Chapter 51
Seth
“Go ahead,” I smile as I step closer. “I’m right here. Take your shot.”
He stinks of rot and panic. He's slumped in the chair because that's the only way he can stay upright at all. One shoulder sags lower than the other. His left leg jerks when his nerves misfire. His mouth works around blood and spit, but nothing worth hearing comes out.
I tilt my head and study him. “Let’s make things fair, I don’t enjoy mutilating people who can’t fight back.” I lean in until my face hovers inches from his. “That’s your thing.” I tap his chest once, light, almost friendly. “So here’s your chance. Hit me.”
He tries.
The effort wrecks him. His broken arm twitches uselessly, bone scraping inside torn muscle. His other arm shakes when he tries to lift it, wrist bent wrong, skin split wide where white bone pushes through. A whimper tears out of him before he can stop it.
I laugh. “Oh yeah, that’s right. You’re too much of a pussy to hit me.”
I grab his arm before he can pull it back. My hand closes around what is left of his wrist, fingers locking just below the joint. He sucks in a breath and shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut as his body tries to curl inward against the chair restraints.
“Now you know what it feels like.”
I twist.
The bone gives with a wet crack. Another shard punches through skin, longer this time, slick with blood. His scream fills the room. His body jerks against the chair, straps biting into him, legs kicking without coordination.
I lean in close, my mouth near his ear, and smile.
“That was just the warm-up.”
Behind me, Brooke moves toward the speaker.
“How about some music Elliot.”
I already know what she is doing. The first notes slide into the room.
“Goodbye Horses”
Elliot hears it immediately. His jaw locks so hard his teeth grind. His chest hitches and stutters, breath cutting in short, panicked pulls. A sound tears out of him that is not quite a scream and not quite a word.
I grin. Brooke has always had a dark sense of humor, and I fucking love her for it.
I step closer, slow enough that he feels every inch disappear. I want him tracking my movement. I want him counting seconds.
He tries to straighten in the chair.
His body refuses. Both legs are now broken.
The ankle is shattered. His knee jerks uselessly.
His torso tips sideways, caught by straps before he can fall.
Something grinds inside his chest when he moves.
We both hear it. His face tightens, and a strangled sound rips out of him as his lungs fight for a rhythm they can't find.
I press two fingers to his throat.
His pulse hammers under my touch, panic doing half the work for me.
I lean in.
“You know what’s funny?” I murmur. “This is the first time we’ve met in person.”
His eyes flick toward mine, unfocused and terrified.
“I’ve hated people before, I’ve hated them enough to take my time. Enough to remember their faces. But I’ve never hated anyone the way I hate you.”
I straighten just enough to look at him properly. Blood coats his mouth.
“You put Brooke through hell. You thought you were breaking her.” My smile widens. “All you did was make her stronger.”
I lean closer again.
“So here’s how this works,” I continue. “Everything you did to her, I’m going to make you feel. Then I’m going to do it again. And then I’m going to do it a third time, just to be sure it really fucking hurts.”
His eyes fill, terror finally registering.
“I’ve done a lot of things,” I add. “I’ve taken my time with people who begged. I’ve learned exactly how much a body can handle before it gives up, and exactly how to stop it from doing that.”
I lean closer.
“And I’ve been excited before. But you’re special.”
I move my hand from his arm to his face and cup his jaw, fingers digging into the hinge where bone meets bone. He tries to pull away, but the straps hold him tight. His breath comes fast and shallow, lips trembling, teeth chattering as his body understands what is coming before his mind catches up.
“So just know,” I tighten my grip. “I’m going to end you. Not fast. We’re going to take our time. We’re going to enjoy this.”
Elliot cries out.
“And when it finally gets too much,” I add, lowering my voice, “the last thing you’re going to see is her standing over you, smiling.”
I hit his jaw hard and fast.
The sound is a sickening crack that echoes in the warehouse.
His mouth snaps open at the wrong angle.
Teeth clack together before one skids free, clattering to the floor.
Blood pours down his chin as he screams, the sound mangled and uneven, his body thrashing uselessly against the restraints while the song plays on, filling the room.
I laugh quietly.
Elliot tries to yell. It comes out wrong.
His jaw hangs at a crooked angle, blood pouring down his chin and soaking into his collar. His tongue drags clumsily against broken teeth as he forces the words out, every syllable chewed to pieces by bone that no longer works.
