Page 21 of Killer Bones

“But I am.” I spin her then muzzle her with my hands over her mouth and her throat. “I am now.” And maybe forever.

Forever might be pushing it.

She tries to kick then hit me, the chain goes flying up, and I squash her flatter.

Yeah, I don’t think she likes me enough for forever. Unless I just…keep her?

My cock is hard enough to punch holes in the back of her throat. “Stop. I’ll let you have some freedom if you behave. Am I your god, Izzy?”

She says nothing. The pressure on her stomach must be making her feel that need to pee even fiercer.

“Say it. Unless you’d rather leave a puddle here.”

She screws up her face, twists her mouth then squeaks out, “Yes, you are my god.”

“Good.”

Her bandaged hand is being held high beside her head, and she gives me the hurt kitten look, with her hair concealing much of her eyes.

“Go.” I raise myself off her, slowly, release her mouth but keep her throat in hand. “When you’re done, we’ll talk.”

I lower myself and sit against the wall again to watch her use the facility. The chain stretches to where she sits and she’s embarrassed but manages—not a surprise. I get ideas for the next time she needs this. The shower and the toilet… I like the mindfuck in threats, making her do things just because I can.

“Come here and sit before me.” I pat my knee, and she comes to me and kneels to sit facing away. “Closer.” I pull her in, snuggling her ass between my legs. “Soon, I will have to decide whether to terminate you in the way that Montez chooses, or the alternative…that you suggested. The problem is can I trust you?”

I’m lying by omission of the facts. I might be compelled to sacrifice her, but wouldn’t it be torture to tell her this truth?

I coil her hair in my hand, tug on it until she rests her head against my shoulder. She’s quivering, stiff.

“Can you trust me?” For all her courage, she is terrified, and her hand must be aching.

We all like to dream of a life without pain and of a death that is far, far away.

Gently, I stroke her black hair, untangling knots with my fingers.

“Tell me why you write about killers.”

9

Izzy

Why do I write about killers?

What sort of answer will make him happy? Why does he even ask me?

Thinking means battling this foggy-blah-crap in my head and the pain in my hand. The blood on the white bandage covering the stab wound is a sharp reminder of what this man might do if I anger or upset him. What he has done to me already would drive some to despair. I refuse that option.

I’m stronger than that, and I see a weakness in his armor, a way into this man’s wants and needs. Least, I pray I do.

He joked and said it was a hobby, but he must be a professional killer.

His willingness to listen is a crack leading into his mind.

“I’ve asked myself that many times.” I shrug, look back at him and glimpse his hideous scars. Hideous and yet, on a man, I can somehow admire them. They speak of survival and strength.

He burned five years ago, burned in the worst agony and recovered, and still he remembered the details of my night out with…him, the dead man whose name I’ve forgotten. That’s fucking insane. He remembered the word we agreed on, the sex we arranged, and he kept the bracelet—and I don’t think I want to know how he came to have that.

He’s read my stories, tracked down my pen name online, though it wouldn’t be that difficult to do. It never worried me enough to obscure the trail. Now it’s too late. I’d see it as nothing, if it hadn’t made him ask that question.