive with his movements, grabbing the hem of my dress to yank it up and groping my hips and thighs.
His hot breath hits my face, and I hold back a gag.
“Wait,” I say. I’m breathless, but with fear rather than the eagerness he probably assumes from me.
He pauses, his hands still too high on my thigh.
“If… if this is going to continue, I have a request.” I cast my eyes downward, chewing on my lip as if I’m embarrassed to say what’s on my mind. If this is going to work, I need to play my role perfectly.
His eyebrows rise when I take a peek up at him. “Oh, really? And what might that be?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t say,” I rush out. “It’s embarrassing. Never mind.”
“No, tell me,” he coaxes.
And just like that, I’ve got him right where I want him. His curiosity is piqued enough that he won’t want to let it go, and his ego is big enough that he’ll feel proud that I was willing to confess this desire to him.
“Um, it’s just a fantasy I’ve kind of always wanted to try in the bedroom. My boyfriend would never let me do it, though.”
“Go on.” He squeezes my thigh, and I suppress a shudder.
Again, I look away, feigning sheepishness. “I—I want to be in control in the bedroom. I just love the idea of tying up a man who’s as confident and powerful as you. Like a role play situation, I guess.”
My heart skips a beat when I realize my slip-up of calling him “powerful” after pretending not to know who he is all night, but thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice.
He hesitates, and for a moment, I think he's going to refuse. But then there’s a flicker of intrigue in his eyes along with a slight smile as he considers the proposition. He's used to being the one in charge, clearly, but he also relishes in the idea of indulging in a young woman’s secret fantasy.
“I understand if it's too much to ask. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.” The words tumble from my lips as I play the flustered, ashamed woman.
“No, no, it’s not,” he assures me. “I’ve just never done that sort of thing before. But I’ll try anything once.” He winks, and I grin, but not for the reason he thinks. So far, my plan is working perfectly.
My stomach rolls when he leans forward and kisses me, gripping my hips with his grubby hands. His breath reeks of whiskey and the onions he had with his dinner, and I nearly gag as I lean back.
“Should we take this to the bedroom?” I suggest nervously. Anything to get the fuck away from his onion breath and beady eyes.
He agrees, standing, and I follow him to the bedroom on the far side of the living room. As we enter, my eyes land on a tie draped across the back of a chair. Just what I was looking for.
I lift it, turning to face him as he pulls off the one around his neck and tosses that one to me as well. Even better. It’ll be harder for him to slip out of my restraints when I have one for each hand.
Edward wastes no time shrugging out of his slacks and button down, and I avert my eyes as much as possible without being suspicious. Before I know it, he’s lying naked on the bed and stroking his half-hard dick.
Gross.
With both ties in hand, I make it a point to stand at the very edge of the bed to secure his free hand to the thick wooden bed post. I circle the bed to do the same with his right hand when he pulls it away from stroking himself, though I attempt to not touch his palm in the process.
He watches me the entire time, and it makes my skin crawl, but I force a smile and continue to play the part of the nervous but eager young woman.
Once he's secured, I step back to survey my handiwork.
“What do you think?” I ask. “Are they nice and tight?”
He yanks against the restraints, and neither of them budge. “You got me right where you want me,” he teases.
Oh, you bet I do.
I step back, letting my smile fade as I reach into my purse, which I had grabbed before heading into the room. First, I secure my hair into a quick bun with a hair tie, suppressing a shudder as I remember the pastor’s fingers latching on to the loose strands. I won’t risk that happening again.
Edward tracks my movements with appreciation, but his eyes widen when I pull the hunting knife from my purse.
Its polished, curved blade seems to glow in the dim lamplight of the bedroom.
I had found it in Ambrose’s garage, and after examining the blade, I knew it would work perfectly.
The handle has a textured grip, and the blade is long, wide, and razor-sharp.
“What the hell is that?” he asks, panic lacing his tone as he tugs at the ties binding his wrists. The sudden shift in his demeanor is satisfying, his cockiness shifting to agitation in an instant.
I slip out of my heels, tossing the knife sheath beside them on the floor. I need to keep my balance when he starts thrashing around, which I know he will.
“Just a little something I brought along.”
His eyes are wide with terror now, flickering between the knife I’m pretending to examine carefully and my impassive expression. “What are you doing? This isn't funny.”
I smile sweetly, stepping closer to the bed. “I’m not trying to be funny. I'm just fulfilling a fantasy, like I told you.”
Before he can respond, I drag the knife across his chest with just enough pressure to draw a thin line of blood. Not nearly deep enough to do real damage, but enough to hurt just a little. Enough to make him panic. A thin line of blood wells up, stark against his pale skin.
“Fuck!” he bellows, yanking against the restraints. “You crazy bitch! What the fuck are you doing?”
I tilt my head, feigning a look of innocent confusion. “I’m just proving you right, Senator. You said it yourself—people with mental illness are just… what was the phrasing? ‘A burden on society?’ So, I’m showing you just how much of a problem I can be.”
His face contorts with anger and fear as I slash the knife across his torso, leaving another shallow cut. He hisses in pain. “You're fucking insane. Let me go!”
I laugh, and I really do sound like a deranged maniac. The two times I’d killed before this, I’d had brief flickers of guilt and doubt, but not this time. I need to make him suffer. “No, I don’t think I will.”
He spits out a string of curses, writhing as he tries to free himself. I watch him struggle with a sense of detached amusement. This man, who has caused so much suffering, who has used his power to crush the weak and vulnerable, is now reduced to a pitiful, helpless victim.
I bring the knife down again, this time on his upper arm. The blade slices through the skin of his bicep, cutting just a little deeper this time, and he howls in pain. “Please,” he begs. “Please, stop.”
I don’t stop.
The knife swipes over his skin again and again, each cut deeper than the last, and his cries of agony do nothing to deter me. He gasps and shouts and growls out curses, occasionally pleading for me to stop or threatening me.
My only fear is that he’ll break out of his ties, but I made it a point to tie them well and make them tight.
I revel in his suffering. He deserves every excruciating moment a thousand times over.
He’s covered in blood now as the cuts have gone deeper, and it slides down from his stomach and chest in thick rivulets, seeping into the stark white bedsheets beneath.
He tries to kick me, to twist away in any way he can, but I’m too quick, having expected him to lash out in any way he can.
I’m already getting better at anticipating reactions and murdering with precision. Torturing now, too. I’m not sure if I should feel proud or appalled.
I bring the knife to his neck, and he freezes, taking shallow, shaky breaths. The vein in his neck pounds with his rapid pulse. He thinks I’m going to kill him, but I’m not going to give him that mercy… yet.
I lift the knife and dig the blade into his cheek, swiping it down in a sharp stroke, and he chokes out a sob. His eyes squeeze shut, and I replicate the action on his other cheek.
I’d love to pluck out his eye or something, but unfortunately, I don’t have the stomach for that kind of gore, even though I’m resolved to make him suffer as much as possible.