Chapter Two #2
We creep toward the broken window, and we see her move inside. Her jacket’s gone and she’s wearing a tight plastic jumpsuit that hugs every curve. The kind you wear to avoid leaving DNA behind or paint a house, and I’m sure she’s not here to remodel anything.
I look to the far wall, and I see him. Henry, tied up with his hands cuffed in steel above him, legs spread and pinned to the wall. He’s naked from the waist down.
“What the fuck?” Caleb breathes. “Is this some twisted kink?”
I don’t answer, instead my eyes roam around the space: the cabin’s been stripped bare, no furniture except a steel table and matching chair, the floors and most of the walls are covered in thick, wrinkled plastic sheets, taped down like she’s preparing for a slaughter.
“She’s going to kill him.” And I don’t give a fuck if she does. I want to see how far she’ll take it, how deep she’ll cut, how she’ll make him beg.
The plastic wrap, the gloves, the way she moves, it isn’t random. It's a ritual. Every detail drags me closer; every second my pulse gets louder.
This isn’t just killing. This is a performance, and it’s the most exciting thing I’ve seen in a decade.
“Oh, you’re awake!” Her voice rings out, soft and playful, my eyes lock on her. She’s a black cat ready to strike: graceful, lethal, devastatingly gorgeous.
“Do you know who I am?” Henry screams, voice cracking as he thrashes against the chains. Sweat slicks his pale, patchy skin and a purple bruise blossoms along his cheekbone.
She tilts her head, slow and eerie. “Of course I do. Henry Lane.” She steps closer, smirking darkly. “Question is, do you know who I am?”
Her gloved fingers brush his cheek, and he flinches. “I’m your worst fucking nightmare,” she purrs, her tone sweet poison. “I’m the will of every woman you raped.”
She turns back to the table, and my cock fucking twitches and I shift as Beau’s eyes land on me, but I pretend that all my blood isn’t running south.
“So—” Beau whispers beside me, and I glance over, he’s just as mesmerized, eyes wide in excitement but there’s fear there too.
“So?” I ask, keeping my eyes on him, watching the vein in his neck pulse.
“Do we stop this?”
I grin. “Hell no.”
When I turn back, she’s holding a knife. Her steps are slow, hips swaying, the blade twirling between her fingers. She drips confidence, but I see it, in the way her free hand tightens around the hem of the plastic suit. She’s nervous.
“Daisy,” she says, switching the radio off with a click.
“What?” Henry snaps, still squirming and spitting. She slaps him hard, blood spills from the corner of his mouth.
“You bitch!” he snarls.
My blood spikes. One more insult, and I swear I’ll bash his teeth in myself.
Wait, what the fuck is happening to me?
“Daisy Thompson,” she continues, voice calm as she wipes his bloody face with a cloth. There’s something disturbingly gentle in it, and it makes my spine tingle.
“Nineteen. You and your friends raped her for four hours. Broke her nose. Two fingers.”
“Fuck,” Caleb mutters beside me. I nod. So this is revenge.
“I don’t know who that is!” Henry screams, straining against the wall.
“Right.” She picks up a paper from the table and shoves it in his face. We can’t see it from here, but the recognition hits him and his whole body locks up.
“I—I can get you… her… money! Lots of it!” he stammers; voice shrill with panic.
She laughs, throwing her head back, but it’s not joy. It’s a sound scraped from hell—dark, broken, furious.
“You and your friends destroyed her! Paid the cops and made the evidence disappear.”
Her knife slides down his torso, slow as silk. She stabs him in the left side, and he howls. She twists the blade; blood spurts in a thick stream. It gushes over the plastic, bright and glistening, pooling beneath it. His screams are ragged, raw, and animalistic.
“Please, please,” he sobs, mucus stringing from his nose to his lips. “I didn’t mean it—it wasn’t my idea.”
“Oh, Henry, seriously? You’ve been raping girls since you were eighteen. You’re almost thirty,” she says, trying to stay calm, but her hands are shaking harder now.
The pool of blood beneath him grows thicker and glossier, but the place she stabbed won’t kill him yet.
She runs the knife again, dragging it in a clean slice across his thigh. He screams, and she presses the tip of the blade to his dick.
“Oh fuck,” Beau grunts beside me, and I feel him twitch.
Henry screams, high and broken, but she suddenly stops and reaches for her phone. She peels off one glove and starts scrolling, calm as fucking ever.
The light from the screen softens her face, casting her in this strange, almost sweet glow.
It’s surreal, we’ve gone from a blood-soaked torture scene to her scroll calmly on her phone.
My brain can’t reconcile it. The wet slap of Henry’s breathing, the drip of blood onto plastic, and her thumb idly swiping down the screen all blur together in a way that makes my skin prickle.
“Sorry, Henry. Just need to check if I’m doing this right.” She shrugs, as if she’s looking up a cake recipe instead of prepping to wreck his dick.
“Is she Googling how to stab a dick?” Beau whispers, shifting as though he wants to be anywhere else.
“Oh, got it,” she murmurs to herself and kneels between his legs. “I was going to do this after you died, but—” she grabs his dick and lifts it, leaving his balls wide open. “You deserve to suffer just as they all did.”
Then she cuts his fucking balls.
