Chapter 29
AMELIA
Iwatch Gregory Walsh read my invitation for the third time, his eyes narrowing at the screen. His response arrives moments later:
Amelia, what an unexpected pleasure. An exclusive showing at The Blue Room? Of course I’ll attend. Perhaps we can discuss your... prospects.
I smile at his thinly veiled proposition. The bastard thinks I’m desperate enough to get on my knees for his professional validation—willing to offer whatever he wants in return.
“He took the bait,” I tell Gabe, showing him my phone.
Gabe’s eyes darken with anticipation. “Of course he did. Men like Walsh can’t resist the opportunity to exert power.”
We descend the stairs to the basement beneath The Blue Room, where Gabe has been preparing our special exhibition space. The room looks nothing like it did when I first glimpsed his preserved victims. Now it’s transformed into a meticulous torture chamber.
“What do you think?” Gabe asks, pride evident in his voice.
I take inventory of what he’s assembled: surgical tools arranged on a steel tray, various knives organized by size, coils of rope, and a sturdy chair bolted to the floor in the center of a plastic-lined area. Drainage grates have been installed beneath. Nothing will be wasted.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper, running my fingers over the leather restraints. “He’ll know exactly why he’s here before we’re finished.”
Gabe steps behind me, his hands sliding around my waist. “I’ve added something special.” He guides me to a small table where a box of pristine chocolates sits. “Adrian made these. They’ll be the last thing Walsh tastes.”
“Before or after we make him confess?” I ask.
“During,” Gabe murmurs against my neck. “Each truth earns him one piece.”
The thought sends a shiver of excitement through me. I turn in his arms, pressing myself against him.
“I never knew this part of me existed until you,” I admit. “This darkness that wants to watch him suffer.”
“We’re mirrors,” Gabe says, tracing my lips with his thumb. “You see me, and I see you—all of you.”
I lean into his touch, marveling at how natural this feels. Planning a man’s torture should horrify me, yet with Gabe, it feels like coming home.
I check my watch for the third time in five minutes as Gabe positions himself behind the bar. His eyes catch mine—a silent reassurance that everything is ready.
The club door swings open, and Gregory Walsh strides in like he owns the place. His tailored suit screams money, and his salt-and-pepper hair is styled to perfection. My stomach clenches at the sight of him.
“Amelia, darling!” His voice booms across the empty club as he approaches, arms outstretched. He kisses the air near both my cheeks. “What a charming venue. A bit... underground for the caliber of work you’re producing, but I suppose we all start somewhere.”
I force a smile. “Thank you for coming, Gregory. It means so much that you’d make time.”
“Well, I’ve always had an eye for talent that just needs proper... guidance.” His gaze slides down my body, lingering where it shouldn’t. “I’ve been thinking about our previous discussions. Perhaps I was too hasty in my assessment of your commercial viability.”
Gabe approaches with two glasses of champagne. “Mr. Walsh, welcome to The Blue Room. I’m Gabe Dawson, the owner.”
Walsh takes the champagne without really looking at Gabe. “Excellent. Now, Amelia, about these new pieces—”
“They’re downstairs, actually,” I interrupt. “I’ve set up a private viewing area.”
Walsh’s eyebrows rise. “How... intimate.” He downs his champagne in one gulp. “Lead the way.”
I guide him through the kitchen to a door marked “Private.” The staircase descends into darkness before motion sensors trigger soft lighting.
“Unusual space for art,” Walsh remarks, his voice echoing slightly.
“I wanted somewhere special for this particular collection,” I explain as we reach the bottom of the stairs.
The door to our prepared room waits at the end of a short corridor. I push it open.
“After you,” I say.
Walsh steps inside, then freezes. The center chair. The plastic sheeting. The tools laid out.
Gabe closes the door behind us with a heavy click.
“What the hell is this?” Walsh spins around, confusion turning to fear as Gabe blocks the exit.
“This,” I say, picking up one of the scalpels, “is a reckoning. You’ve ruined lives, Gregory.” I circle Walsh as Gabe forces him into the chair. “Seventeen women who trusted you, whose careers you destroyed when they wouldn’t sleep with you.”
Walsh struggles against the restraints Gabe fastens around his wrists. “This is insane! I made you, Amelia—”
“Made me?” I slap him hard across the face. “You blacklisted me. Called me ‘difficult’ to every gallery in Chicago because I wouldn’t fuck you on your desk.”
Gabe finishes securing Walsh and steps back, nodding to me. We’ve choreographed this dance perfectly.
I press the tip of a scalpel into Walsh’s cheek, just enough to draw a thin line of blood. “Tell me about Sophia Martinez.”
