Chapter 2
Sevastyan
The boy is twitching like an eel pulled out of water, but he’s no match for my strength. I might no longer be in the business, but until all my enemies lie dead, my body needs to remain an efficient killing machine.
As far as assassins go, this boy is a particularly poor specimen. Thin, with small hands meant for playing music rather than smashing faces and pulling triggers. Whoever sent him after me wanted him dead, but his problems are not mine.
I enter the torture room by pulling a lever hidden inside a vase of artificial flowers. While the would-be assassin is hanging off my shoulder and witnessed how I made the wall retreat, it’s not as if he will be leaving my home to tell the tale.
Like most of the rooms, this one is minimalist. Granted, the interior designer did not get to tell me where the chair should go in relation to the cupboard with knives and pliers, but I’ve never cared much for torture, so it’s not like I need this space to be perfectly aligned with the rules of Feng Shui .
“Here we are,” I say, dropping him into the leather-upholstered chair. He lets out a high-pitched yelp and immediately attempts to roll off, but this isn’t my first rodeo, and I pull the mid-section strap shut, trapping him.
In the bright light, his intensely green eyes meet mine from behind a balaclava that’s too tight on him. “I-I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” he utters, his breath so ragged I’m getting a feeling that breaking him will take no time. “Please. My leg. I’m bleeding.”
Like he didn’t try to order me around and waved his gun at me. ‘ On your knees ’. In his dreams.
I’m far too experienced to be fooled by pretty eyes and squeaky pleas, so instead of doing as he asks, I strap down his legs too, and then his shoulders. I’ve already zip-tied his hands back, and he’s not going anywhere.
“So I see. Too bad you didn’t worry about the consequences before you broke into my home.”
To be fair, ‘breaking’ is not an accurate description of the way I lured him in by leaving the gate partially open, but who cares about semantics when the end result is the same?
He entered my home. Without asking. And pointed a gun at me.
His heavy breathing is music to my ears. It’s been a while since I’ve had some live prey. Usually they end up dead before I get to question them.
“I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry,” he’s quick to say. “I didn’t steal anything.”
I can’t stop the laugh pushing at my throat. “Yet,” I answer and switch on the medical lamp, which I then adjust so it points at my victim. Something as simple as blindingly bright light can be an unexpectedly effective tool.
The stranger flinches, and his brown lashes twitch against freckled skin .
Huh. A rare specimen. Perhaps I could leave him alive for a bit longer?
I rip the balaclava off, and waves of orange hair spill over the gray upholstery as if he’s already posing for a painting and hasn’t come here to kill me. I stall, enchanted by his rare coloring while he pants, squirming in front of me.
No one would call him perfect. His nose is a bit off-center, one of his eyelids is droopy, his full lips are on the dry side, and freckles dot his pale face as if someone took a paintbrush and just spattered them on.
But when I look at him, I’m amazed by all the irregularities. Most of the men who are sent to kill me are typical soldier types with crew cuts, or goons past their prime.
This guy? He’s something else.
I just don’t know what.
And those eyes, expressive as if they contain hidden prisms. His pupils have blown wide with fear, but I can still see the intense green of his eyes.
“No! I wouldn’t have stolen anything!”
Bold claim for someone caught red-handed.
He’s been checking out the gate to my property for weeks now, and while he doesn’t have an online presence to speak of, I was able to dig up a bit of information about my intruder before I finally let him in.
The old photo from his driver’s licence did him no justice, and his hair was short back when it was taken.
All I know is that his name is Victor Thompson, he has no immediate family, and works part-time as a pizza delivery man. He’s not been arrested before, but, for all I know, he could be a drug addict looking to steal something.
Or, more likely, one of my enemies got in touch with him and offered him a life-changing amount of money for my demise. I guess they don’t care if he lives or dies, and are throwing anything at the wall to see if it sticks.
I grin.
“Someone must really hate you,” I say and poke his little upturned nose. He’s young, with skin like a ripe peach, and I can’t help myself. It’s not every day that I have company. Especially company this attractive. Four years on my own has really fucked with my mind.
But that changes nothing. “Who was it? Who sent you?”
“S-sent me?” He glances down at the crossbow bolt sticking out of his calf. “Who hates me? What do you mean?”
