Chapter 7
ASHER
Terry Martin.
He has no idea I’m standing outside his house
Sunhaven Times’s security is a joke. One search, one breach, and I have everything I need to know about the man who put his hands on what’s mine.
Doesn’t he know? Only I get to play with my little shadow.
Actions. Consequences. Simple.
Maeve needs to understand, needs to see how far I’ll go to protect her.
Not Caleb.
Me.
The sound of his name on her lips, soft, trembling, stirred the darkness inside me. It coiled and dug in like claws beneath my skin. I wanted to punish her, shake her, make her see the truth.
I’m not the weak, moral coward who saved her dog and let her walk away unscathed. He’s a parasite, lingering in the back of my mind, whispering his pathetic protests.
I’m the one in control. I see the world for what it really is.
And Terry . . . well, Terry just handed me the perfect opportunity to prove it.
I flick the lighter in my hand.
On.
Off.
On.
Off.
On.
The flame flickers, dancing in the darkness for a few long seconds. One. Two. I slam the lid shut, snuffing it out.
Much like the way I’m about to snuff out Terry. Or at least . . . parts of him.
Look at the stupid arsehole, drinking himself into oblivion in the comfort of his living room.
Does he regret putting his hands on Maeve? If he doesn’t, he will soon enough. By the time I’m finished with him, he’ll regret a lot more than that. He’ll regret even breathing in her direction.
Dead leaves crunch under my boots with each controlled step towards the side of Terry’s house. I slip inside through the unlocked back door, my footsteps now silent against the worn hardwood.
The stench of stale beer and cigarettes assaults my nostrils as I creep through the dimly lit kitchen. Dirty dishes overflow in the sink, takeout containers litter the counters.
My skin crawls.
Who the fuck lives like this?
My hands ball into fists, and I force myself forward. I’ll let the mess slide just this once.
I stand in the entrance to the living room. Patient. Waiting.
Terry slumps in a ratty armchair, whiskey bottle dangling from his limp fingers, head hanging, chin pressed against his chest. His wet snores rattle in his throat, as though the air itself is attempting to choke him.
My upper lip curls at the corners, spasming with the effort.
Terry is making this easy. Too easy.
I circle behind him, taking my time, like the calm before the storm. My fingers twitch as I reach into the inner pocket of my leather jacket and pull out my switchblade. It feels alive in my hand, hungry for blood.
With practiced ease, I press the cold steel against the side of Terry’s throat and lean in close. “Wake up, you worthless piece of shit,” I whisper in his ear.
His eyes snap open, and he jerks away, gasping. The whiskey bottle slips from his fingertips and smashes against the floorboards, the remnants splashing over my boots.
A growl vibrates in my throat. “These are three-hundred-dollar boots arsehole.” I press the blade harder against his stubbled neck, drawing a thin line of blood. It slowly trickles down his pale, bloated skin.
“Jesus—fuck.” Terry glances at me out of the corner of his eye, his throat bobbing with each hard swallow, his breathing heavy.
Sour whiskey-scented breath fills the air between us, overwhelming me with its overpowering stench. He reeks of fear and desperation. My favourite scent.
Tutting, I press the blade a little deeper. “None of that, Terry. We’re going to have a little chat about manners.”
“You!” His eyes widen. “What the fuck are you doing in my house? Did you follow me?”
Isn’t that wonderful. He recognises me.
And here I thought I was going to have to make more of an entrance.
I kneel in front of him, keeping the knife steady at his throat. “Now, now, Terry,” I say, my voice smooth and even. “Didn’t think I’d let you off the hook that easy, did you?” I lean in closer, my breath hot on Terry’s face. “You see, Maeve belongs to me.”
Terry’s eyes dart frantically around the room. If he’s looking for an escape, there is none. He can’t outrun me. He can’t outsmart me.
“Listen, man,” he says, the words slurring as he throws his hands up in surrender. “I didn’t know she was with someone. It was just a bit of fun, yeah?”
My hand tightens around the hilt of the blade, and I dig it deeper, drawing another trickle of blood. It snakes down Terry’s neck, and into his sweat-soaked shirt. He whimpers pathetically, like the lying sack of shit he is.
“Fun?” I scoff. “You call groping my girl ‘fun?’ It seems we have very different ideas on what classes as entertainment, Terry.” I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a pair of pliers.