“I don’t know what—”
Gabe grabs Walsh’s pinky finger and wrenches it backward until it snaps. The sound of breaking bone is followed by Walsh’s scream.
“Wrong answer,” Gabe whispers. “Amelia asked you a question.”
Walsh sobs, “She was just an art student—”
“Who killed herself after you raped her,” I finish, carving another line parallel to the first. “Perfect symmetry, don’t you think, Gabe?”
Gabe’s eyes never leave my hands as I work. His breathing has changed—deeper, hungrier. I glance down and notice the hard outline pressing against his black pants. The sight sends heat rushing through me.
“Your turn,” I tell him, stepping back.
Gabe selects a thin blade from the tray. He places one of Adrian’s chocolates on Walsh’s tongue.
“Bite down,” Gabe commands. When Walsh complies, Gabe slides the knife under his fingernail. “Now, tell us about Rebecca Thompson.”
As Walsh confesses between screams, I watch Gabe’s technique with appreciation. The way he inflicts pain is beautiful—calculating yet passionate. When he steps back to let me take over again, a low groan escapes his throat.
“God, you’re magnificent,” he whispers as I press a hot metal rod against Walsh’s chest.
The smell of burning flesh fills the room as Walsh writhes against his bonds. Our eyes meet over our victim’s body, and I’ve never felt more connected to anyone in my life.
I drag the knife across Walsh’s collarbone, watching blood well up in a perfect crimson line. His whimpering has grown hoarse, yet something inside me hungers for more. With movements I’ve practiced by watching Gabe, I slice deeper into his shoulder.
“The basin,” I whisper to Gabe, never taking my eyes off the flowing red stream.
Gabe positions a wide metal bowl beneath Walsh’s arm as I open another vein. Blood pours into the container, thick and vibrant. The metallic scent fills my nostrils—intoxicating, primal.
“Perfect,” I breathe. “I need this for my new series.”
My fingers dip into the warm liquid, swirling patterns across Walsh’s chest like I’m working on canvas. Each stroke releases something buried deep within me—rage transforming into terrible art.
“Tell us about Caroline Weber,” I demand, pressing my blood-soaked thumb against his lips. “The student whose work you stole after she rejected you.”
Walsh sobs incoherently, but I don’t care about his answer anymore. The confession is secondary to the medium. His punishment creates my masterpiece.
I mix some of his blood with a thickening agent Gabe prepared, creating the perfect consistency for painting. My brush strokes across a small canvas capture Walsh’s terror in visceral detail—his eyes wide with horror, his mouth contorted in a silent scream.
“Look at what you’re becoming,” I tell him, turning the canvas toward his face.
My breath comes in short, hard pants as I work. Sweat and blood mingle on my skin, my shirt spattered with crimson. The feeling is transcendent—beyond anything I’ve experienced before. Power, creation, and destruction merged into pure sensation.
Behind me, I hear Gabe’s breathing change. I turn to find him watching me with feral hunger, his eyes nearly black with desire. Blood smears across his chest and arms from our work.
Without warning, he unzips his pants and frees himself, fully erect and straining.
“I need you,” he growls. “Now.”
I don’t hesitate. Turning away from Walsh, I shed my blood-soaked clothes and press myself against Gabe, smearing crimson across both our bodies. His hands grip my waist, lifting me onto the steel table as implements clatter to the floor.
“Let him see what he can never have,” I whisper, biting Gabe’s earlobe hard enough to draw blood. The metallic taste mingles with Walsh’s blood already on my lips.
Gabe spins me around to face our captive. Walsh’s eyes bulge—terror and something else. Something familiar.
“Spread your legs,” Gabe commands, and I comply, bracing myself against the table. His fingers, slick with blood and lubricant, probe between my ass cheeks. The intrusion burns, but I push back against him, wanting more.
“That’s it,” he growls. “Show him how you take me everywhere.”
When Gabe enters me, the pain is exquisite—a searing violation I’ve come to crave. He doesn’t start gently. Each thrust drives me forward, my blood-covered breasts swinging with the force of his movements.
“Watch her,” Gabe orders Walsh. “Watch what real power looks like.”
I lock eyes with our captive, refusing to look away as Gabe pounds into me. The room fills with the sounds of sex mingling with Walsh’s ragged breathing.
“Harder,” I demand, and Gabe’s fingers dig into my hips, leaving fresh bruises beneath the blood.
Gabe reaches around to stroke my clit as he takes my ass from behind, and I throw my head back in pleasure. “Make me come while he watches,” I beg.
Our victim struggles against his restraints, and that’s when I notice it—the unmistakable bulge straining against his pants despite his wounds, despite his terror.