“Cuh… Cuh-linn,” he mumbles. Spit and blood spray with it.
“Colin’s gonna find you.” His eyes roll, unfocused but burning.
“He’s gonna fuckin’ kill both of you.” He sucks in a wet breath and keeps going, voice slurred and thick.
“Gonna make it worse. Worse than this.” Another broken sound tears out of him.
“Make you watch her die first.” His mouth twists, trying to smile. “He’ll fuck her in front of you too.”
I sigh.
“Oh yes,” I say calmly. “Your brother Grant.” I tilt my head. “Or Colin, since you want to be personal about it.”
I crouch down so we are eye level. I want him looking at me when I say it.
“I’ve got plans for him too,” I go on. “A lot of them.” I glance back toward Brooke for half a second, then return my attention to Elliot. “If he comes for us, he saves me the trouble.”
I straighten and rest a hand on the back of the chair, leaning in close enough that he can feel my breath against his ruined mouth.
“He’ll be doing me a favor. He can come all the way here to die instead of me hunting him down.” I smile again. “That sounds convenient as hell.”
Two hours pass.
I keep track because I want him to know I have time. I want him to understand that this isn’t a moment of rage or a loss of control. This is patience. This is intention.
By the end of it, the floor is slick. Blood has pooled and dried and pooled again.
His breathing has gone ragged and uneven, his chest hitching in short, panicked pulls that never quite fill his lungs.
I tear muscle where it screams the loudest and then move on before his body can give up.
I make sure he stays conscious. I make sure he feels every second. I talk while I work.
He cries. He begs. He sobs until his throat is shredded and all that comes out are wet, broken sounds.
Eventually, I stop. I step back and look at him.
“You know what the funny part is,” I say, voice calm. “I expected more.”
His head lolls forward, chin slick with blood. One eye has swollen shut. The other tracks me weakly.
“I thought you were going to be ruthless,” I go on. “I thought you’d be slightly intimidating.”
I shake my head. “You’re not. You’re just a weak pussy little bitch who liked hurting people who couldn’t fight back.”
He tries to speak. His mouth works around broken bone and split skin. Nothing useful comes out.
I lean in a little closer. “You’re not who you thought you were. And you’re definitely not who I thought you were.”
I yank him upright again when he starts to slump.
“Not yet, bitch,” I chuckle against his ear. “You’re staying awake for this part.”
He twitches in my grip, blood coating his face, soaking into his shirt, painting the floor. He earns this. Every fucking second of it.
“Here’s what’s going to happen next,” I tell him. “Your body’s about to get real confused. Shock’s knocking on the door, but we’re not letting it in yet.”
I stab him low. Not deep enough.
He howls and arches against the chair.
“That one won’t kill you, painful though.”
Another stab.
“I’m avoiding anything important. See, I want you to last. Your body’s going to start shaking soon. Muscles firing without permission. You’ll feel cold even though you’re bleeding everywhere.”
His legs twitch. Then they stop listening to him altogether.
I feel it when his strength drains. The fight leaks out of him as his nervous system misfires. His breaths hitch, then stutter, like something inside him is unplugging piece by piece.
I straighten, letting him slump at last, his body folding in on itself as the shock finally starts to settle in.
I don’t rush the next part. I’ve got time.
I crouch next to him and slap his cheek.
“Hey. No naps yet, champ. We’re just getting started.”
He flinches. Useless, blind reflex. I watch the muscles in his jaw seize up. He wants to scream again, but he’s saving it. Or maybe he’s lost his voice with all the fucking screaming already. Either way, I’m not done.
“Now, your liver’s here.” I jab the blade into his right side. Not deep. “Not touching it, don’t worry. Wouldn’t want you bleeding out too fast. But the nerves in that area? Fireworks. You’re about to fucking feel them.”
He tries to move. I drive my boot into his knee. He shrieks.
“Your body’s going into shock,” I explain. “You’ve lost so much blood, your organs are going to stop functioning. But don’t worry. You’re not quite there yet.”
I sit him up, grab his other hand and stretch his arm out straight. I plunge the blade through the meat of his back, twist it, and pull. Muscle separates. A scream tears out of him.
He starts coughing. His own blood floods his mouth and sprays the floor in strings of red.