Caleb turns fast, stumbling to a tree before bending over and puking. Beau slaps a hand over his mouth, gagging. Henry’s scream rips through the night, the kind of sound that makes your skin crawl and your teeth ache, but she doesn’t stop.
Blood sprays in jagged bursts, splattering her arms, her chest, the walls. It’s in her hair, glistening under the flicker of the single overhead bulb. She’s drowning in red, and for a second she looks almost otherworldly, something born from violence.
The blood spreads across the plastic, every drop hits with a wet slap.
I should be sick. I should feel panic, disgust, something! But all I feel is curiosity, and I’m hard as fuck.
I’ve done fucked-up things in my life, but this? Fuck me.
Henry’s head slams forward and she looks up at him, almost disappointed.
“That was fast,” she mutters, shaking her head. She finishes the job with clean, steady motions even though her knife sucks and she has to cut the same spot more than once.
She slices the remaining tissue until the severed balls rest heavy in her gloved palm, carrying them to the steel table and setting them down with an almost tender precision, as if placement matters.
“Thank God it’s over,” Beau breathes, relieved.
She wipes her knife on Henry’s shirt, turns, and without pause, opens his eyelids and drives it straight in.
“Fuck no,” Beau chokes, covering his face. I grin, my pulse hammering as I lean in.
She’s unhinged, and I’m loving every second of whatever this is.
Her hands shake harder now, and she curses at the blade. It’s dull, too dull for what she’s doing. She’ll need a better one next time, and there will be a next time. She said not just his name, but also his friends, so this is only the beginning.
I turn around and see Caleb behind the trees, pale and silent except for the sound of him spitting into the dirt. Beau’s sitting on the ground, turned away, white as bone, but me? I can’t look away.
She cuts through the first eye with short, angry cuts, breathing harder each second, blood streaking down her gloves in fat lines, pattering onto the floor.
She sets the eye on the table, then goes for the second, digging the blade in until it gives.
The wet pop it makes sends a shiver straight down my spine. Both eyes join the balls on the table.
She braces her hands on the edge, her chest rising and falling in hard, shaky bursts. She stands there for a moment, letting her breathing even out.
“What’s she doing now?” Beau asks, his voice rough, small.
“Nothing,” I whisper. “She’s calming herself.”
A couple minutes pass and she reaches for a needle and thread, the kind you’d find in a butcher’s kit.
She picks up one of the testicles, cradling it in her palm, and walks back to his body.
Her gloved fingers work with slow care. She pushes the testicle into the empty eye socket, tucking it in until it sits perfectly.
Now she threads the needle and begins to stitch.
Each pull of the thread draws the skin tighter, puckering around the obscene shape she’s left there.
I smile.
“What?” Beau yanks my hoodie, eyes wide and frantic.
“She just put one of his testicles in the eye socket and now she’s sewin—” I don’t finish. Beau stumbles up and bolts, his boots scraping against gravel, making too much fucking noise. She freezes, head snapping toward the door.
“Is anyone there?” she calls out, breathless.
I duck beneath the window. She’s too close, one wrong move and she’ll see me. I hold my breath, every muscle locked.
She calls out again from the door now and waits for way too long. I feel my lungs burning, but she finally heads back inside. I peek and see her working on the other eye now. It gives me time to move, so I slip toward the guys, crouching low.
“What the actual fuck, Eiden?” Caleb grabs my arm and yanks me behind a tree. “She sewed his testicles into his eye sockets?!”
“Beau told you,” I mutter, clearing my throat, trying not to laugh.
“You’re enjoying this?” Beau rubs a hand down his face like it might erase the memory.
I shake my head and exhale. “It’s not like he didn’t deserve it.”
“Yeah, sure, but still—” Beau shifts uncomfortably and grabs his crotch without thinking. “She cut his testicles off, dude.”
“Yes, she fucking did.” I lean against the tree, arms crossed, grinning wide under the mask.
“You’re as psycho as she is if this is turning you on,” Caleb growls, pacing again.
“What’s turning me on is how powerful she looked.”
I turn my head and spot her exiting the cabin, pushing a battered shopping cart, Henry’s body dumped inside. She’s panting, dragging the cart through the woods, and we follow in silence.
She looks exhausted.
We reach a hole between two massive trees, a shovel already waiting beside it. She stops and kicks the cart over and over until it tips, Henry’s limp body thudding into the dirt and she grunts, dragging him into the pit. Stares at him for a long moment, then she starts covering him with soil.
“She had everything planned,” Caleb mutters. “She’s a murderous genius.”
I study her. Sweat drips from her hairline, and I catch it, the hair is crooked. Smart cat from hell, she’s wearing a wig. My eyes roam her body as she bends over to make sure every part of his is covered, and those fucking curves under the plastic—
“I’m getting your phone from her car while she’s still out here,” Beau whispers, already moving off.
Caleb pulls out his phone and tries to take a few shots, but it’s too dark to catch much detail.
She leans to fix the cart, her knife slipping from the back pocket of her plastic jumpsuit, but she doesn’t notice and heads back toward the cabin, Caleb trailing behind her.
Me? I go for the knife. It’s still warm from her hand, Henry’s blood crusted along the blade. There are no marks, no brand, looks and feels cheap and too heavy for her hands.
I slip it into my hoodie pocket, my pulse steady, and I lick my lips, already thinking of ways to play with her, ways to fuck with her madness.