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I grab his arm again and heave him over to a steel support beam. Lifting the plastic zip ties out of my backpack, I wrench his arms behind his back, securing them so tightly that his fingers immediately begin to turn white.
I zip-tie his feet together before grabbing some rope from my bag to wrap around his knees and torso for good measure. Fucker isn’t going anywhere. He’ll bleed out and rot in this bunker. Become nothing but sustenance for the rats and creepy crawlies that stalk this place.
When I’m done, I stand over my handiwork, cataloging the scrapes and bruises. It’s nothing compared to how he’ll look when I’m done with him. He’ll be unrecognizable.
Crouching in front of him, I slap him hard across the face. “Wake up, you asshole.”
Nothing.
With a sigh, I smack his other cheek, leaving a matching red handprint. He groans but still doesn’t open his eyes. I didn’t want him to be out for long, so I gave him a low dose. He should be waking up by now, and if he’s not, it’s because he’s a fucking pussy who doesn’t want to confront the consequences of his repulsive actions.
Bored, I get to work, slicing my knife through his top. I want a nice big canvas for what I have to do, and nothing is better to paint on than a torso. I pause when I spot the roughened, twisted skin along his left side.
My nose wrinkles in disgust. It’s hideous. A hideous scar for a hideous person—fitting. Trailing the tip of my blade over the uneven skin, I press hard enough to draw blood, slicing a shallow cut from his armpit to his hip.
The bite of pain elicits another grunt, and when I flick my gaze up to his eyes, I can see them moving beneath his closed eyelids. Watching his face closely, I put more weight behind the knife, pushing it deeper until a steady stream of blood oozes from the wound.
His face scrunches, his eyes fluttering before they finally open. “About fucking time. I was beginning to think I’d have to remove a finger before you finally woke up.”
“I just preferred spending time with my Angel in my dreams to being with you.”
Baring my teeth, I slash across his abdomen, uncaring whether he bleeds out as blood gushes freely, turning his pasty skin red before soaking into his jeans.
He grits his teeth against the pain, his nostrils flaring as he glares daggers.
“She was never yours,” I snarl. “You fucking forced yourself on her, time and again.”
His bark of laughter is cold and unhinged, an unexpected response to being told you’re a rapist, though not exactly surprising, considering he has no conscience.
“Me?” he questions, still laughing his head off. “Emilia was mine long before you even knew she existed.” He leans forward as far as his restraints will allow. “She ate up every single one of my touches. You know the first thing she did when she got home afteryourkisses? She heaved her fucking guts up.” He smirks smugly. “If anyone forced themselves on her, it was you.”
“You’re lying,” I hiss, my hand around the knife vibrating with the need to plunge it deep into his chest. But that would be too easy. The last fucker screamed for hours before he finally went to the light, and all he did was hug her. For his crimes, this one needs to scream and cower and beg for days before I finally grant him the mercy of death.
He shrugs a shoulder, utterly unfazed by the fact that he's trapped in a bunker with no one coming to his rescue and knowing he will die. "Believe what you want, but I know down to the very fabric of my soul that Emilia belongs to me." His eyes flash to the knife in my hand, showing no hint of fear before he focuses back on me. "Kill me all you want. It still won’t make her yours. What we have supersedes anything you can fathom in this world. In this life or the next, dead or alive, I’ll always find her."
Unable to listen to another untrue word from his foul mouth, I cut and slash my way across his chest and abdomen, attacking him furiously. Time passes, and when I return to my body, he's slumped beneath me, his face ashen and chest slick with blood.
Breathing heavily, I drop my arm to my side and stare at my handiwork. I get lost in the steadily pulsing blood dripping from some of the deeper cuts; the shallower patches are already congealing. Reaching out, I stab my finger into a particularly gnarly wound, ignoring his pathetic grunt as I bring my finger to his throat and drag it across the skin, forming a red horizontal line.
“That would be way too easy,” I murmur. “Besides, you don’t deserve an easy death.”
“Neither do you,” he says weakly.
Not listening to him, I place a hand against his chest, satisfied with the rapid thumping of his heart.
Flicking my gaze up to his face, I tilt my head, surprised to see that even in his weakened state, there’s still no fear. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, most humans are consumed by fear in their final moments. It dominates their every thought, drives their behavior, and causes them to plead and beg for mercy.
“Why are you not afraid?” I ask curiously.
He chuckles weakly. "What is there to fear? I’m about to be free from my ghosts, and even in the next life, I’ll still be with Emilia. She’s my guardian angel."
Sneering at him, I toss the knife aside and, reaching for my backpack, pull out a lighter. His eyes fall on it, and for the first time, fear flashes in his glassy mud-brown depths. It was there and gone in an instant, but I still get a sick satisfaction from finally accomplishing it.
I run my thumb over the spark wheel, a flame flickering to life, then I hold it between us. His eyes follow the movement, his face set in grim determination as I bring it to his skin.
His body tenses; his teeth gritted as heat licks over his left pec before I pull back. I repeat the action until he’s panting heavily, his chest heaving and sweat blending with the blood.
“Maybe I’ll torch your body when I’m done playing with it.”
