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“This is my brother, Demetrius, and he loves to draw. I always tell him he needs to give up crime and do something with his life, like become a tattoo artist. He’s very talented. You should see some of the work he does.” Ansel turned his head, beaming at Demie. “But he refuses to switch to drawing with needles. He just enjoys using knives too much. It’s more of a challenge.”
“I just love the sounds people make when I cut into them with my blade,” Demie added with a shiver of excitement evident in his voice. He twisted something sharp and shiny between his fingers. The goblin bucked, screaming at them to let him go, as Ansel slowly assessed him from head to toe.
After a few seconds, Ansel took a step backwards and turned his attention to Demie, who was practically salivating with bloodlust. “What are you in the mood for, mate? Want to draw a butterfly on his face?”
Demie regarded their victim, lifting the goblin’s chin with the edge of his knife. “Not even one of my butterflies could fix that ugly mug.”
“Well, let inspiration take the wheel,” Ansel said. He jerked a chin towards Liam, who silently strode behind the goblin, holding down his shoulders.
“Boss, look at this,” Demie said, hovering over the goblin’s arm. Demie had rolled up the goblin’s sleeve and twisted his forearm towards Ansel. From the angle, I couldn’t see what was on his skin, but whatever was made Ansel very angry. I could feel the tension thicken, even from my hiding spot on the landing, like an explosive seconds before detonating.
Ansel’s gaze flicked to the goblin, whose face had drained of all color. “I should cut your arm off for having that,” Ansel growled, sounding more beast than orc. He jerked his attention to Demie, still holding the goblin’s arm. “Cut off the tattoo,” he ordered Demie.
Ansel took a step in front of the men, completely blocking my view. Thank the goddess because the sounds the goblin made were frightening enough. His chair rocked and thrashed as the screaming grew louder. So much screaming. I held a hand over my mouth as nausea roiled through my gut. The crook of Demie’s arm moved as he sliced away skin. Eventually, the screaming stopped, replaced by muffled sobs.
It took only a few minutes. Demie straightened to his full height, and turned to Ansel, holding up the sliced piece of skin for Ansel to see. Ansel nodded once in approval and Demie tossed the piece of skin over his shoulder. It landed somewhere near the shattered tooth.
I’m going to be sick. I’m going to be sick,I thought as saliva filled my mouth.
Ansel stared at the gushing wound on the goblin’s arm. Red oozed out of the wound and trickled over, running down the arm of the chair. “Much better,” Ansel said, tilting his head up to look the goblin in the eye. “What should we write next? A message for Gregor to read when he finds your dead body?"
The goblin’s crying intensified.“No! Please, Ansel! Have mercy!”
“Mercy?” He gave a humorless laugh and leaned into the goblin’s face. “Don’t you dare lecture me about mercy.” He jerked his head towards Demie again, who drew closer with the knife.
“Please!” the captive screeched, stretching out the word until it turned into a sob. It took him a moment to get his sobbing under control enough to speak. "I don't know where he is. I don’t know where he is,” the goblin chanted between tears. When he caught his breath, he quickly said, “I swear to the Gods. I swear on my mother’s grave. I don’t know where Gregor is hiding. You know how paranoid he is. Ever since you left, he's doubled his security. Only his right-hand men know where he hides out now."
Ansel stared at him, considering his words. "If you don't know anything, give us a reason why we shouldn't cut you up into a million pieces."
"Nightshade!" he finally screamed, his chest heaving against the ropes tied across his chest. "The club Nightshade.” He stared at Ansel for a long moment. “I know you’re familiar with it. I work there on and off as a bouncer. Gregor doesn’t hang out there anymore, but a few of the men close to him do. They’re still paranoid as shit and only let a few waitresses in, but the ladies have said if you get a couple drinks in them, it really loosens them up.”
“Could you get us in there?” It was Liam who spoke this time. He was still standing behind the goblin, but his wide eyes were on Ansel. “We could ambush them—”
“No,” the goblin said quickly. “Not you three. There are too many people working for Gregor, they would recognize you immediately. It’s too much of a risk.”
“When do they meet there?” Ansel asked.
“Friday night, usually. When drinks and dances are half-priced.”
Ansel leaned over the goblin’s chair, leaning into his face. Ansel raised a thumb and pressed it into the open wound. The goblin grunted and thrashed but said nothing. “I’m letting you go for now,” Ansel said, his words slow and deliberate. “If I hear one word that you told Gregor anything, even the color of the inside of my warehouse, I will hunt you down and carve out your heart myself.” The goblin gasped once Ansel finally removed his thumb. He wiped it across the goblin’s shirt, leaving a red streak across his chest.
“Ansel, what about the club? This could be our chance,” Liam said.
Ansel held Liam’s gaze for a moment before shaking his head once.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” the goblin said. I could tell he was shaking. “If Gregor finds out I was here and told you about the club . . . Well, I don’t even want to think about it.”
“Get him out of my warehouse,” Ansel growled, stepping away and into the darkness. Without another word, Demie pressed a white cloth across his face and the goblin’s head slumped forward on his chest. Chloroform. I only knew because it was what they had used on me the other night.
My chest burned as my heart hammered against my ribcage. Down below, I could hear the loud metal clunk of Ansel’s boots as he climbed the staircase. His footsteps heavy. Angry.
I army crawled backwards through the door, my shirt lifting above my breasts and exposing my bare skin to the cold floor. But I didn’t care—Ansel was coming. In the darkness, I scrambled into bed, yanking the blanket over my head. The door opened a few minutes later, but I could barely hear it over the pounding of my own heart. Ansel headed to the bathroom, flicked on the light. The faucet ran as he washed his hands, and when he returned, he changed his clothes once again.
He moved to my side of the bed, and I held my breath, waiting. Finally, he lowered to the ground, groaning as he struggled to find a comfortable spot on the floor.
You are sharing a room with a psychopath,a voice screamed in my head. Do you think he’s cute now? After seeing him torture somebody?
I shivered under the blanket, wishing this was just a bad dream I would wake up from. I wanted to cry and throw up at the same time. There was no point trying to sleep now—I was too afraid, especially with Ansel in arm’s reach.
