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He runs his fat fingers across the side of my face. His touch makes my insides churn with disgust. His thumb pulls at my lower lip. Licking his lips, he hums his approval at whatever disgusting thought runs through his mind. Unable to move my arms, I use the only thing at my disposal. In an instant, I clutch his thumb between my teeth and bite down with all the force I can muster. The sound of the blow he lands across my face is muted by his screams before my teeth chatter with a snap. Pain slackens my jaw, allowing him to pry it free. Damn.

Smirking, albeit painfully, I watch him stagger back, clutching his hand to his chest.

“Here, I just thought you were a stupid old man wasting money on pointless vases,” I say through a forced chuckle.

“They weren’t pointless, sweetheart. They were a little taste of home, chosen especially for you.”

Well, someone has done their fucking homework. He knows more about me than most. I should be impressed.

The taste of iron coats my mouth, and I’m unable to tell if it’s his or mine, so I let out a sigh. Observing the carnage of his finger, I’d say probably a little bit of both. I’m pretty proud of myself actually. That’s not half bad. If I’d had more time, I could’ve done better.

“I hope you can manage to maintain that smugness, sweetheart.” He takes a step toward me. “Do you not recognize who they are?” He lifts his uninjured hand and points to the statues closest to me.

The one to my left seems to mimic the pose of Aphrodite in her shell. One arm bound across her chest; the other holding a sheet, veiling the lower portion of her body. Examining the features of her face, my stomach drops. The missing girls.

A fog of red swims across my vision as my eyes turn back to Lennox. The smug look on his face only drops when he winces from the pain of his finger, which he’s currently wrapping in a handkerchief. I know I should have some small piece of me that feels bad over trusting him. But there isn’t. Plenty of people in this world have broken my trust. One more asshole isn’t going to make a difference.

“How pathetic. You got so lonely you had to torture innocent women to make friends.” He lets out a boisterous, mocking laugh.

“That’s cute. But I know of your little collection,” he says as he leans against the cart. “What makes you think you’re any better than me?”

“I don’t think I’m better than you. I know I am. The men I kill deserve to die. Besides, they’re prettier that way.”

“Ah. Some misplaced moral high ground.” He shakes his head. “Here I thought you were slightly more enlightened.” He pulls out a long scalpel and begins to rotate it in the light.

“Enlightened doesn’t mean you forget the difference between right or wrong.”

Rolling my eyes against the pain, my thoughts begin to jumble. Speaking is becoming torturous, but the absence of light in the windows means the sun has set. I just need to buy some time for Ethan’s stalking tendencies to kick in. I hate to admit it, but I appreciate his insistence on knowing my location.

“Again. Misplaced moral high ground. There is nothing different in what you do to what I do,” he says, running the flat edge of the scalpel along my jaw.

“There’s a very big difference.” He cocks his head to the side with a smirk, the point of the scalpel grazing my cheek. “I balance the scales. A predator of predators. You’re a predator of the vulnerable. A coward. Unnecessary weight on the wrong scale.”

Blood pools in my mouth as he strikes my face. I brace for the pain, but feathered numbness settles over my body.

Hissing through gritted teeth, he raises the blade to my throat.

“And yet, here we are.”

A trickle of warmth follows the cold trail of the blade biting into my skin. My eyes close, allowing my senses to heighten. The trickle of warmth leaves a coolness in its wake.

If this man is going to toy with me, I might as well have some fun of my own. Letting my body go limp, my head slumps forward, sending my hair forward like a curtain. Feathering taps click along the smooth floor as he steps closer. His brown leather shoes come into vision. Fucking tassels? His arm lifts to place a touch but curls back in hesitation. My lips twitch, but I will my body to remain lax. The absence of light across the gloss of the obsidian floor tells me he’s nearly where I want him. Finally, I feel his breath along the top of my hair.

Snapping my head back, I feel the crunch before I hear his scream.

Pain—sharp, biting, and blinding—radiates across my scalp. His beady eyes narrow as tears stream down his cheeks. The humor of it all bubbles up inside my throat until I can’t hold back any longer.

“Even tied up…” I say through a laugh. “I’m still kicking your ass.”

The redness of his face increases tenfold. His wild eyes sharpen on me over the hand covering his nose.

“Don’t you ever shut the fuck up?” His strangled voice sounds behind his fingers.

“Fuck no. If you’re gonna truss me up like a hog to market, I’ll be talking shit the whole damn time. Loudly. And often.”

He grumbles and walks over to the vat. Reaching up, he grabs a large metal pole and sinks it inside. When he pulls the pole out, he shakes his head and throws it to the ground.

“It’s not ready yet. I knew I should have started warming the wax sooner.” He turns to me. “No matter. I’ll have more time to play. Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ll be my masterpiece.”