Chapter Seventeen #4
The third man grabs my hair, and I jerk away, slashing the inside of his thigh.
His blood sprays warmly across my face. I sob louder, staggering back as if he hurt me instead.
“Don’t touch me! Please, I can’t—don’t do this!
” My deception is flawless. I fall to my knees intentionally, palms hitting the ground as I let out a shriek so raw it scrapes my throat. “No! No, let me go!”
The sound ricochets around the cramped room, bouncing off concrete until it becomes a convincing symphony of suffering. Underneath each pleading word, my blade sinks into muscle and artery, quiet and precise.
Between cries, a laugh threatens to slip free—from adrenaline, from the thrill of turning their plan against them—but I smother it beneath another panicked plea. “Someone, help me! Please, somebody!”
I clutch my side dramatically as the second man finally drops beside his own blood, and I disguise the thud of his body with another strangled sob. “It hurts! I’m sorry, I’m sorry—please don’t hurt me anymore!”
My shrieks swallow their dying breaths until no one in the hallway could guess who’s winning in here.
Then it is only him.
The last man.
The one who licked Kimber like she was a meal waiting to happen.
His eyes dart to the door, to the bodies, back to me. He finally sees the truth in the way I stand, the way my breathing evens, the way my smile curls slow and sharp.
He whispers, trembling, “What… who… what are you?”
I straighten, stepping through the blood-slick floor toward him, my voice dropping into a cold calm now that no one is left to fool.
“A nightmare,” I tell him softly. “Yours.”
I move toward him slowly, letting the weight of each step sink into the stained concrete. He mirrors me, inch for inch, until we’re circling each other in the dim, windowless room. Blood smears under my boots, the metallic scent climbing into the air like steam.
He tries to play confident, tries to pretend he’s not standing ankle-deep in the evidence of my abilities. “The door is locked from the outside,” he says, smirking like he’s holding the winning hand. “How do you plan on getting out of here?”
I match his expression with a grin far too wide, far too bright, and let a giggle slip free.
It echoes off the walls in a way that makes his smirk falter.
“You act like I care if I make it out of here.” I tilt my head slowly, letting the motion stretch, letting him see every inch of the unhinged calm I’m allowing him to witness.
If he were smarter, he’d run. If he were braver, he’d attack. He does neither.
And there was a time—not so long ago—when that sentence would have been true. When my survival was a distant, fragile concept. But now? I have my guys. I have Kimber. And for the first time in six years, I want a life. A real one. A life free of monsters.
Which is exactly why this one has to die.
His smile drops completely, confusion pulling at his features. He didn’t expect that answer. He expected fear. Begging. Maybe that broken girl from years ago.
He really should have done his homework.
“You ready to dance, big guy?” I ask softly as I take another step, the knife glinting in my grip. “You were so eager earlier. All that touching. All that bragging.” I pause, letting my eyes lock on his. “Remember when I warned you?”
Silence coils between us.
His Adam’s apple bobs hard.
He remembers.
The pulse in his neck is beating so violently I can see it from across the room, a frantic, rhythmic flutter beneath his skin that tells me everything I need to know. He’s nervous. Outmatched. And already bleeding fear into the air.
Finally, the realization hits him—the same truth his friends learned too late.
He isn’t the predator in this room.
I am.
Talking is done. The moment settles into my bones—cold, steady—like a blade fitting cleanly in my palm. My breath evens out. My pulse slows. And my smile widens.
Then I lunge.
I pump-fake left, then right, darting in and out of his reach, laughing in a way that vibrates through the room like broken glass.
He flinches each time, unsure which movement is real, and which is smoke.
I let him believe every single one is a threat, even as I fill the air with another ragged, desperate scream.
“Please! Stop! Please, I’m begging you!”
The sound rips out of me perfectly. Panicked. Wild. Helpless.
Exactly what anyone listening outside the door expects to hear.
He blinks, thrown off, and snaps, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
What a dumbass.
I slow my steps, shoulders shaking with false sobs, letting tears drip down my chin even as my grip tightens on the hilt of my blade. “If they think I’m in here suffering,” I say sweetly through the tremble in my voice, “they’re not going to interrupt… now, are they?”
His eyes widen. He actually looks like he never put that together. It would almost be sad if it wasn’t so pathetic. These men have been part of a trafficking empire for years and still haven’t learned to assess a room.
And they wonder why their entire operation is crumbling like wet ash in my hands.
Instead of closing the distance, I take three slow steps backward. Each heel scuff echoes off the walls. I raise my voice again, letting it crack. “Please! Don’t hurt me! Please, I’ll do anything!”
His brows pull tight, confusion creeping in again. He’s so busy trying to understand my behavior that he forgets to watch the weapon in my hand.
Typical.
I stop moving.
And throw.
