Grant tries to curl in on himself even before she lifts the shears. His scream rips out fast, strained and frantic. He knows exactly what she is about to take from him.
I stay where I am and watch her.
She isn’t breaking him to prove a point. She is removing the last thing he ever used to hurt anyone. She is taking back every inch of power he stole.
Grant thrashes against the restraints, the straps biting into his wrists and ankles as his body jerks and twists. He is stripped down to nothing but his underwear, leaving him exposed in a way that makes the fear hit harder. His thighs tremble. His heels scrape against the table, dragging uselessly for leverage he can't find. His panic fills the room in broken, uneven sounds that echo off the concrete walls.
Brooke steps in without hesitation. She grips the waistband and yanks his underwear down, forcing him fully exposed, leaving him with nothing left to hide behind.
The blade comes up next.She positions it at the base of his groin, right where the skin meets the root of his dick.
A sound tears out of him, raw and broken.
Then she cuts.
The shears part his flesh in a single, brutal motion. It opens the skin around the entire organ, slicing through the shaft and the thin tissue that encases both testicles. Blood pours immediately. Thick, hot, pulsing streams run down her wrist and coat the inside of her palm. His nuts split open as she drags the blades downward. Both testicles spill free, still attached byconnective tissue for a moment before she severs everything with a decisive finish.
As a man, watching that hits me in a place instinct tries to guard. Everything below my belt pulls tight fast, like my body thinks I’m the one getting sliced open. It should make me sick.
It doesn’t.
Because it’s Grant. Because the bastard earned this. Because seeing the one thing he shoved into every victim he ever took get hacked off him feels so goddamn right I almost smile. He spent his whole life acting like that shit made him powerful. Now it’s gone, useless, bleeding out like the rest of him.
And I’ll be honest. Watching him lose it makes me feel fucking good.
What was once his dick and balls drops from her hand onto the floor. The severed penis, the emptied pouch of the scrotum, and the testicles lie in a mangled heap, glistening under the overhead light.
Grant’s body jerks so violently the chains rattle. His voice cracks. His breath comes in wet, broken gasps. He doesn't pass out. He feels every inch of the raw, exposed wound where his genitals used to be.
Brooke takes one step back.
“There,” Brooke smiles. “Now no one will ever have to feel you inside them again.”
I get the blowtorch and ignite it.
The blue flame roars to life. I step toward the open wound between his legs, and the heat hits him before the flame does. His scream tears straight up through his chest. It climbs in pitch. It shreds into something thin and animal-like.
I pressed the flame to the bleeding tissue. The wound sizzles. The edges curl and blacken. The smell thickens. His body bucks so hard the table shifts an inch. He is crying now, choking on his own breath, but I continue until every open vessel is sealed shut in a blistered, ruined mass of charred flesh.
I turned off the torch. The room goes quiet except for his rasping breaths. What remains between his legs is nothing but a blackened crater, cauterized and destroyed, the final proof of exactly what we took from him.
Brooke straightens, I step closer and reach out. Wipe a smear of blood from her cheek with my thumb. Her eyes flick to mine.
I’ve never wanted her more than I do right now. Not just because of what she’s done. But because of what it cost her. What she gave up to be this, here, now, with me.
And I’ll never let anyone touch her again.
She leans in, whispers something to Grant. He’s barely conscious, barely alive. But I watch his eyes twitch. He hears her. Whatever she says, it’s meant to be the last thing his mind clings to.
She turns away from him. Looks at me. “That’s enough for now.”
I nod, wrapping an arm around her waist. We walk upstairs, leaving the door open. Letting him hear our steps, our silence, our calm. Because he knows now, he is nothing to us.
I want to ask about Travis. I already know the answer, I can see it on Brooke’s face, but I need to hear her say it. I need the truth out loud, even if it kills me.
“He’s alive,” her voice cracks. “Still not stable. Naomi’s with him. Beau and the kids stayed. I told them to call me if anything changes.”
I nod, because talking feels dangerous. The truth sits heavy in my chest, and I can feel it pushing up, trying to force its way out. I don’t want to admit that I’m scared. I don’t want to say out loud that I keep seeing the amount of blood he lost, and my brain keeps doing the math that men like him don’t survive that kind of hit.
