Chapter Twenty-One #3
When I push the heavy door open, the psychological warfare hits our senses like a physical wall.
Blasting, distorted heavy metal music thunders through the soundproofed cell, vibrating right through the concrete floor.
Blinding, high-intensity strobe lights flash in a rapid, disorienting rhythm, cutting through the heavy shadows and illuminating the battered man hanging from a set of heavy chains secured to the center of the ceiling.
In the far corner, unfazed by the chaos, Butcher lounges against the wall. His cold, unblinking gaze never leaves the prisoner, tracking his fading strength like a vulture waiting for the final collapse.
Pope hits a switch, killing the music and lights in a heartbeat.
The man slumps against his chains, his shoulders nearly dislocating.
I swear I hear a pathetic whimper in the sudden silence.
Not that I blame him. Hours of that sensory-deprivation shit, and anyone would be ready to shove a rusted screwdriver straight through their own ear canal just to make the madness stop.
Marigold has the most beautiful, terrifying mean mug plastered on her face, that fucking fake dick aggressively smacking against her open palm as she tries her absolute best to appear intimidating.
I have to physically tuck my bottom lip under my teeth to keep from smiling out loud and admitting that she only looks completely, hopelessly cute.
Pope waves Marigold forward with a lazy flick, giving her the green light to lead since she’s the one this bastard ambushed.
She flashes Pope a wicked grin, then strides into the man’s space and cracks him across the face with Jack the Dripper. Whack. “Who the hell sent you to attack me in that alley?”
The man blinks through the sweat, scowling down at her. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, lady.”
Jack lands across his other cheek with a loud, ringing snap.
“Lying is rude. You know you’re never leaving this room alive, right?
” She taps the blunt tip of the pink silicone right between his bloodshot eyes.
“If you’re a good boy and tell me exactly what I want to know, I might be persuaded to have a little chat with the giant, terrifying guys standing behind me to release you.
Because between us? They're significantly meaner than I am. Trust me, you do not want them getting their hands on you.”
The bastard actually hesitates, but fear of whoever sent him outweighs his fear of a tiny woman with an adult toy.
What he doesn’t get is that Marigold was never going to decide his fate.
He hurt what’s mine. He tracked her, hurt her, made her bleed.
Only I get to decide how his night ends.
Everyone in this room knows it except him.
And maybe Marigold. I don’t mind letting her think she’s in control a little longer.
The man lifts his bloodied chin, a smug, arrogant smirk pulling at his cracked lips. “I could tell you, bitch, but I won’t. It’s kind of fun watching you flounder.”
That’s the worst thing he could have said to Marigold. She detonates, her calm shattering in an instant. Suddenly, I get a front-row seat to the feral side of her I missed in that alley.
She beats the living hell out of him with a hot pink dildo.
It is a truly magnificent sight.
Every swing is raw power, the silicone whistling through the air before cracking against his skin. Deep purple bruises bloom across his chest and ribs.
I know without asking she’s picturing Damon’s face. But as quickly as the storm started, it drains out of her. She exhales, drops her shoulders, spits in the bastard’s face, and turns to me.
“I’m bored now. He’s not fun. We both already know exactly who sent him, so I don’t need his pathetic confirmation.”
“You might not need it, little shadow,” I murmur, stepping close. “But I sure in the hell do.” I brush damp hair from her flushed face. “You okay staying while we question him? It’s about to get messy.”
“Sure. I’ll just go stand over here in the corner with Butcher. He probably needs a friend or something to hold his hand through this.”
Pope cuts his cold eyes over to me. “You doing this execution, Tomcat, or am I?”
I say nothing, just flip my hat around and head to the metal table by the door.
I sift through our tools until my hand finds my favorite blade.
A wicked thing with an iridescent pearl handle and a heavy, tool-steel blade.
Pope had it made for this room and the darkness that goes down here.
Tool steel is built for relentless punishment.
Like torturing secrets out of stubborn bastards.
Twirling the heavy knife, I stroll back to the center. The prisoner’s eyes fill with dread. Marigold didn’t scare him, but I’m a whole different nightmare.
I don’t play games. I go straight for the pain that cuts to the bone.
The blade slides through his thigh like butter. He grunts, ragged and sharp, but refuses to give me the same scream he ripped from my woman in that alley.
“All you have to do is tell us exactly who sent you,” I tell him, my voice completely flat as I casually wipe the fresh blood from the tool steel using the bottom of his own torn shirt.
