Chapter 4 Bunny - Present
Present
The writhing mass of flesh on the floor screams against the tape over his mouth—long, strangled notes, like music to my ears.
“Honestly, I’m jealous you can breathe through your nose well enough to keep carrying on like this.
” I cross my arms and lean back in my chair, kicking out my foot to drag my stiletto over his stomach.
Blood wells from the neat slice made by the small blade hidden in my heel.
It’s enough to earn another round of screams, but not enough to seriously injure Oliver Wright—yet.
“You know, men like you really piss me off. Not only do you cheat on your wives, you put them through the emotional wringer. Gaslight them into thinking they’re crazy when they ask why you’re spending another night in the city, why your work shirts smell like cheap perfume.
And then, because it makes you feel like a man, you hit them when they press the issue. ”
Oliver’s breathing intensifies, chest heaving as I rise. His beady eyes track me while I step over his hips. He bucks against the chains bolted into the concrete, and my lips curve in a vulpine smile. “Regretting those decisions now? You sick fuck.”
Tears brim. A high, pinched squeal rasps against the duct tape as I bring my heel down on his dick, aiming for a testicle and avoiding anything vital so he doesn’t bleed out.
Blood spurts, spattering my bare leg, a skitter of revulsion crawling over my skin.
I know better than to skip the plastic suit when I play with my victims. But it’s been a day, and it’s made me sloppy.
I’ve been avoiding Hunter since our last run-in, but staying away physically doesn’t stop my obsessive scrolling. He isn’t active on socials much, but there’s a recent tag he had to approve from some random girl who works at the coffee shop by work.
As Oliver squeals, the photo flashes in my mind. You can’t see Hunter—just a blurry man across a candlelit table while she holds a glass of wine. But he let her tag him. Why do that if it isn’t him?
It sounds like Oliver tries to scream you fucking bitch, snapping me out of thoughts about the man I desperately want but can’t have.
You can have him. He just has stipulations—and you don’t want to abide by them.
I sigh. “You’re right, Ollie. I am a fucking bitch.”
As I’m about to sink the bladed heel into the other testicle, my phone buzzes in my pocket. “Saved by the bell.” I glare down at him as I fish it out and see it’s Dove. “Hi, Love Dove.”
“Hi! Are you busy? I’m still wound up from earlier. Let’s go dancing!” Her chipper tone pleads, and I eye the man on the floor. He glares back, nostrils flaring with every breath, still struggling against the bindings.
“Want to take out your frustrations on some food instead? I’m already partaking in a meal.
” Dove and I have been friends long enough for her to read between the lines.
Since Wrenley basically declared war on her by putting salt in her coffee this morning, I have a feeling killing a man who deserves it will soothe her more than a remixed Dua Lipa track.
“Oh, that sounds way better than dancing! I’ll bring Fang so the boys can hang out.
I’m already dressed up, so maybe we can still go dancing afterward?
” Fang is her Chinese Crested. The boys are my Pomeranians, Yasha and Maru—affectionately named after Inuyasha and Sesshōmaru from one of my favorite animes.
“We’ll see how you feel after dinner, my little dumpling slut.”
There’s a beat of silence. “Did you just call me a dumpling slut?”
“You said Wrenley called you a wanton slut, but all I can hear now is wonton slut. You know… like the dumpling? And now it’s stuck in my head.”
She snorts. “Now I kinda want dumplings too… dammit! I hate him!”
“Well, come take it out on my ham.”
We hang up after she says she’ll be here in twenty. Perfect. My heart’s not really in it tonight. I’m too preoccupied with Hunter’s date. I hate that he still has this kind of hold on me after all this time.
I look down at the man between my legs. “Ollie, I don’t know how to break this to you, but we’re having company, and the little spitfire on her way is much more brutal than I am.”
He thrashes. I sigh, bored, and turn away. “You men should really stop pissing off women. We are way more creative with revenge, you know.”
I consider ripping off the tape to give him a breather while I wait for Dove, but then he starts keening again and I change my mind. My wreck room is in the basement, tucked behind a door disguised as a shelving unit of random junk. No one would hear him… but I would, and I’m not in the mood.
I hit the lights on my way out, leaving him in the dark to stew.
Upstairs—after removing my shoes and scrubbing the blood off until my flesh looks raw—I open a dating app.
My babies greet me with playful yips, jumping at my calves, begging to play.
They were fluffed and puffed this week, their silky coats sliding through my fingers and calming my nerves.
“Maybe Auntie Dove will bring you boys some treats,” I coo. My bestie likes to turn her victims’ privates into jerky for our pups. I’m not complaining—as long as she labels the bag and keeps it in the dog drawer instead of my pantry.
I’d have to kill her if I accidentally ate human penis jerky.
While I wait, I scroll mindlessly. If Hunter can go out and have a good time—even though he refuses to do that with me unless I give him my mind, body, and soul—then I won’t feel guilty about finding a hot guy to take me to dinner.
It doesn’t mean he gets anywhere near my kitty, even if she could use a workout.
Lord knows she has cobwebs. The last time I had sex was years ago, and it ended with me losing my heart and fleeing the state for half a year.
Traumatic and romantic all wrapped into one.
I haven’t been able to bring myself to sleep with anyone since.
My heart knows what it wants. It’s my head that won’t get on board. And while Hunter loves to perform patience, the fact that he’s taking out other women isn’t helping his case—no matter how hard the stubborn thing beating in my chest tries to convince my brain otherwise.