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“I’m not done yet. I still need Sid and his men. Then there’s the man from the party. I want to see him bleed.”
Nodding at Kain’s declaration, I stuff the horrid memories of Sid and his men and the man with the scar over his right eye back into their boxes and focus on the here and now. I pick up a dull pocketknife with a red handle and cut my gaze in Paul’s direction.
Thick red liquiddrips from the tip of the blade hanging loosely in Eden’s hand, hanging by her side. Her other hand rests on her hip as she studies the words she just finished carving, her brows dipped low in concentration.
She’s a vision of carnal sin and desire with blood on her hands and revenge in her eyes. Dressed in those tight black yoga pants that hug her ass and hips, showing off the long, lean line of her legs, and a sports bra framing the muscles she’s built from hours of training. Both highlight the curves her body has taken on now that she’s eating properly. She removed my jacket before getting started, stating that she didn’t want to taint its perfect scent with Paul’s abhorrent blood.
Fuck if my cock doesn’t jump with every move she makes, inflicting pain on the monster sitting in the center of the room who tortured her—mind, body, and soul.
“I don’t know if this really describes him fully. What do you think? Maybe something else?” she asks, turning to face me, a torn expression on her face.
“Delusional. Sadistic. Pervert. Slimy. Putrid. Vile. Trout Sniffer. What the hell is a trout sniffer?” I ask with a chuckle from my place leaning against a pillar after reading off the words carved into Paul’s chest and thighs.
Eden shrugs one shoulder and gives me a smile. “We’d have to ask Buzz.”
“And who exactly is Buzz?” I cross my arms over my chest as though jealously just hit me.
“That’s Kevin’s big brother.”
“And who the fuck is Kevin?” I stand up straight and drop my arms, my hands in fists pretending to get frustrated. The laugh that escapes Eden lets me know the show is working.
“From theHome Alonemovies.”
“Woman,” I growl. “You had me ready to murder. No man gets near you that isn’t me, one of my brothers, my father, or someone we approved of, like Harley.”
“Possessive much?” she teases, turning her attention back to Paul.
“Fucking right, I am,” I say, resuming my position against the pillar to watch her work.
“I like it,” she whispers to herself under her breath, but I still hear every word. She has no idea what she’s just done with those three little words. She’s sealed her fate. That’s it—I’m never letting her go—even if it means I have to brand her to make sure she can’t leave me.
Eden walks behind Paul, trailing the sharp edge of the blade along his skin, a teasing, torturous touch. Standing behind him, she presses the tip into his skin, carving something new into his shoulder. Blood runs down his chest, and he screams around the ball still in his mouth.
Paul jerks away from the knife, causing it to slip, and Eden sighs in frustration. She slaps him on the side of his head and growls, “You messed me up. Now I’ll have to start over on the other side.”
Paul’s eyes screw shut with the first slice of her blade, and a strangled noise escapes him. His hands fist the metal arm rests, and his body visibly vibrates with his efforts to remain still.
“What are you carving there, little killer?”
Eden’s head snaps up, and a wicked grin crosses her face. “Little killer, huh? I kind of like it. If you want to know what I’m doing, come and see.”
Standing behind Eden, I place my hands on her hips. God, now that I’ve let myself taste her, I can’t get enough of touching her. The feel of her body close to mine, wrapped in my arms, my hands possessively holding her, is like a drug. I crave her when she’s not near and need more of her when she is.
“Hmm, not bad. The lines could use a little fine tuning in areas but, overall, the artistry is well done,” I say, peering over her shoulder at the image of a dick she’s carving into Paul’s shoulder.
She twists her wrist, adding two small bumps to the bottom, and hums to herself. “I think it’s done.”
“It’s beautiful, little killer.” I kiss her on the cheek and step back. “What’s next?”
“I need him on his back, on the metal table,” she commands, walking over to the table with tools meant for couples to share duringtrust filledintimate moments. Tools that were instead used to inflict pain and humiliation on my beautiful girl.
I cut Paul loose and forcefully walk him forward five feet to the metal table and push him on top, positioned on his back. He bucks weakly under my hold. After a week in captivity—tied to a chair—and a couple hours of slow, torturous pain, he’s not putting up much of a fight. I bind his wrists together and tie his arms over his head to the legs of the table.
“Legs apart,” Eden chimes in as I gather more rope, about to tie his ankles together.
Nodding in understanding, I spread his legs, and tie one to each of the legs of the table. “Do you want his arms spread out as well?” I ask, looking over my handiwork, tugging on the ropes to ensure they’re secure.
“No, that’s fine. He didn’t pay much attention to my arms when he tied me down. On this table, I want him to experience what he put me through.” She cracks the whip she’s holding in the air. The leather strips snapping together causes Paul to flinch and whine where he lies.
