Page 38 of Inflict

He liked the cuts.

He liked the way they bled.

He didn’t have to explain why.

“A bullet would be faster.”

“I don’t like fast.”

Mikhail released a sigh, shaky and heavy all at once. “Neither does your father.”

Yes.

Because even if they were different, they were still the same.

Connor didn’t offer that apology; he had nothing to be sorry for. Instead, he gave the Russian something else. “I made it quick. Quicker than this will be, Mikhail.”

Mikhail nodded.

Good enough.

Connor’s knife made its first cut before Mikhail was even capable of realizing his throat had been sliced with a tiny slit. The quickest move, one Connor had perfected and learned over the years, and Mikhail’s vocal cords were cut as his mouth fell open and blood began to fall in rivulets down his tattooed body.

The puddle of blood on the floor grew larger.

Connor felt calmer.

He knew this better than anything else.

He enjoyed the sounds a man usually made while he died, but being in a densely-populated area with neighbors close by, it was not something Connor could afford. That didn’t mean it would be easy, or fast, for the Russian. It just meant he would be reduced to grunts, gagging, and gurgles for the next hour.

Mikhail’s hands came up to his throat, his fingertips dancing over the cut and the fresh blood. The sounds he made were almost guttural—of pain and surprise; of fear and anger.

Before he could think to attack, Connor moved again, making sure his victim would be appropriately rendered incapable as he finished his job. He twisted Mikhail in one arm, turning the man as his blade sliced deep into the backs of the man’s knees, cutting the tendons, and forcing him to fall limp like a ragdoll. He didn’t do the same to his elbows.

Connor didn’t see the point.

Spread out limp and unable to fight back, his victim made blood trails across old hardwood floors as he attempted to crawl back into the main room. Connor let him go, for a short while, and then he followed.

Connor inhaled the sudden rush of peace settling deep in his chest, as he crouched down over the man. He allowed the tip of his knife to draw the nicest, straightest line down the flesh of a now tense, arching back, watching skin split open and blood well.

This was why he wore his mask, why he pretended he was so different from his father, and why he never cared to reflect on the image staring back at him when he cared to pay it any attention.

A monster stared back.

It always stared back.

Destroy the house. Destroy the house.

Connor’s internal mantra helped him to focus on his new task at hand, and not the dead body he’d left in the next room. If he needed to, he could syphon a bit of gas from his Harley, but he was in a Russian’s home. A Russian who had been drunk.

Mikhail had a whole cabinet devoted to spirits, Connor found. Had he been in the mood for a drink, this place would have been just as good as a damn bar. Unfortunately, he had other things to worry about, and other uses for the liquor.

Connor grabbed two bottles of whiskey, cracking them open and tipping them over as he walked through the bottom level of the house. The smell of the liquor almost overtook the smell of the blood in the house, but it wasn’t nearly enough to do the trick entirely. It probably didn’t help that Connor was bloodstained and filthy, his hands covered in reddish-brown tracks of drying blood.

It wasn’t a smell he could escape.

Even if he wanted to.