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Jett smirked as he reached into a duffel on the bench and dug around for a second. Without a word, he pulled out a severed human hand. The feminine fingers had chipped red polish and were curled tight like they’d been clawing for something in their final moments.

What really stood out, though, was the fact that where the hand had been hacked off, it wasn’t a clean cut. It was ragged, and the bone jutting out was jagged and splintered, the flesh shredded in uneven strips like something with teeth had gnawed through muscle and tendon until it finally ripped free.

“He was carrying this,” Jett said flatly, tossing the hand onto the concrete with a wet thud that echoed around the room.

The prisoner in the chair went still, and he started staring at the hand almost obsessively, muttering to himself.

Ryder whistled low and began circling the chair similar to a shark scenting blood. “Well, now, that’s a new party trick. Where’d you get that hand, buddy?” He nudged it with his boot, rolling it slightly so the mangled wrist faced up, exposing more of those savage bite marks. “Did you get hungry or something?”

The man spat a thick glob of blood onto the concrete, the red splatter dark and fresh, and I wondered idly if it was all his—or if some still lingered from whatever nightmare he’d ripped that woman’s hand from, gnawing it off like a rabid animal.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he coughed, that smug, broken grin splitting wider, displaying crimson-stained teeth as his good eye gleamed with misguided defiance.

Ryder chuckled darkly. “Oh, that’s cute. Let’s see how funny you are missing a few more teeth.” He straightened and pulled a pair of latex gloves from his back pocket, putting them on with a snap that echoed off the concrete walls. “My turn first? I’m working on some garland for the house, and it needs a handful of shiny pieces to really tie it together.”

I snorted, shaking my head even as a twisted grin tugged at my mouth. Ryder winked.

“You’re not that funny,” I reminded him.

“We both know that’s a lie,” he shot back as he fished a pair of forceps from his other pocket, the metal glinting under the harsh light. He leaned in close and gripped the man’s jaw hard enough to force it open like he was prying open a stubborn lock.

The prisoner’s good eye widened, finally some real fear cracking through. “You’re a psycho,” he said in a choked voice around Ryder’s grip.

“Pot meet kettle,” Ryder quipped, clamping the pliers around a back tooth with a grin. “Says the guy carrying around a chew toy that used to be attached to someone.”

The prisoner began to thrash, his muffled grunts turning desperate as Ryder clamped down, twisting slowly just to drag it out.

“Hold still, sweetheart,” Ryder cooed, his voice dripping with mock affection. “This one’s got good roots. I’m going to make it the centerpiece of the garland, right in the middle, so it catches the lights just right.”

The crack came loud and wet, blood spraying in a fine mist as he yanked it free, holding the bloody molar up to the light and admiring it.

“Perfect,” Ryder muttered, twisting it between his gloved fingers with a wicked grin. “What do you think, Jett? Nothing says festive like a string of teeth draped over the fireplace.”

Jett rolled his eyes and picked up a blade from his workbench. “Must you always be a drama queen?”

Ryder gasped theatrically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Excuse me? This is art, you Philistine. Even Martha would appreciate the aesthetic. I could pair it with some pinecones and a few fingers for that rustic touch.”

“Who the fuck is Martha?” I asked distractedly, as the prisoner whimpered and blood bubbled down his chin from the fresh gap in his gumline.

Jett snorted, twirling the blade once before pointing it lazily at me as he knelt down by the man’s feet. “He’s talking about Martha Stewart. That’s the shit you need to know now. You’re the one with a woman warming your bed every night. I’m out here single and still more prepared for domestic life than you.”

Hmm. Another good point.

I watched as Jett pressed the tip of the knife just above his heel. “Now,” Jett said conversationally. “Where’s the hand from? Who’d you take it off?”

The blade pressed deeper, not cutting yet, but promising. The guy’s breath hitched, and his body trembled as sweat mixed with the blood on his face. But he clamped his busted mouth shut, shaking his head hard with eyes wild and defiant even through the pain.

Jett sighed, but he really didn’t sound that disappointed, and he made a clean slice with the knife, severing the Achilles with a wet, satisfying pop.

The scream that ripped out of the man was so high-pitched that I winced, and I was grateful when he broke into desperate sobs as he jerked uselessly against the ropes, his foot flopping limp like a broken puppet.

“Fuck—fuck—stop!”

Ryder was frowning, his pliers dangling from his gloved hand. “He screamed louder for you. That’s unacceptable. My ego’s bruised, Jett. I’m gonna need compensation…maybe both eye teeth this time.”

He stepped forward, clamping the pliers around another tooth, twisting just enough to make the guy whimper louder as he prepped for the yank.

Buzz. Buzz.