Page 133 of Pucked Around and Found Out

I grab him by the throat and slam him against the wall so hard his skull cracks against concrete.

He's dazed, eyes unfocused, blood leaking from his ears.

I pull the knife from his tactical belt.

“Wrong day to come to work,” I tell him.

Then I drive the blade into his gut.

Slowly.

Watching his eyes widen as he feels the steel pierce through skin, muscle and organs.

I twist, opening him up, and his screams are music to my ears.

Better than any fucking symphony.

Another agent rushes me from behind.

Amateur.

I spin, catching his arm, breaking it at the elbow.

The bone punches through skin—a compound fracture, jagged and white against red.

He's screaming, stumbling back.

I drive my knee into his face.

Teeth explode. His nose caves in. Blood sprays in an arc that's almost artistic. He drops and I'm on him immediately, straddling his chest.

“How many of you did Fiona send?” I ask conversationally, the knife at his throat.

He's choking on blood and broken teeth, unable to answer.

“Doesn't matter,” I decide. “You're all going to die anyway.”

I position the knife at the corner of his mouth.

“But first, I'm taking a souvenir.”

I cut.

Slowly, carefully, carving along his lips.

The blade is sharp—clinical-grade—and it slices through flesh like butter. He's trying to scream but the sound is wet, garbled and so fucking beautiful.

Blood pours over my hands, warm and slick.

This is the second best feeling in the fucking world!

I peel the lips away from his face in two neat pieces, examining my work.

Perfect.

I tuck them into my pocket carefully.

For my treasure jar. My precious jar has been neglected and needs some new lips inside her.