“You’re a good actor,” I say, frowning at him. I suppose he is still alive, and I might as well keep him that way for a bit longer. It’s been a while since I’ve had a live model who wasn’t me.
I can hear him inhale as I pluck latex gloves from a box on the nearby counter.
“What are you doing?” Victor’s voice reaches a higher pitch. “This is some kind of mistake.” He pulls against the binds, probably checking how solid they are.
The chair is nailed to the floor too. He’s not going anywhere until I let him.
The cupboard contains everything I need, and when he whines, I know he is getting an idea of what I might do with the saws and pliers displayed inside. For now, the scissors will do.
“Do yourself a favor and stay still,” I tell him before cutting through the leg of his pants.
He freezes, like a good boy, and once I peel away the pesky fabric, turns out my job will be easier than I assumed. The crossbow bolt from the trap pierced through his calf, and since only the very tip emerged on the other side, the sensible thing is to push the sharp tip all the way through .
Flesh is much softer than people think—that is why it’s so easy to accidentally stab someone when they walk into you. Under normal circumstances, people struggle with cutting into someone on purpose. But I’m not normal. I’ve done this many times before.
I don’t even mind the screaming and begging that starts the moment I push the bolt. It means he’ll be more pliant when I talk to him again. I saw through it, then easily take out both parts. Once the bolt is out, I glance up at his face, and my heart skips a beat.
I’m not a sadist. It’s not his suffering that takes my breath away but the tears streaming down his freckled face, the twist of lips, the flushed cheeks, hair falling over one eye. He’s panting, and so expressive I want to lick him lips to forehead to see how he reacts.
I really shouldn’t, but I grab my phone and take a photo as his eyes widen once more.
“Please… just let me go. I’ll tell no one about this,” he whispers as more tears drip from his chin.
Another photo? Oh yes, he looks so charming with damp streaks reflecting the overhead light on his cheeks, and the way that last tear clung to his chin, begging me to kiss it...
It’s been so long since I touched anyone without violence.
“I can’t. Nobody gets to leave my home, ever,” I say, softening my voice as if he’s a scared animal in need of coddling, not someone who came here to dispose of me.
I distract myself by cleaning the wound. I don’t need him losing any more blood. I shouldn’t savor his every flinch and whimper, but he doesn’t need to know how he’s affecting me. It’s not an advantage I want to give him.
Still, I cut his jeans a bit higher, all the way to the knee, amazed just how freckled he is. I need to know if that’s the case everywhere .
Worst case scenario, I’ll have a look when he’s dead.
“Wh-why?” He sniffs, and I’m starting to wonder whether he’s the most inept assassin I ever encountered, or a fantastic actor.
With a face like that, I’d be playing up the hapless act as well.
In the position he is in, most people would do anything to get out.
And I mean anything , including fighting through instinct and amputating their own limbs.
But there will be none of that tonight.
“What do you mean ‘why’?” I ask as I dress the wound. “You know who I am. That’s more than enough. Now let’s find out who you are and who sent you.”
“No one sent me!” He frowns at me, so it seems he’s getting back some fighting spirit. We’ll see how long that lasts when the pliers come out.
“Oh really, then why have you been stalking my property for weeks?” I ask and reach into the cupboard. Oh yes, the pliers certainly make an impression.
“I… I have my reasons!”
I laugh as I turn to face him. “You are really bad at this. You just told me you have secrets, and I have a way to extract them. You must know that, right?”
Victor leans back in the chair, trembling, and his face pales, making the freckles even more pronounced.
Fuck, they’re so delicious. I’ve always liked various irregularities on people’s skin, but he’s.
.. a work of art. I could spend months studying every single mark on his flesh.
Too bad he’s here for the wrong reasons.
“You will tell me what I want to know either way. Why suffer first?” I ask without much hope, and open the pliers. Then, all it takes is to lift his T-shirt, and I can latch it onto the nip—
“Oh my God! No! No!” he cries out, taking massive gulps of air. “I’ll tell you what— Anything— Please, plea— ”
I haven’t even done anything yet, and he’s unable to speak?
I stare at him in disbelief when I realize what’s happening. He’s shaking, won’t stop crying, and he can’t breathe.
I’ve never had information extraction be this messy before I even started.
My prisoner is having a panic attack.