“Your body’s fighting to stay awake. It thinks you still have a chance. Spoiler alert: You don’t.”
I tilt his chin toward me. What’s left of his face is an oozing mess. Blood slicks his cheeks, his nose, his open mouth.
“I want you to know why you’re dying? You’re dying because you are a pathetic piece of shit. You thought you could hurt her. You thought you were invincible.”
He moans. That’s all he has left.
I stab him again. Below the ribcage this time.
“Wrong,” I whisper. “You’re just a corpse now.”
I wipe the blood from my knife onto his shirt and look down at what’s left of him in the chair. His body twitches in uneven pulses, his chest rising in shallow pulls that never seem to reach all the way in, like every breath stops halfway and dies there.
I glance at Brooke. “He’s crashing.”
Brooke is already moving.
She reaches for the metal table beside us, her hand closing around the syringe. The tray rattles softly as she pulls it free, the needle catching the light for a split second before she turns back to him.
She steps in, grabs his shoulder to hold him still, and drives the needle straight into his chest.
The plunge is clean. The liquid disappears into him in one push.
His body reacts instantly.
He jerks against the restraints, hard enough that the chair legs scrape across the floor. His head snaps back, his mouth falling open as a broken gasp tears out of him. Blood bubbles up over his lips, spilling down his chin as his lungs fight to catch up.
Some people think adrenaline turns you into something stronger. It doesn’t.
It wakes everything up. It forces your body to feel every bit of what it’s going through, every nerve firing at once, every signal hitting faster and harder than it should.
It won’t save him.
It makes sure he feels it.
The panic comes first, flooding his face as his breathing speeds up, his chest pulling harder even though it isn’t working. Then the pain follows, catching up all at once, dragging through whatever is left of him as his body lights up under it.
I let him feel it.
Let the fear rush in before the oxygen does. Let the pain catch up with what’s left of his brain.
His eyes shift past me.
They land on Brooke.
Something ugly twists across what’s left of his face. He forces the words out through his ruined jaw.
“I should’ve killed you,” he slurs at her. “That first night.”
Brooke smiles. “Shoulda, woulda, coulda.”
I smile slowly, letting him see every inch of it as I stand to my full height.
“And see, like I told you.” My voice drops as I hold his stare. “She is the last fucking thing you’ll ever see.”
I move behind him. I lean down and wrap my hands over his eyes, clamping his skull in place.
“You don’t even deserve to look at my girl.”
Then I shove both thumbs in.
His sockets cave under the pressure with a wet pop, soft tissue collapsing beneath my thumbs. His scream cuts loose a second later, loud, high-pitched and feral.
It fills the room. And I love it.
Blood pours fast. I feel it slip down my wrists. He thrashes, head jerking back, body jerking forward, blind and fucked, hands clawing the air like he thinks someone might help him.
I crouch again, close enough that he can hear me through the fog.
“You’re not going to last much longer,” I say softly. “You’re already dead.”
His lips twitch. Both eye sockets are nothing but hollow red pits, leaking and twitching.
I straighten up and look at her like we’re deciding what to eat for dinner.
“So, what do you wanna do with him?”
Brooke doesn’t even blink.
“Cut him up. Leave the pieces for Grant.”
God, I fucking love her.
My hand finds her waist. She leans into it like muscle memory, like this is just another day, like mutilating the bastard who ruined our lives is as routine as brushing our teeth. The music in the background is upbeat and disgustingly cheerful, which makes it even better.
I glance back at Elliot. His face is a mess of blood, snot, and swelling. I flash him a wide grin, all teeth and malice.
“You hear that, Ellie?” I taunt. “We’re going to turn you into a fucking puzzle.”
He gurgles something. Might’ve been “please,” might’ve been “fuck you.” Hard to tell with no eyes and a jaw that barely hinges.
I saunter to the corner of the room, where the chainsaw is waiting.
I grip the handle. I squeeze the starter.
It coughs, then growls, then roars to life with a violent purr.
I turn back toward him, stepping into his line of what used to be vision.
He is slumped in the chair, twitching, broken, drenched in his own fear.
“Welcome to the last few minutes of your miserable fucking life.”
I lift the saw, letting the roar fill the silence between us.
“This is gonna hurt,” I say, dragging it out slow. “Really, really bad.”
I grin down at him.
“Let’s make some noise.”