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The door closes, and I lock it behind us. I don’t lessen this for her. I refuse to. She wants to see me work, so she will get that. I won’t change who I am, not even to keep her. I can’t.
“Al—”
I cover her mouth. “No names,” I hiss in the dark before leaving her there. I can almost hear her uncertainty as I make my way over to the back wall and hit the switch. Names aren’t a big thing this time, since the man will die, but it’s a good lesson to teach her about how I operate. The lights buzz on, and she shields her face, her gaze roving around, unsure and nervous, until they land on him.
Pure terror dilates her eyes as she stares behind me at the man tied to a chair. I drink it in, bathing in her fear, refusing to guide her over in case she rejects my touch. No, I need to be me—the killer.
I turn away from her and focus on him, trying to pretend she isn’t here, which is hard when I hear her moving closer.
He’s blindfolded and gagged, and his nails are broken from digging into the metal chair, trying to find a weakness. His ankles are tied to each cemented leg, and his hair sticks to his sweaty head.
“Who’s there?” he mumbles around the gag, but I don’t answer him.
He will talk when I want him to and not a moment before. I slowly strip off my jacket and roll up my sleeves before laying out my tools and checking each one. When I’m prepared, I glance over to find Layla there, her phone in her face. When I snatch it from her, I see she wasn’t taking pictures or anything but googling the man behind me.
It must have taken her a while, but his face is recognizable enough even with the gag and blindfold. He’s a cold rapist, one the police could never charge due to his money and the fact that he’s a diplomat in this country. His list of crimes is longer than his bank account receipts, with victims as young as Zoey—which is why I wanted to take this job.
To get revenge for them, give them peace, and make their monster, their abuser, suffer.
I didn’t want her to know though. I wanted Layla to think I was a bastard, a cruel evil man killing for the sake of it, but I guess there’s no going back now. She will still have to watch me torture and kill a man, and no matter what kind of monster he is, that shit is never easy to swallow.
At all.
“I get an extra million for making you suffer,” I tell him as I pocket her phone and stop before him.
Pulling off the blindfold, I smirk to see his eyes squeezed closed as if not seeing me will save him. I leave the gag in, not wanting to hear his blubbering just yet. Pulling out my phone, I set it up to record for the clients, purposely making sure Layla is out of it and they only see my back. After all, anonymity is key in this game.
After we are done here, I’ll edit it so no faces or names are spoken and then send it over. For now, though, I look over at Layla as I run my hands over my tools, and when she winces, I stop on that one to see it’s a hammer. Smirking, I turn back to the man, smacking it in my other palm. “This is going to hurt,” I tell him conversationally before swinging the hammer down on his kneecap.
His eyes bulge, and his whole body arches in agony as he hollers behind his gag, spittle running down his chin. I watch it happen, and when he slumps, I finally reach forward and rip off the gag. “And this will as well,” I remark, and without flourish, I smash the hammer down on his other kneecap.
His anguish-filled scream echoes around the warehouse, his body jerking in shock and pain as he begs.
“Mercy, please!”
“Did you show your victims mercy?” I demand. Gripping his limp, sweaty hair as I yank his head back until he meets my eyes. “Did you?”
“No,” he whispers, his eyes glassy in shock.
“Then don’t expect any from me. Now where were we?” I put the hammer down and pick up some barbed wire next, and then I slowly and meticulously wind it around both of his legs and pull until it cuts into his pants and skin. Blood runs down his knees and pools on the floor below the chair.
Layla makes a noise, and when I look back, she’s pale, wide-eyed, and looking like she might vomit. “Leave,” I demand, knowing she can’t handle it, but seeing it firsthand fucking hurts, especially when her eyes flick to me and she looks at me like she doesn’t know me.
I tried to warn her, but she didn’t listen, and now I can see I’ve already lost her. Turning away before I beg her to stay, I get back to work, trying to tell myself I won’t care if she leaves.
My heart splinters in my chest, making me wish for the days when it was cold and dead. Just like the man I’m torturing, I wish I could beg for mercy from her, but I know I wouldn’t even if I could. I would hand her my heart and soul all over again, even knowing she was going to shatter them.
I work for hours on the man, breaking each toe, finger, and rib before carving into his skin and electrocuting him. Crouched before him, I stare up at his blood-covered face and debate turning to look at Layla, but I know she’s left.
She had to, right?
Then something unexpected happens.
Her hand lands on my shoulder.
Turning to gaze up at her with hope, I notice the determination in her eyes as they meet mine.
“Let me.”
