11. Chapter Ten
Chapter eleven
T he scent of blood permeates the dank basement air as I descend the creaking steps.
Brick's hulking frame is silhouetted against the dim light, his muscular arms flexing as he works. The wet smack of flesh impacting flesh echoes off the cold concrete walls.
My pulse quickens at the visceral display before me. This nameless fool dared to cross the Brixtons and now pays the price. I yearn to join in the savage dance, to feel the slick warmth of blood on my knuckles. But this is Brick's stage tonight.
Brick pauses, his chest heaving, to admire his tools lined up neatly on the scarred wooden table. He selects a short, serrated blade, the overhead light glinting off its eager edge.
A low groan escapes the bloodied mess of a man bound to the chair.
Brick grins, all white teeth and roiling menace. He goes to work with renewed fervor, and the basement rings with agonized screams .
I ache to participate, to unleash the feral rage that simmers within. But I merely observe for now, bearing witness to Brick's gruesome artistry. This fool’s torment has only just begun.
Brick pauses, breathing heavily as he admires his handiwork.
The man in the chair is now barely recognizable, his face a pulpy mass of torn flesh and broken teeth.
"Want to join in on the fun?" Brick asks, turning to me with a savage grin. His hands are slick with blood, droplets speckling his white tank top. "I needed to do something to relieve the tension after that meeting. This just feels right."
My heart pounds with anticipation. I've watched Brick ply his trade countless times, but rarely does he offer to share his toys. This is a gift I won't refuse.
I approach the sobbing, shuddering wreck of a man. His pleading eyes meet mine, wide with pain and terror. I bare my teeth in a smile. Slowly, deliberately, I pick up a pair of pliers from the instrument table. The cool metal calms my raging bloodlust.
With Brick observing approvingly behind me, I set to work.
The man's muffled wails rise in pitch as I apply the pliers with surgical precision.
Brick chuckles, a deep rumble from his broad chest.
We share this sacred communion, bonding through blood and agony.
This fool will regret the day he crossed us.
I nod in satisfaction as the man's screams turn to whimpers. His spirit is nearly broken.
Brick claps me on the back, his hand leaving bloody prints on my shirt. "Not bad for your first time," he says.
I’m no stranger to violence, but my approach usually involves knuckles and the sound of bones being crushed. Torture like this… well, it’s just a different way of getting your point across.
Before I can respond, a voice calls out from the top of the stairs.
"Are we interrupting?" Angel descends into the basement, Devon following close behind. Angel's nose wrinkles at the thick, coppery scent of blood hanging heavy in the air. Her eyes flick dismissively over the sobbing man .
Devon remains impassive, gazing at the gruesome scene with detached interest. I expected her to be more excited, but I know she has a lot on her mind. We all do.
Brick grins, clearly pleased by their arrival. "Not at all, ladies. We were just getting started. Checking out your athleisure range reminded me of how much I enjoy creating things myself…" He grabs a serrated hunting knife from the table, testing its edge with his thumb.
I step back, letting Brick take over. With practiced ease, he carves into the man's flesh, his victim's cries rising in intensity once more.
Angel circles slowly, observing Brick's work. A small, cruel smile plays on her lips.
Devon stands motionless, no hint of disgust or horror on her beautiful face.
These women understand. The Brixtons and the Snakes look after their own. And those who cross us pay the price.
Devon steps forward, her steps echoing off the concrete floor. Without a word, she picks up a pair of pliers from the table. Our captive's eyes go wide with terror as she approaches.
In one smooth motion, Devon grips his pinky finger and twists. The snap of bone echoes through the basement, followed by a raw, primal scream.
"Oh, hush now," Devon says softly. "We've only just started on you."
She drops the mangled finger and grabs the next one. I watch in fascination as she efficiently breaks each finger, her face never changing from its neutral, angelic expression.
I’ve never seen her quite like this… so composed, so utterly dark. And I’ve never been more in love.
Finally, she sets the pliers down and turns to us, brushing a strand of pink-highlighted hair from her eyes.
"Are you guys hungry?" she asks casually. "I'm starving."
Brick barks out a laugh. "I like you, Dev," he says. "You've got guts."
Devon smiles blithely, not bothered in the least by the sobbing, bleeding man before her. Without another glance at our victim, she pivots on her heel and heads for the stairs.
"Come on. I want pancakes," she calls over her shoulder.
Angel shakes her head in amusement and follows.
Brick claps me on the back again.
"Let's go get some grub," he says.
I take one last look at the broken man chained to the wall, then turn my back and head upstairs with the others.
Devon is right.
Torture works up quite an appetite.