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“You didn’t have to,” he answers with a grin. “You’re easier to read than you like to think.”
I roll my eyes and he snickers, pulling away and climbing out of bed. I watch him stroll into the ensuite, all chiseled back and perfect fucking ass. He comes back with a wet towel and hands it to me. “I’d take the pleasure of cleaning you myself, but I don’t think you’ll let me,” he quips with a wink.
I nearly chuck the damn thing in his face. Instead, I surprise him, and maybe even myself when I say, “Fine. Do it then.” Handing him back the warm, wet towel.
I try to keep my limbs loose as he kneels close to me on the mattress. Glancing up, his eyes darken, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip. Before I know it, he’s leaning down and giving me one long, broad lick from asshole to clit before straightening back up. I fist the sheets, my mouth opening on a silent gasp, my gaze slamming into his.
But his eyes are trained on my body, face relaxed like he didn’t just do anything that garnered any type of reaction. The towel now between my thighs, his touch tender and I immediately regret my decision. As if he’s playingemotional chickenwith me and I’m clearly losing by the way he’s watching me squirm under his stare. I evade his gaze and my eyes land on his chest. Not an inch of skin isn't covered by black and gray tattoos. Suddenly, a thought lands with a thud at the front of my mind.
“You never answered her question that day,” I say, almost to myself.
Connor plops the towel on the bedside table and sits on his heels, facing me.
“What question?”
“Did you have a birthmark over your heart before all of these tattoos?”
His eyes shutter, I know I’ve hit a nerve, but he answers anyway.
“I did.”
Chapter 38
Itonlytakesmea few days to plan out exactly what to do with Josiah Morrissey. How I’ll make him suffer. From the perfect location to kidnap him, to the method I would use to watch him take his last sorry breath. Like an artist conspiring with the universe to find inspiration for their masterpiece, I listened to the darkest of muses as they whispered how to execute my magnum opus.
Byzantine and I break into Morrisey’s mistress’ condo while he’s visiting her in the city.
In a way, it feels like poetic justice taking him from there. How he considers himself high and holy when he’s warming his withered dick in a girl fresh out of high school. She doesn’t seem all that bothered to watch him be dragged out of her bedroom, especially after the considerable amount of hush money I push into her palm before we leave.
We then interrogate him on the most pressing matters: are there any more cult plants in the government? Would the cult survive without Lenix’s brother? It takes a few hours of Byzantine torturing the Governor of California for him to finally answer yes to both. We pocket that information for later.
The final step is to let him marinate.
I don’t know what possesses me to have this kind of patience. The willpower to wait and not jump for instant gratification—but every single cell in my body knows the wait will be worth it.
Two days later, he’s ready for me. And seeing him now. It certainlywasworth it.
I step off the porch and into the yard, Byzantine on my heels. We’re at one of our safe houses, miles out of Noxport and away from civilization. I craved the freedom to hear Morrissey scream his penance into the very air I breathe.
He’s naked, on his knees, a chain wrapped around his neck connected to a cement pillar, arms tied behind his back. We’ve left him out in the scorching sun this whole time. Even from here I can see his skin is red and tender. Ripe for what’s to come.
I was feeling somewhat nostalgic for this kill. So I chose to flay him. Skinning people alive used to be a common method of torture during the medieval times. They’d typically boil the victim in hot water or leave them out in the sun for a few days to make the skin easier to peel off their body.
Morrissey’s head jerks upwards from where it was lolling between his sagged shoulders as we approach. His eyes are swollen from the sun burning his face, he squints, trying to peer at who’s walking up to him. But he knows it’s me. I’m his entire world now.
“You’re going to burn in hell for this,” he hisses, his voice hoarse from disuse and dehydration.
“Save me a seat,” I drawl.
My fist tightens around the handle of the knife I’m holding. The blade is wide and curved. Perfect for skinning a deer. Or the Governor of California.
Byzantine stays silent, keeping his distance. He knows this part is for me and me alone. Having no interest entertaining a long-winded conversation about good versus evil with this piece of shit, I decide that scalping him first might shut him the fuck up.
It doesn’t.
But his gargled screams could make an angel sing. A symphony of howls, moans, and wails while I hum to the melody of his tortured pain.
By the time I peel the skin off of his face, he’s gone silent. Most likely in shock, but he’s still conscious. I know he won’t survive getting his entire body flayed, so I relish these lasting moments where he’s holding on to his conviction, praying to false idols when he should be praying at my feet.
