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13
Knox
The guy is pretty big,but between the two of us, Priest and I get him down to the basement with no problems. It’s easier when he’s out cold like he is, not struggling and cursing and trying to bribe us to let him go like he was before.
Like that would have even worked.
He’s a fucking idiot for even trying, and I would be pissed about it, except it means I get to play with him, which is fine with me. More than fine.
“Where do you want him?” Priest asks, his quiet voice cutting into my thoughts.
“Against the wall,” I say. Sometimes I have a table I drag out and set up. I tie whoever needs questioning down and make them watch me get set up. But this time, I want the guy standing. I want him to be on the same level as me when I fuck him up. So he knows he’s not too big or strong to get on our bad side.
There’s that old saying about how the bigger they are, the harder they fall, and it’s cliché as fuck but kind of funny in this situation.
I snort as Priest shoves the guy up against the wall and starts shackling him to it, using the ones for his wrists to keep him pinned before kneeling to do up the ankle cuffs too.
“Something funny?” That same flat voice he always uses just makes me smile more.
“Nah. Just looking forward to this.”
Priest stands up and brushes his hands off on his pants, eyeing the guy. “You can handle this?” he asks me.
I roll my eyes. “Don’t I always?”
He nods, his cool blue eyes blank. “I guess so. Should I say have fun?”
I grin at him, and I know it’s sharp edged and feral. “Aww, thanks, Priest. You know I will.”
He nods again and leaves, shutting the door firmly before his footsteps retreat upstairs.
I don’t mind being down here alone, left to do my work with no one around. I know Priest doesn’t get off on this shit like I do, so I take point on things like this when they need to get done. It’s the way it’s always worked.
None of the other guys shy away from violence when it’s necessary, but I’m the one who finds joy and passion in it. It makes that excited feeling dance under my skin, and I already feel more alive just looking at the guy chained to the wall like he’s a canvas waiting for me to make some goddamn art.
I cross to the cabinet where I keep my tools and unlock it with a key I keep on me at all times. There’s so much to choose from. Knives and scalpels. Pliers and hammers. Lighters and tasers and ice packs. There are so many different ways to break a person. Some people respond to pain, some to discomfort. Some people are determined not to respond at all, and then you have to really get in there and get creative.
But there’s always a way. Everybody has a breaking point, and finding it is like an art. It’s like sex, when you’re trying to find all the places that make a person scream in pleasure—only instead, it’s pain.
But it bringsmepleasure, and I shiver with excitement as I take my selections back to where the fucker is still out cold, head lolling to one side.
I’ve got what I like to call a sampler platter. A little bit of everything so I can see what he responds to best. Or worst, I guess.
A few minutes later, his eyes flutter open, and he shifts in the chains. I watch the realization come over him, his face going from groggy and confused to pissed and panicked in one second flat.
“What the fuck?” he demands, thrashing in the chains and making a whole lot of racket as they bang against the wall. “Where the fuck am I? What the fuck?”
“One punch in the face and you’ve already forgotten what you did?” I ask. “That’s kinda fucked up.”
“You,” he says, zeroing in on my face.
I grin and wave at him. “Me.”
“Fuck you,” he spits. “Let me go. You can’t do this.”
I laugh, and it’s not a happy sound. I’ve definitely seen people get freaked out when I laugh like that, and the guy stops struggling for a second, staring at me in silence.
I pick up one of the scalpels in my hand, rolling it between my fingers.