We go multiple rounds of this dance. Me asking the core question, him refusing to answer, me ruthlessly stabbing him again. It’s a rhythmic, bloody routine, but his stamina is starting to cave.
“Look, man,” I say. “Damon Katzis sent you. We already know that shit. We know he’s alive, and I get it.
He’s a scary motherfucker. But here’s the reality.
He doesn’t have you right now. We do. Either way, your life ends in this room today.
If Damon gets a hold of you for failing, he’ll drag your death out for days.
And as much as I want to do the exact same thing to you for putting your hands on my woman, I’m actually willing to give you the easy way out if you talk. ”
“Tomcat, how do we know he won’t just tell us what we want to hear instead of the absolute truth?” Marigold asks quietly from the corner.
I look over my shoulder at her. “Because there isn’t a single woman from my past who could strike that specific kind of bone-deep terror into a grown-ass man. There is someone from yours, though.”
She purses her lips, nodding slowly as the logic clicks, and waves her small hand toward the dying man in a dismissive gesture. “I see merit in what you’re saying, lover. You may proceed.”
My lips twitch despite the gore surrounding us. “Thanks for the official permission.”
“You’re very welcome,” she replies magnanimously, tilting her chin up.
I shake my head, a dark chuckle escaping me, and turn back to finish this. He’s completely exhausted now, his skin a pale, bruised, and bloody mess, his eyes entirely dull with agony. He knows his end is staring him right in the face, so he isn’t even bothering to fight anymore.
“Damon... Damon paid me to teach her a lesson,” the man rasps, coughing up a spray of crimson.
“Apparently, she wasn’t listening to his previous warnings about staying away from you.
He said he was trying to be nice at first, but the only way that bitch ever listens is when she’s in physical pain.
” He heavily turns his head, his bloodshot eyes tracking over to Marigold.
“He said you’re his property... and if he can’t have you, then no one else on this earth ever will. ”
The air turns to suffocating ice.
“Did you enjoy hitting my woman?” I ask him, my voice dropping into a register so quiet, so lethal, that even Pope tenses up behind me. The knife effortlessly twirls through my fingers. “Did it make you feel like a real man?”
The bastard smirks, bloody and defiant. I know his game. He wants to piss me off enough to end it fast.
“It made my dick so damn hard hearing her cry,” he whispers.
Yep. That’ll do it.
Without a single shred of hesitation, I drive the heavy blade straight into the side of his neck.
Not just once, or twice, but so many fucking times that the front of my shirt and my arms are completely drenched in a heavy coat of crimson.
The brutal, rhythmic thud of the steel burying into his flesh echoes through the cell, and it’s still not enough to soothe the explosive, roaring rage rushing through my veins.
At last, my fingers release, and the bloody knife clatters to the concrete.
Marigold steps from the shadows, stopping in front of me. Her dark eyes roam over the carnage splattered across my skin.
“He hurt you, baby,” I rasp, chest heaving. “He said something I didn’t like. I couldn’t let it go.” I lower my head, searching her face. “Did I do good?”
She gives me a soft, proud smile, rises onto her toes, and kisses me hard. “You did so well, lover. Now, let’s get you cleaned up. As hot as you look covered in enemy blood, I doubt your brothers want to watch me fuck you beside a fresh corpse.”
“Actually, that sounds hot as fuck. I’m in,” Malice deadpans from the doorway.
Marigold snickers, shakes her head at him, then looks to Pope. “Where can I clean him up? He can’t ride out looking like a horror movie extra.”
Pope nods toward the heavy exit door. “Go back out to the corridor and take a hard left. There’s a room down there with a shower and a locker of extra clothes for the brothers.
When he’s done, grab those bloody rags and take them to the room directly across the hall.
There’s a high-heat incinerator in there. Just toss them straight into the fire.”
I shake my head, chuckling low as she leads me out. “You know this isn’t my first time killing, Goldie.”
“Obviously,” she says. “But you never had me to take care of you after.”
I shake my head at her audacity, wrap my bloody fingers gently around her throat, and tilt her face up until her eyes lock on mine. “What the hell am I going to do with you, little shadow?”
“Listen to absolutely everything I say. Duh,” she grins, bright and unbothered. “And love me, obviously.”
I look down at her, warmth blooming in my chest. As if I haven’t been loving her for years already.