7. Greer #2
She backhands him hard enough that his head snaps to the side. "You came into my territory asking questions about my product. Who sent you?"
"Fuck you."
"Wrong answer." The knife presses against his collarbone, not cutting yet but the threat explicit.
"Let me explain how this works. You're going to tell me everything I want to know—who sent you, what they know about the intercepted shipment, what your crew is planning as retaliation.
And depending on how cooperative you are, this either ends quick or it takes a very long time. "
"I'm not telling you shit."
Zaria looks back at me, and the dark promise in her smile makes my breath catch. "Greer, sweetheart. You might want to sit down for this. It's going to get messy."
But I don't sit. I lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching her with the kind of focus I'd normally reserve for complex data analysis. Watching her work is like watching an artist—every movement calculated, every action designed for maximum effect.
She cuts him. Not deep, just enough to make him bleed, a thin line across his collarbone that makes him hiss in pain. "Who sent you?"
"No one sent me. I came on my own?—"
Another cut, this one on his cheek. The blood runs down his jaw in a vivid streak. "Try again."
"Ezinne," he gasps. "Ezinne Okafor sent me to find out where the shipment went. She thinks you have it, wants to know how you intercepted—" He cuts off with a scream as Zaria's knife finds his hand, piercing through the palm and into the chair arm beneath.
"Keep talking."
"She's planning retaliation. Tomorrow night, your warehouse on Fifth Street—the one where you kept the product. She's going to hit it with twenty men, thinks she can steal it back and make you look weak."
Zaria leaves the knife embedded in his hand, moving to select another from the table. "Twenty men. That's ambitious. What else?"
"That's all I know, I swear?—"
"Bullshit." The second knife cuts across his other cheek, mirroring the first wound. The symmetry is almost artistic. "You came here asking specific questions about specific operations. Ezinne wouldn't send you without more information than that."
I'm watching the blood trail down his face, the way Zaria moves with absolute confidence, the control she exerts over his pain. My heart is racing but not from fear—from something darker and more primal that I don't want to examine too closely.
This is foreplay.
The realization hits me with startling clarity.
Watching her make someone bleed, watching her extract information through calculated violence, seeing the power she wields without hesitation—it's turning me on in ways that should disturb me.
But I'm past pretending I'm disturbed by the darkness anymore.
I'm fascinated by it. Drawn to it. Want to understand every facet of it.
Want to understand her.
Zaria glances back at me again, and whatever she sees in my expression makes her pupils dilate. She reads my reaction perfectly—sees that I'm not horrified, that I'm watching her with hunger instead of disgust. That her violence isn't scaring me away, it's pulling me closer.
Her smile turns predatory. "You're enjoying this."
"I'm enjoying watching you work."
"Work." She yanks the knife from the hostage's hand, making him scream. "That's one word for it."
She circles him slowly, blade catching the dim light. The hostage is breathing hard, blood running freely from multiple wounds now. His defiance is cracking, replaced by the kind of animal fear that comes from understanding death is inevitable.
"The supply routes," Zaria says softly, almost conversationally. "Ezinne's planning something bigger than just hitting my warehouse. What is it?"
"She wants to cut you off at the source." The words come faster now, desperation making him cooperative. "Your suppliers in Pennsylvania—she's going to offer them better rates, better protection. Thinks if she starves you out, you'll be forced to negotiate territory."
"Interesting." Another cut, this one along his forearm. "And she thinks this will work because?"
"Because you're a girl." He spits the words. "Because Malcolm's locked up and you're just a temporary placeholder until real power moves in. She thinks you're weak, thinks you can't hold territory without your father backing you?—"
Zaria's knife finds his throat, pressed just hard enough to draw blood but not sever anything vital. Her voice drops to something cold and deadly. "What did you just call me?"
I'm watching the tension in her shoulders, the controlled fury in every line of her body.
This is personal now—not just about territory or product, but about respect.
About men like this one underestimating her because of her age and gender, not understanding that she's more dangerous than her father ever was.
"I'm sorry—" he starts, but Zaria's already moving.
The violence that follows is methodical and brutal.
She doesn't kill him quickly—that would be mercy, and mercy isn't what this situation calls for.
Instead she makes him bleed, makes him scream, extracts every piece of information he has about Okafor operations while teaching him exactly what happens when someone disrespects her in her own territory.
I watch every moment of it.
Watch the way she controls the blade, the pressure, the pain. Watch blood pool on the concrete floor around the drain. Watch her face stay calm and focused even as she's elbow-deep in violence that would make most people flinch.
She's beautiful like this. Powerful and deadly and absolutely in control.
When she finally steps back, the hostage is barely conscious, blood covering his clothes and dripping steadily. She's breathing slightly harder but her hands are steady, her expression satisfied.
"Any last words?" she asks him.
He manages to lift his head, eyes glazed with pain. "Fuck... you..."
"Close enough." She draws the blade across his throat in one smooth motion.
The blood is immediate and visceral, spraying across the concrete. The hostage makes a wet gurgling sound, body spasming against the restraints, then goes still. The only sound is blood dripping into the floor drain, steady as a metronome.
Zaria wipes the blade clean on his clothes, then turns to face me fully.
There's blood on her hands, splattered across her arms, a few drops on her face. Her amber eyes are locked on mine, searching for any sign that I'm about to bolt, that this crossed some line I can't uncross.
But I'm still here. Still watching her. Still feeling my pulse race with something that's definitely not horror.