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“Is that a good thing?” she asks, and I feel her hand on my back.
I glance over at her and grin, and she swallows at the sight. “A very good thing,” I purr, and she hands over a scalpel without me even asking. Ah, now she’s getting into it.
Turning back to the man, I let him see the madness that lurks deep within me, the fire they started in me as a child that not even I can control.
Stepping closer, I stare into the assassin’s eyes as I drag the sharp edge of the blade across his skin, cutting through thick scar tissue until he hisses again, his eyes squinting. I do it again across his chest and arms before grabbing the knife in his shoulder and twisting. “Now, anything to say? How about we start simply—who do you work for?”
“Santa,” he sneers, making me laugh, so I dig the blade in deeper, watching the blood drip from the wound.
“As an assassin, I’m betting your trigger finger is important, correct?” I muse out loud.
He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and I suddenly yank the knife out, forcing a scream from his throat. The sound is sweet to my ears and makes me hard like nothing else can…other than my little bird.
Turning, I grab the saw, reach up, and start in on his finger, whistling to myself. He shouts and jerks, trying to fight. Blood squirts across the shackles and his hand until I hit the bone. Swearing, I work the blade harder. “Stupid saw, it’s so hard to find a good bone cutting one that doesn’t blunt too easily,” I tell him conversationally. “You wouldn’t believe the amount of times I’ve had to replace it.” I sigh as I rip his finger off and toss it away. Dropping the saw to the floor, I grab my lighter and, grinning inches away from his face, press it to the wound to stop him from bleeding.
He screams again, and as the scent of burning flesh hits me, I groan. Flicking the lighter shut, I step back with a nod, looking him over. “Shall we try again?”
“Fuck you.” He spits at me, snot dripping from his nose and saliva dribbling down his chin.
“Very well.” Grabbing the scalpel again, I begin to stab and slice, my movements random and chaotic so he can’t brace.
But his screams ring in my ears, echoing around me, drawing up other screams from the past, mixing with the scent of burnt flesh. I cut faster and faster, stabbing.
I keep slashing with screams, laughing in between. I can’t stop. Fire flickers around me, my mother’s shrieks ringing in my head until a hand pierces the flames. Coming straight to me.
“D, look at me,” the voice demands. It’s low, sultry.
Familiar.
“Little Bird?” I murmur, freezing.
She grabs my hand and the blade. Panting, I blink, and the room comes back into focus. She’s standing before the bloodied, gagging man. Her hand is gripping the blade, cutting her own skin to stop me from using it again. When she sees me back, she smiles. “You left me.”
“Never,” I murmur, looking into those eyes.
“You can’t kill him, not yet, you haven’t got your information,” she cautions.
“You weren’t trying to save him?” I inquire with a frown, a sudden burst of jealousy pouring through me. How dare he? She’s mine!
She leans into the blade to draw my gaze back to her, and only then do I realise I had started growling like an animal. She gasps in pain, her eyes dilating as her blood drips down the knife’s edge and across my hand, making me groan. “No. Trying to help you,” she whispers, her voice pained.
Covering her hand, I dig the blade in deeper, and she whimpers but lets me. I groan and pull her hand away, tossing the blade before pulling her into my arms. Her hands come up to my face, framing it. I can feel her blood on her hand, coating my cheeks, and my cock jerks at the sensation as she desperately reaches up, but she’s small.
Grinning, I lift her from the floor until our lips meet. It’s a raw, painfilled kiss, and brings me back from the brink like nothing else can. Replacing the impression of flames licking at my skin with her softness. The taste of smoke with her sweetness. The sound of my mum’s screams with her moan which I swallow.
Pulling away, I place her feet back down on the floor, and she wobbles slightly, unbalanced, so I hold her up.
“I need to sit down,” she murmurs, panting.
“My face is available,” I retort, and a laugh tumbles from her swollen lips.
Grinning, I carry her over to the toolbox and sit her upon it. I unpeel her curled in, injured fist, and I take a look at the cut—it’s not too deep. Leaning down, eyes on hers, I kiss it, her blood coating my mouth. I straighten and lick my lips, tasting the metallic tang of her, and she shifts, licking her own lips.
Oh yes, my little bird likes me feral. Mean. A beast.
Mad.
Feeling more like myself and in control, I turn back to the man and smile. “Sorry about that. Now, do you have anything to say?”