Terry’s eyes bulge from his greasy face. “No fucking way, man. Please.” He kicks out, attempting to scramble over the back of the armchair.
Unfortunately for him, the alcohol flooding his system has rendered him useless.
“Oh, no you don’t.” I grab him by the front of his shirt and slam him back into the armchair. “Sit down, Terry,” I say, pressing my hand against his chest, applying enough pressure to bruise the skin. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
He pants, each breath shallow and quick, as he verges on a complete breakdown, his heart pattering a fast rhythm under my palm, bringing with it his feeble attempts at begging for mercy.
Please. Don’t. What are you doing ? I’ve heard the words plenty over the years. They don’t change the outcome.
I hold up the pliers, then the blade. “Now,” I say, wiggling the two items in front of his face, “what would you prefer? No teeth, or no fingernails?”
“What the fuck?” Terry sobs, the sound as unpleasant to my ears, as his appearance is to my eyes. But tears don’t work on me. “P-please, man. I swear, I’ll stay away from her. Just don’t hurt me.”
Begging doesn’t work on me, either. How unlucky for him.
A cold, predatory grin—one I’ve perfected over the years—creeps onto my lips. “Oh, Terry,” I say, tilting my head and pushing out my bottom lip in mock sympathy. “It’s far too late for that. You see, the moment you laid your hands on what’s mine, your fate was sealed.”
With a knee, I shove his thighs apart and move in closer, pressing the pliers against his cheek. He flinches and claws at my skin as if a little scratch is going to deter me.
“I have a better idea. Why don’t we start with the fingernails?” I press my knee harder against his crotch. “That way, you can still scream . . . for a while, at least.”
Terry’s eyes roll back in his head, and his face drains of all colour, his head wobbling like those caricatures with giant heads people place on the dash of their cars. For what reason, I have no fascination to discover.
“Oh, no you don’t.” I slap his cheek.
He’ll stay awake while I take what he owes me.
Colour floods his cheeks again, and he comes to with a groan, tears now streaming down his face, saliva dribbling down his chin.
“Please,” he says, his bottom lip trembling. “I’ll do anything. I’ve got money. I can pay you. My d-dad, he . . . he’s high-up at Pinnacle Corporation. He can pay you whatever you want.”
Oh dear. Poor Terry thinks he can buy his way out of this. He really is a stupid arsehole.
I laugh, the sound echoing in the dim living room. “You think this is about money? You really think your daddy is going to save you? Your ignorance insults me.” I flip my switchblade and stab it into one of his hands resting on the armrest of his chair. A scream rips from his throat, tearing at the silence. “This is about teaching you a lesson. One, it seems, is very overdue.”
My plan was to remove a few teeth, a fingernail or two. Now that I’m here, I feel that may not be enough. I have a better plan in store for this lying mouth-breather.
I twist the blade, his flesh yielding beneath the steel as it scrapes along bone and severs tendons. Blood oozes from the wound, staining the worn fabric of his chair a deep crimson.
High-pitched squeals seize Terry’s body, his muscles spasming.
Christ. I heard less noise coming from sixty-year-old Margaret Ashford as I gutted her like a fish. Sure, she begged for her life, but there were no theatrics like this dramatic scene playing out in front of me.
I yank the blade out, blood spurting. Terry’s screams reach a new pitch, and he clutches his wrist, holding the trembling, bloodied mess in front of his face, his fingers twitching. Weak. Useless.
“Please,” he whimpers, snot and tears dripping onto his shirt. “I’m s-sorry.”
“Sorry?” I grab his chin, teeth against flesh, forcing him to look at me. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice? That I wouldn’t see the way you stared at her, the way your eyes undressed her? I should cut the fucking things out, that way you’ll never look at her again.”
I shove him backwards, releasing his chin. His head falls forward, a string of blood-tinged saliva dripping onto his lap. His whimpers are music to my ears, a sweet melody of fear and pain.
Cutting into flesh really is becoming my favourite pastime.
Margaret Ashford.
Doctor Ernest Hendry.
Others before him.
The thrill never gets old, each stab of my knife, each layer of flesh peeled back, bringing me closer to the revenge I’ve longed for.
But for the writhing arsehole in front of me, death would be too easy. I want him to remember this moment every time he considers glancing in Maeve’s direction. Or every time he looks at his mangled hand.