The blade slices through the stale air with a whisper before sinking deep into his chest, right above the sternum. The shock on his face would almost be comical if it weren’t so predictable.
Really? He’s still surprised?
No wonder Bryce’s empire has been so easy to burn to the ground. This is what he staffed his operation with. Men who can’t read a room, can’t anticipate a strike, can’t grasp that the girl they tied up might be the one thing they should fear.
He drops to his knees, fingers clawing weakly at the hilt as blood spills warm and dark across his shirt. His breath wheezes, a wet rattle fighting its way out of his lungs.
I walk toward him slowly, purposefully.
I left him for last so I could savor the moment. Not because he was the biggest threat.
Obviously.
He wobbles as I walk toward him, so weak he can barely keep his head lifted.
I crouch until we’re eye to eye, my shadow swallowing his trembling form.
“You know…” I let the words drip out slowly, almost playfully.
“I’m pretty good with knives.” A soft laugh slips from me, unhinged and bright.
“I’m sure you figured that out already. But what you don’t know is that I’m very precise.
I know exactly where to cut to keep you alive just long enough for us to… have some fun.”
His eyes widen as I wrap my fingers around the hilt buried in his chest. I rip the blade free at the exact moment he gasps, and I scream over his cry, masking it with my own. The echoes blend into something grotesquely convincing. If anyone is listening, they’ll think he’s the one hurting me.
I tilt my head, tapping the bloody blade against my cheek, streaking red across my already bloody skin as if applying another layer of war-paint. “You grabbed Kimber with your filthy hand,” I say softly. “And then you licked her like she was meant for you.”
His breath hitching is the best music I’ve heard all morning.
“I think,” I continue, feigning to ponder, “I’ll take your tongue first. Then I won’t have to hear your pathetic whining.”
“No,” he stutters, voice breaking. “Please. Don’t.”
A genuine laugh bursts free, warm and delighted. “Come on. That’s my line, remember?”
I grab the bottom of his shirt and use the fabric as leverage, gripping his tongue and pulling it forward. His hands flail weakly at my arms, but he’s hemorrhaging too much blood to put any actual strength into it. He hits like a newborn deer, soft and clumsy.
“Oh, please,” I chide, rolling my eyes. “You don’t actually think I’m going to touch you, do you? I have standards.”
I tighten my hold, and before he can attempt to pull away, I scream—loud, panicked—just as my blade slices through the thick muscle in one clean motion. His shriek is swallowed by mine. Blood floods his mouth, his chin, my forearm, dripping onto the filthy floor in heavy red droplets.
I force his head up by the hair and smear his severed tongue across his own face. “How’s that taste?” I ask sweetly. “Hmm?”
He gurgles, sputtering, face twisted in disgust.
“Oh, don’t act like it’s gross.” I slap his cheek lightly with the slack muscle. “It’s your own tongue. Imagine how Kimber felt. And…” I lower my voice. “I’m guessing she wasn’t your first.”
The look he gives me is all the confession I’ll ever need.
“Good thing for you,” I sigh dramatically, “I told my guys I’d stop touching my prey’s dicks to make hot-dog octopuses.” I pout. “But technically… if I pin it down with another knife first and avoid touching it, I’m not breaking my promise.”
I hum, thinking, letting him watch the gears turn behind my eyes. His terror thickens the air, sharp and metallic, mixing with the smell of blood.
“But first,” I say softly, “those fingers.”
I tilt my head, meeting his gaze with a bright smile. “The ones you used to yank my sister’s hair. Very rude of you.”
I don’t give him time to plead. The blade comes down on the first finger. A wet crack. A thud. His body jolts, then slows. On the second finger, his voice is gone. By the third, his eyes glaze. By the fourth he’s so far gone I doubt he feels anything at all.
I tap his cheek with the flat of my knife. “Wake up. Come on, don’t sleep yet.” My voice drips with false disappointment. “I don’t have much time to play.”
He sags forward, barely conscious, blood pooling beneath him. His breath rattles like loose screws.
“It’s too bad you won’t be awake for the best part,” I whisper.
A soft whimper escapes him.
“Do you want four or eight legs on your octopus?”
His eyes roll back before passing out.
“Spoilsport,” I huff. “Eight it is.”
I don’t bother checking if he’s alive. It makes no difference.
I go to work methodically, pinning him in place, carving symmetrical slices, shaping the grotesque little creature I once threatened Jory with.
I end each motion with a grunt, mimicking a man’s weight as if I’m the one being overpowered.
Between each cut, I let out a scream that ricochets off the walls.
“Please! Please stop!”
“No, don’t! I’ll do anything!”
“Please don’t kill me!”
My voice fractures into pleas and sobs, carefully layered for any ears beyond the door. I let the cries weaken on purpose, stretching the timing, dragging them out. To anyone listening, it’ll sound like I’m slipping away.
In reality, I’m only getting started.