Page 6 of The Monster I Am

“Careful,” he chided. “I’ll have to redo that one, and the more I have to heal it and redo it, the more difficult it will be for you.”

He pulled a vial from his other pocket, unstoppering it and adding a touch of crimson liquid to his fingertip before painting it over the cut he’d just made. The vampire blood’s healing effects immediately knitted the wound closed, like it had never been there at all, but now there was a smear of red on the skin.

Frowning, Rhys tucked the vial away, but he was under no illusion that he wouldn’t need it again.

“Let’s try again.”

Chapter 2

Rhys

Rhys had always had a flawless memory, particularly when it came to anything visual, and it served him well as he continued to sketch the painting onto the slave’s skin. The human would likely have strong feelings about all of this when he came out of this hypersensitive state, but until then… Well, Rhys would use every bit of him.

What happened after wasn’t his concern.

He hated himself for his ability to compartmentalize, necessary as it was.

He hated himself more for being hard.

The slave was, too, despite the fact that Rhys hadn’t touched his cock during the whole process. He’d done nothing to coax arousal from him, yet here they were with the human as hard in the end as he’d become in the beginning despite his cries, sobs… and yes, screams.

This was the part he both hated and craved, when he displayed his work for the room at large while he took what they all largely considered his due.

The slave’s ass.

He might’ve taken his mouth instead, but there was something strangely intimate in his experience; besides, the slave was too deep in subspace and distant to put effort into a blowjob. Instead, he’d use his painfully erect cock in another way.

He’d left his phone at home, so he couldn’t take pictures of his handiwork, pity that that was. Both that he couldn’t have it to look at and admire, and that he couldn’t castigate himself by staring at it night after night while he wondered how long it had taken for this particular slave to die.

“What do you think?” Rhys asked Dominic, stepping away to let him see the full effect. It was striking. Not a perfect replica, of course, but it would be easy for any art aficionado to identify it. The painting was sketched — carved — across his chest, around his side, and across his back. Blood still beaded up in those cuts, not running down from the wounds.

“Exceptional,” Dominic said with a smile. “I expected no less.”

Alastair gave a nod of appreciation. “Looks good, looks good. I can see why Dominic is impressed with your skill.”

It was hard not to feel pride in his work.

Rhys knew he was going to that special hell, one where he’d be trapped with those like Dominic and Alastair Bancroft for eternity, but the monster within was pleased to have his art appreciated. He’d worked hard over the years, both to perfect the strokes of the knives and to ensure that the enchantments functioned exactly as intended.

He ran his fingers over the slave’s ass, one of the places he hadn’t marked, then slid his hand around until he could stroke the human’s cock — just once, a touch that was barely there. The creature was blissed out, moaning softly, and Rhys took pride in that, too.

“It did help that he took it so beautifully,” Rhys murmured, a touch of wistfulness in his voice. If only he could have a slave of his own, he’d take this one home. He’d take him apart, again and again, until he knew only pleasure. It would surely be better than death, wouldn’t it? Being tormented at Rhys’s hands alone? He could be a possessive master; that wouldn’t be strange.

After all, everyone knew how possessive Dominic himself was over his Rayne witch.

They knew, too, how often the Bancroft witch kept his pet pinned on the edge of arousal and pain alike, so it wasn’t strange for a witch on the highest echelons of society to use pleasure against a slave. It was a way to break them down, after all, for those whose minds were open enough to use alternative methods to simple cruelty.

Though inflicting pleasure upon an unwilling soul could be its own torture.

He nearly twitched. He’d forgotten that he was there to gain intelligence, both on Dominic and the state of the boy — as well as anything else he could glean from the partygoers. The distraction was concerning and problematic, and it was not something he would admit to those he reported back to.

They didn’t need to know how easily he’d lost himself.

Alastair smirked as he gestured at the slave’s obvious arousal, the expression both mocking and full of hungry avarice. “Seems like he was a masochist after all.” He looked like he wanted to reach out and touch the slave, something that agitated Rhys.

“So he is,” he mused with another light stroke of the slave’s cock, eliciting another moan from him that was every bit as much music to his ears as those cries and screams had been. “And a beautiful one at that.”

Dominic hummed his agreement. “Inflicting both pleasure and pain can produce some delightful results. A pity for this one to go to waste.”