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“Do you know that you can bleed a man out without killing him?” Sade continues in that sadistically calm way of his. “Plenty of ways brother dearest can make that happen.”
The scout isn’t laughing anymore, and fear replaces the defiance in his eyes. Staring down at him, his head yanked back and his throat exposed and bleeding, I can see it clearly. I flash him a grin filled with all the cruelty I’m capable of, and thin veins blast across his eyeballs. He mumbles something, but it’s only when blood starts gurgling out of his mouth that I understand what’s happening.
“Fucker is biting his togue off.” I grab his jaw and force it open. I stick the blade into his mouth, careful not to touch anything vital, yet make sure he chokes on it while I bring my face close to his terrified eyes.
“You try that again, and I’ll shred you to pieces from the inside, you piece of shit,” I hiss. “I’ll take fucking days to do it, and I’ll keep you alive all through it.”
“You better stop the nonsense before he makes good on that promise,” Sade adds while Carlton and Damon step back into the shadows, on their way to hunt down the others.
The scout searches my eyes with growing desperation, gagging on my knife, the same one that I used to fuck Eva earlier. It still smells of her. My cock twitches painfully, reminding me that she left me with a serious case of blue balls, which doesn’t make things any better for the scout.
“Blink if you’re ready to talk,” I instruct.
He does without hesitating, and I slowly remove the blade from his mouth. Sade’s grin widens at the scout’s uncontrollable shaking.
“Let us take him to a place where we can talk in peace,” Sade tells me while staring at the terrified man.
I manhandle him into handcuffs and get him to the shed at the edge of our property.
The Royales bought this part of the forest a long time ago, but it's purposefully never been tended to. We let it become so thick and impenetrable that not even our janitor, Justine’s father, dares come here, not even with the army of underlings Sade has hired for him. As for the shed, it looks old and dilapidated on the outside, but Sade and I made it our little passion project. The wood is padded and reinforced with steel on the inside, all sorts of torture gadgets hanging on the walls. We use them more as intimidation tools than anything else, because our other ways of making people talk are usually extremely effective.
I tie the guy up to the chair, while Sade circles him with slow, menacing steps.
“I’ll ask you some questions,” he begins, “and I suggest you answer them fast and true, otherwise brother dearest will start inflicting pain.” He stops in front of the man. “The kind of pain you never even imagined existed.”
I grab a second blade from one of the metal sheathes on the wall, and start sharpening it against my own. The man flinches at the sound, his hands straining against the cuffs behind his back. I come to stand next to Sade, leisurely dragging the blades against each other, my eyes fixed on the terrified man with a death stare. He shakes in his seat, hair and face sweaty, blood from when he tried biting off his tongue trickling down the sides of his mouth.
“Your bosses already made sure their undercover agents have access to my stepfather’s upcoming ball,” Sade tells him, his voice a calm but treacherous sea. “So why the scouting? And why use mercenaries for it?”
The hostage’s jaw locks, and he sticks out his chin. Defying us.
Sade nods in my direction. That’s my cue.
Within two quick strides I’m behind him, my hand in his hair and my blade at his hairline. I start cutting, my hand not wavering even as he struggles and screams.
“He’s got a steady hand, my brother,” Sade says, his voice calm even as it rises over the man’s screams that would make any normal person retch. But Sade and I aren’t normal people. A grin curls up my lips as I expertly cut around his scalp, going all the way to the back of his head.
“He likes to do it slowly,” Sade says. “Almost lovingly.”
The man’s jaw works, blood and sweat streaking down his face as I complete the circling and pull his hair, starting to rip the skin off his skull. For any human endowed with any amount of sensitivity, his screams would be nauseating by now, but for me they’re only a sign that he might be incentivized enough to speak, and I stop. Nothing in me betrays that I’m having trouble being the perfectly oiled torture machine that the Kings know me to be for the first time in my life.
Because, for the first time, I’m in a hurry.
“I understand,” Sade drawls with patience that I don’t share. “You think that even if you make it out of here alive, your bosses, Rufus and Raphael will kill you. But keeping silent won’t do you any favors. They won’t care whether you betrayed them or not, they’ll kill you anyway, for good measure, and they’ll make it hurt, too. So you might as well save yourself the pain now.”
A few seconds of pondering is all I give our hostage before I start pulling his hair again, more skin ripping from his skull. It helps to know that the mercenaries the Morningstars use are war criminals and convicts with crimes so terrible on their record that even other convicts hate them. Child abuse in war zones or photographing themselves with the severed heads of their victims after serial raping are regular accomplishments on their fucking resumes. They’re serial killers who joined the military thinking it would allow them to murder with impunity. The Morningstars never hire other types of people. They put this stuff in the fucking job description.
So I keep pulling, my muscles working with adrenaline, his scalp ripping off until he can’t take it anymore.
“All right, mother-fucking-fuckers!” Blood splutters out of his mouth and onto Sade’s black combat boots. Under any other circumstances this would be the fucking sweet spot, but this time I yank just once more, a little harder.
The chair rattles under him, and Sade throws me a glare over our hostage’s head, a silent, “What the fuck are you doing?” written on his face. My cocking an eyebrow is my way of replying, “Making sure he gives it all up the first time, so we don’t have to prolong his suffering.” Unlike the mercenaries we hunt, neither of us is doing this for pleasure.
“So,” big bro says, crossing his big arms over his chest. “Why are there mercenaries on our territory when Rufus and Raphael already have a way in?”
“They’re looking for weaknesses,” the hostage manages. His eyes are glazed with pain, his tongue swollen and bleeding from how he tried to bite it off, making talking difficult and muffled.
Sade glances at me, and I hitch a needle from a strap along my ribs. A second later, I sink it into his ear, piercing his eardrum. I remove my hand when he screams, quaking in his chair like a man possessed by the devil, with the needle still inside.
