Chapter 42
Imanaged to get her to shower with me, and I didn’t mind holding her up through the entirety of it. If I had to, I’d do it until she could stand. Even then, I’d still hold her.
After I took her out of the shower, I made sure she was comfortable.
She slept wrapped up in my shirt, her fingers still tangled into the fabric like it was the only thing keeping her here with me.
I couldn’t stop watching her, even long after her breathing slowed and she finally succumbed to sleep.
But I couldn’t join her. Not just yet. Ensuring she had something to hold, I placed a large pillow between her arms as I slipped out, got dressed, and made my way down to the basement again. I needed to make them feel every bit of sorrow and trauma Isla did.
Benedict stares at me, now lowered to the concrete on his knees, arms still bound in front of him. He sways, his old body slowly surrendering to the pain. Ezra said to keep their appendages intact, so I can’t take his fingers, but I have something far worse in mind for Benedict.
It was a figure of speech when I told Isla I’d dirty my hands to keep hers clean, but tonight, I don’t particularly want to spend half an hour cleaning the blood from beneath my nails.
So I take a spoon from my kitchen and ask for in-room dining to bring me some boiled bok choy.
It’s my favourite soup to have with egg noodles and deep-fried chicken.
However, tonight, the recipe is changing.
“Open your eyes,” I demand, and he looks up at me. Crouching, so I’m at eye-level with him, I smile, knowing I’m about to take away the one thing most people take for granted. Some say the eyes are the window to the soul, so I wonder what would happen if I scooped them out?
Holding his head back with one hand, I grip it tight, forcing the spoon into the corner of his eye socket.
There’s some resistance, but the metal slides fairly easily beneath the extraocular muscles, connective tissues, and finally, it severs the optic nerve as his screams become a symphony, harmonising along with the squelching as the eyeball hits the bottom of the bowl next to me.
It’s violent. Gory. But it is everything he deserves.
He fights hard on the next one, squirming in my hold, but it’s no use because I’m stronger.
Once the two eyeballs are in the bowl beside the bok choy, I ask one of the guys to fill it with hot water.
Minutes later, I’ve prepared a soup with a special ingredient for Benedict’s pleasure.
Boiling the eyes means his soul will die.
At least that’s how my mind works. He can no longer see, meaning the windows to his soul are permanently shut.
“I have something special for you. I bet you’re hungry, aren’t you?”
His whimpers are short and sharp, the shock most likely rolling through his body, the only thing keeping him from passing out.
“I can’t kill you yet, so I need you to eat.”
He won’t open his mouth, so I force his jaw down with one hand, pouring the soup into it.
“Chew!” I command. “Chew unless you want to choke on your own eyes.”
He does what I say, because he doesn’t have any other choice.
I watch his mouth move as he gags, and it brings me so much fucking joy. I could watch him suffer all night, but my woman waits for me upstairs, so I try to speed things up.
“Swallow it, or I’ll add your foreskin as the protein component.”
He chews once, then twice, and swallows. I tap his cheek once. “Great job. The boys will fix you up by tomorrow, so you can sign those very important documents. It’ll give me some time to come up with an enjoyable way to extend the torture a little before I can take your life.”
Was it satisfying watching him squirm, knowing he was eating his own eyes?
A little.
Not as satisfying as watching Isla sleep. When I make it back into the penthouse, I take a quick shower and walk back into the room, slipping in beside her. I remove the pillow, and her body instinctively folds over mine.
My heart thumps in rhythm with hers as I stare at her red eyelids, her lashes still damp from crying. Her leg rests over mine beneath the blanket, her hand pressed against my chest. I hold her closer, tighter, like it’s instinctual.
Is she happy?
Is she okay?
Will she ever heal from this?
Will she ever believe me when I tell her I chose her for who she is, not the woman I’d searched for?
The lights in the city beneath us are still illuminated, the blue-grey cascading into the windows as I glance at the clock beside me. It’s early, a couple of minutes past five, but if I want to take her somewhere, I need to do it now when no one else is awake.
As I stare down at her, still tucked into my side, lips slightly parted, a part of me doesn’t want to wake her. She looks so peaceful.
I lean in and pause when she shifts, her eyes opening slowly.
“Hey, baby,” I whisper as her brows crease.
My lips press onto hers softly.
“Let’s go back to sleep,” she rasps, her voice filled with sleep.
“I want to take you somewhere.”
“Where?” she mumbles without making a move to get up.
“Do you trust me?”
When she opens her eyes. I brush the hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear.
She nods, and even through an exhaustion so deep, she fucking trusts me.
“Malik, what the hell are we doing here?” Isla asks in a hushed tone as we make our way through the corridor on the top level of the courthouse. “We’re going to get caught!”
“It’s okay. It’s Sunday, and no one has access to this floor until nine tomorrow morning.”
Her grip on my hand is crushing as we enter Gordon’s chambers and close the door behind us.
“Why did you bring me here?” She steps in front of the large bookshelves, the pads of her fingers tracing the spines of the thick volumes.
“Isla, I want you to think about what Ezra is offering,” I say, not wasting a moment of our time.
She stops and turns to me, the sun’s rays now illuminating her face.
“I have,” she answers without delay.
“So you’re just going to give up your dream of becoming a judge?” I ask, taking her hand in mine and pulling her into me. “The years you spent studying…”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Confused, I wait for her to elaborate.
