Page 38 of No One Has To Know

Moving behind Carter, Burns yanks his arm behind him, snapping the cuff on his wrist. As much as I don’t want to see Carter’s dick again, I kinda don’t have a choice when Burns yanks the other arm even harder. Within seconds, his hands are cuffed behind his back.

He didn’t realize what happened until it’s too late.

“Hey!” He bucks, his limp dick flapping. Ew. “What are you doing?”

In answer, Burns reaches into the black bag.

“Second question, Santorino. Do you know what this is?” Burns asks Carter.

“I don’t fucking know.” Howling when Burns wrenches his arm, he pants out, “A flower, okay? It’s a flower.”

It’s not just a flower. It’s a kiftsgate rose.

I guess, at first glance, any layman would think it’s some kind of basic flower. You know the kind that kids draw? With a yellow circle for a center, then five lopsided petals around it in the same design as a star? One at top, two at the side, and two at the bottom? That’s what kiftsgate roses look like. They’re persistent little monsters known as a climbing rose because they can climb arbors and gazebos. Most of the flowers grow in bunches, creating wicked barriers made all the more nasty because of their pointed thorns.

Thorns that Burns use to stab Carter’s dick.

Seriously.

Bending down, he grips one of the stems in his hand, pressing it into Carter’s naked groin.

With his hands cuffed behind him, the most he can do is throw back his head and howl again, thrashing his legs as Burns squeezes.

The thorns will be tearing into his cock. No doubt about that. Ripping the skin, leaving holes where Burns is forcing it into Carter’s delicate flesh. At the same time, there’s no way it isn’t doing the same to Burns’s palm. When blood starts to trickle down his hand, past his wrist, drip-dropping onto the cement floor, I can only imagine the damage he’s doing.

His expression is pure stone. As Carter shouts obscenities that only the three of us will ever hear, Burns keeps one hand on Carter’s shoulder, the other holding the thorny stem in place.

It’s torture. For both of the men, it’s pure torture—and, I realize with a jolt, Burns is doing this all forme.

Carter stops screaming long before Burns stops using the kiftsgate rose against him. Only when he seems content to wrangle every last shout out of the man who assaulted me does he take his bloody hand back. Leaving Carter quietly sobbing, his head bowed as he makes gasping, animalistic sounds, Burns reaches in his other back pocket.

That one had his gun.

He’s wearing a look of pure pride—and that familiar daring smile of his—as he walks over to me and holds out the weapon.

“Go on, baby. Even angels can sin a little.”

Holy shit. “Me? You want me to do it?”

“No.” He presses the handle against my palm, folding my fingers over it so that I don’t drop the gun. “You want to do it.”

You know what? He’s right.

When the nightmares became too much, I replaced them with fantasies of what I would do if I ever got the chance to confront Carter again. If I wasn’t so scared, if pesky little things like right or wrong didn’t matter… I wanted to kill him.

I wanted him dead.

This is my chance. Before I even think twice, I lift the gun. It’s heavier than I thought it would be. Different from the one that Burns always wears in its holster. A personal weapon, I’m betting, instead of his standard issue.

Of course. As insane as Burns is, even he wouldn’t use his professional piece to commit murder… right?

Because that’s what this is. If I pull the trigger, if I shoot Carter Santorino, it’s murder.

And I’m beginning to think I’m just as fucked up as Burns because I don’t fucking care.

I squeeze the trigger.

Carter’s head shoots up. “Fuck! Fuck, shit,fuck! You shot me! The bitch fuckingshotme!”

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