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“I want you to relax. Lean into me and look at him. Look at him real fucking good and then tell me what you feel.” His voice was soft and soothing, he nipped at my lower lobe.
Letting out a shaky breath, I stared down at the man in front of me. A bead of sweat rolled from his graying temple to his chin. He did his best to keep a blank face, but the look in his brown eyes conveyed the panic he was trying to hide.
It took me a minute to block out everything but the safe embrace of the man behind me and solely focus on the one in front of me.
As I looked at him—really looked at him—my cold prison cell of memories began to bustle with activity. His robes, his transparent loyalty, and the way my stomach began to turn with every passing second of him being in my sight brought everything back to the forefront of my mind.
I never intentionally faced my past. I’d always looked to the future for the day I could make them suffer like I did. This, though, made me realize how unprepared I was. This was the closest to it I’d ever been.
When I snuck into the church where my uncle preached his bullshit to his delegates, he was always in the front. I hid as far away from him as I possibly could, waiting for the perfect opportunity to drag one of his mindless bitches off to dismember. His voice alone was enough to make my skin break out in a cold sweat.
I started to see them all again—smell them and taste them, their voices in my ear, their breath on my neck, the way they took turns fucking me in both holes until I bled.
Shaking my head back and forth, I clutched at the arm wrapped around my waist, suddenly feeling as if my chest was going to cave in.
“Uhn-uh, no.” My voice quaked, and I loathed myself for showing a sign of weakness.
Ignoring the way I was clawing at his arm, Romero brought a hand up and gently clasped it around my throat. He kissed my temple and started speaking softly in my ear. “Easy breaths. I got you, babe. I’m right here. He can’t fucking touch you.”
He gripped my waist tighter, purposely squeezing my wound. Whimpering, I pushed back against him, taking comfort in his security and drawing it from my pain.
“Look at him, Pixie. How do you feel?”
Focusing back on the bishop, I leveled him with a fevered stare. With a heaving chest, I could only muster up one emotion to feel.
Hatred.
I hated him.
I didn’t know him from a hole in the wall, but I truly fucking hated him. I hated what he represented, I hated the way he made my blood freeze over, and I hated what they did, hated that they’d siphoned every bit of my innocence with their pedophile cocks.
I hated him for everything they took away from me and the irreversible damage they caused. I wasn’t sure how he got caught, and I didn’t care—he was a parasite that needed to be terminated.
“I…I hate him.” I spat in a scathing tone.
“Good girl.” Romero breathed his praise in my ear. “Hold onto that hatred, baby. Make him bleed.”
It was like being put in a trance. Stepping forward, I zeroed in on the bishop in the chair and turned the knife’s handle in my hands, tightening my grip.
I reached down and roug
hly grabbed him by the hair, making sure he couldn’t turn his head as I plunged the thin silver knife into his left ear.
He started to scream, but it wasn’t loud enough. I ground my teeth together and continued to push in, passing the pinna, twisting through the canal, and rupturing his eardrum.
The knife was like a bottle opener. The instant I pulled it out, blood spurted as if a cork had been popped off, hitting my shirt, running down his earlobe, and landing on his white garment. His skin turned a dark cherry red as he began to weep. He was in obvious pain, but he wasn’t close to dying…yet.
I ran my bloody fingertips down his face and used his tears to clean them off. He choked and gagged from the intensity of his sobs, rocking so hard the chair almost tipped over.
I loved seeing this man helpless, bawling his eyes out as blood dripped freely. The only thing that could make this moment more perfect was if he was begging for forgiveness at my feet.
With the palm of my hand, I pushed his head back until he was staring up at the ceiling. “You’re looking mighty pathetic, Mr. Bishop.” Straddling his lap, I glanced back at Romero and gave him a shy smile. “Will you hold him still for me, please?”
Without a sound of protest, he circled back around the chair and took a firm hold of the bishop by his graying hair.
I placed the tip of the knife at the base of his throat and slowly twisted it in. The bishop let out a low wail between his sobs.
“Aw, does it hurt really bad?” I cooed, poking out my lower lip.