“Quiet now, Terry,” I murmur, pressing a finger to his trembling lips. “We’re just getting started. You see”—I snatch his wrist, pinning his hand to the armrest once again—“I want to make sure you remember this lesson. And what better way than to leave you with a permanent reminder?”
In one swift motion, I bring the blade down on his index finger. Bone and cartilage crunch under the pressure, and I roll my neck over my shoulders, breathing in the scent of Terry’s putrid blood.
A sound so guttural, so primal, as if ripped from the very depths of Terry’s soul, shatters the air between us. “Please stop,” he whispers. “I-I won’t do it again. I swear.”
I click my tongue, shaking my head as I hold the finger up in front of his face. “Promises, promises. Do you know how many times I’ve heard those words before?” I shove my hand into the inner pocket of my jacket and retrieve a small velvet-lined wooden box.
Carefully, I drop the severed finger into it and place it on a nearby table. “ I won’t do it again. I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me . They’re meaningless, Terry. You know why?”
His chin wobbles and he clutches his hand to his chest, shaking his head, sucking in tears.
Kneeling, I lift his chin with the end of the blade. “They’re meaningless because they’re spoken from the mouths of lying arseholes. Ones who take pleasure in inflicting pain on those weaker than themselves.” I pause, letting the words linger between us as Terry struggles to focus. “That’s what you planned to do, wasn’t it? You were going to force yourself onto Maeve. You’re just like the men I’ve met before. Weak, pathetic cowards. But I’m the exception. I don’t prey on the weak. I punish predators. And tonight, Terry, that predator is you.”
“No,” Terry mumbles through his snivelling. “I wasn’t?—”
I grab a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back. “Let’s see,” I say, tightening my grip on the handle. “Which finger should we take next?” Tapping the blade to my chin, I examine each one of his remaining fingers. “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.” My focus lands on his middle finger. “This one.”
For a second time, I press the blade against Terry’s plump digit and slice through it. Blood spurts from the wound, painting his hand in a deep hue of red. My muscles strain under the effort, a bead of sweat rolling down my temple. How interesting. This little piggy doesn’t want to give in as easily as the first.
No matter. I’ve carved up much larger flailing body parts than this.
With one final push, and slice of the blade, Terry’s finger releases itself. I hold it up, examining it in the dim light. The once pink digit is now an off-white colour, Terry’s blood supply no longer feeding into it.
This will be the first gift I’ll give to Maeve. Something personal, something meaningful. She deserves to know the lengths I’m willing to go. This is for her—every scream, every drop of blood.
She wants answers. I’ll give them to her. Just not in the way she expects. Then she’ll understand who’s in control.
I toss the finger into the wooden box on the table. It lands with a soft plop next to the first.
Terry snivels in the armchair, his sobs devolving into quiet whimpers, his body slumped forward and swaying.
This is what defeat looks like. Where’s the fight? The will to live? Pathetic.
With a sigh, I pat his cheek, leaving behind a smear of blood. “There, there. I think we’ve had enough fun for one night, don’t you?” A weak moan is his response, his head lolling to the side. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
I return my focus to the box, arranging the fingers inside so they’re resting up against each other like little friends. They look almost peaceful, nestled in against the cream velvet lining. A gift fit for my little shadow.
“I do hope she’ll appreciate the effort,” I say, running my fingers along the edge of the box. “It’s not every day one receives such a personal gift.”
I snap the lid shut, latching it with a soft click. Next, I tie it off with a crimson ribbon and tuck the package under my arm.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Terry,” I say, my voice slicing through the air like ice. “I’m sure Maeve will think of you fondly. Now . . .” I pull out my phone and dial for an ambulance. “Don’t want you bleeding out everywhere, now do we?”
Once that’s taken care of, I shove my phone back in my pocket, and hook a finger under Terry’s chin, lifting his face. “What an accident you’ve had. You really should be more careful with power tools, especially when you’ve been drinking.”
Terry’s glazed eyes struggle to focus on me. “F-fuck you. You sick fuck.”
A grin spreads over my lips. “That’s the spirit.” I pat his cheek a second time, smearing more blood. “Help is on the way. Do try not to bleed out, won’t you? It would be such a shame if my lesson went to waste.”
Whistling softly, I make my way outside into the frigid night air, Maeve’s gift still tucked securely under my arm. She’ll love it, I’m sure of it.
But more importantly, she’ll finally understand she belongs to me.