“If I don’t agree, then Gordon has to fulfil Ezra’s needs. It’s the perfect punishment. His pride and his ego will drown him because he’ll be working with the one man he despises the most.” She laughs, and a weight lifts off me at hearing her contagious happiness.
“When did you think of this?”
“Last night, before I fell asleep. I knew I couldn’t hurt my father physically, but I know what will break him. And if I take this, it would be what he wants,” she explains. “So, no, I don’t want this. I never wanted this. I think I just wanted to prove I could do it.”
Papers flutter to the floor as she hoists herself onto the oak table, beckoning me to come closer. I nestle myself between her legs, gently caressing her thighs beneath her dress.
“What do you want if not this?”
Her smile brings me back to the moment she decided to accept my case. Although now, it’s less hesitant, more sure and aware. “I don’t know.” She shrugs, fisting my shirt and pulling me closer. “But I’m sure with you by my side, I will figure it out.”
“And I will be there every fucking minute of every day.”
“Don’t you have a business to run?” she asks with sarcasm and a cheeky grin.
“You’re my business,” I murmur over her lips, lifting her dress above her hips, gripping onto her.
She takes the breath from my lungs as she kisses me deep, her hands all over me, lifting my shirt.
I don’t notice where she throws it because her hands are between us, on my belt, working to get it off.
When she does, her eyes twinkle as she stares at me, stroking my cock between us with both hands.
Her eyes move to the bookshelf where a golden gavel is housed in a glass case. It’s large, the handle thick, and I wonder if it’s manufactured from gold. Spotting the lock on the side, I assume it is.
When my gaze meets hers again, my dick hardens at her words.
“If I can’t ever hold that gavel, I want him to know who holds the real power.”
I knew exactly where it would be. Top shelf of his most prized possessions. Books inherited by his father’s father, and trophies upon trophies with his name on them. But there it was, perfectly fucking centred, and lit by the pathetic morning light.
I know he thinks of himself as noble and righteous, but I know better.
It isn’t righteousness or pride that comes with the gavel.
It’s fear and control.
That’s what he taught us.
Malik reaches for it and tosses it to the floor, shattering the glass surrounding the golden treasure. His large hand curls over it, the handle thick and long. It’s larger than most gavels, but I guess the trophy has to be as obnoxious as the egos that walk these halls.
He returns to me and places it down beside me before kneeling. I stare at the tattoos on his hands as they spread my legs apart. Then he settles between them, his nose grazing the material of my panties. I can feel it, the heat already rushing to that area, preparing me for him.
I tilt my head back, moaning as the sharpness of his teeth runs along my pussy, teasing me. The cool air brushes against my skin when he moves to place a kiss on my inner thigh, working his way to my core.
“How long do we have? We can’t be here all day.”
“Don’t worry, Little Nycto, it won’t be long before I have you shuddering on my mouth.”
My breaths are shallow as he kisses the crease where my leg meets my hip, then moves over my panties again with light and playful grazes until I can’t take it anymore.
“If you tease me for a second longer, I will hit you over the head with this gavel.”
His chuckle is thick with amusement, but he doesn’t stop kissing. Then I feel the heat of his tongue over me—the material still between us—making me groan as I curl my hands over the edge of the desk, growing impatient the longer he makes me wait for it.
“I have to have you nice and primed,” he says, hooking my panties to the side, and I almost scream when he sucks me into his mouth.
The pressure makes my hips jerk, and he releases me with a pop.
His tongue slides through me, meeting at the top.
I almost come from the flick of his tongue over my clit, but he moves away too quickly, not giving me enough time to enjoy it.
This must be what edging feels like.
I don’t fucking like it.
Okay, I might like it a bit.
My hips move on their own, wanting to reach a place I know all too well, but he doesn’t let me. He keeps me there, trapped with the soft caress of his tongue, wanting more. A scraping noise steals my attention, and I watch as Malik grasps the large end of the gavel, guiding the handle to my core.
I try to relax as he pushes it through my entrance, watching my reaction.
It’s denser than I thought it would be, and colder, even though it had plenty of sun.
I used to watch him slam his gavel on his desk, commanding silence with only a flick of his wrist, but now, as I watch it enter me, it’s not the authority I crave, but the weaponisation.
I thought for a long time he would see me, but he never did.
And now that he’ll be working with the one person he hates the most, he’ll find himself digging his own early grave, purely from hatred. Because when he eventually takes this seat again, he won’t just see his broken legacy, but my mark upon it.
“Deeper,” I whisper, holding onto Malik’s nape as he glides it in further.
“Look at you, Isla,” he says, moving the gavel inside me, building a rhythm. “So. Fucking. Powerful.”
I moan, throwing my head back, and channel the arousal within me.
It starts in small doses, circling my ankles, up to my hips, and stopping in the middle of my stomach.
With another roll of my hips and a taste of myself on Malik’s tongue, I fall apart in his arms again, the sun’s rays like golden static behind my closed eyes.
Not all power is loud, and I knew this wouldn’t be.
Power is absorbed slowly…tediously.
Like a poison, it seeps into your bloodstream, and by the time you can feel something isn’t right, it’s too late.
This was never just about taking his power…
It was about him knowing it was me who took it.