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The man says nothing.
“Where’s Charlotte?” I’m not approaching this with anything close to level-headedness, but the man’s silence is unsettling.
As is that hood.
I make a mental note to get myself one for future interrogations. Because fuck it, Iwillsurvive this, and Iwillkeep on taking down as many sick fucks as I can find before I die a ripe old age on a farm somewhere with Charlotte at my side and our brood of kids and grandkids surrounding my death bed.
Jesus, I’m losing my mind.
“Are you really deaf and dumb, or is this just part of your gig?”
The Executioner halts in front of me, much too close for comfort. He drops his head, scanning me like a piece of fucking meat. My soul wants to shrivel up just like my balls, but I choose anger instead of fear.
“Tell me, when did your father leave? You must have been young. Really young. Or did he stick around for a while, and you had to watch him beat up your mom for a few years?”
I don’t know what I expect with my line of questioning, but it wasn’t silence. The Executioner steps to the side, and grabs a short whip from the display of floggers and other impact toys on the wall beside me. A cold, nauseatingly heavy weight settles in my stomach as he turns back to me and drags the leather strip through his fingers.
Swallowing, I stare at his brown eyes through the two small slits in his hood. The fact that I can’t see a single emotion in those blank depths is cause for more concern than the way his dick jumps when he steps back and raises an arm.
“Did she try to protect you from him, or did she turn on you too?”
The first slash catches me just above my navel. My stomach clenches at the impact, and I grit my teeth at the heat and pain.
“Normal childhood then?” I ask as blithely as possible.
The Executioner lays another stripe of red over my chest, much too close to my gunshot wound. It seems to ache in time with that new injury. This guy isn’t pulling his punches—the second lash drew blood.
“Lot of animals go missing in your neighborhood when you were a boy?”
The whip cuts a line through the flesh of my upper thigh.
“Bet you liked seeing how long you could keep them alive.”
I wince as he carves a line across my midsection. Jesus, is there a razor blade sown into the tip of that fucking whip? I try not to think about it. That, or the fact that The Executioner is sporting a hefty hard-on by now.
Goddamn sexual sadists and their obscene proclivities.
“Bet your mom gave you a hard time for always peeing the bed. Did she replace the mattress, or just turn it over to the dry side? Or was she a little mean, and make you sleep on it while it was still—” I cut off with a muted, “Fuck!” as the whip catches me on the jaw.
Tears rush into my eyes from the agony, and I keep my face turned away, eyes squeezed closed as I try to consume the pain before it can consume me.
I feel the heat of his body a moment before there’s a hand around my throat. I trynotto feel the dick pressing into my thigh, but with my entire body on tenterhooks, I fail.
“Shut your dirty mouth, queer.”
Ah. Pressure point acquired. I look away from his narrowed eyes, scrambling for a plan. I expect him to retreat, but instead he keeps that same pressure on my throat, our eyes at a level.
“Where’s Red?”
There’s the tiniest flicker in his eyes. Fear?
Jesus Christ.
“I need to speak to him,” I say, keeping my voice as even as possible. The Executioner’s eyes drop to my mouth, then to the slash in my jaw. His thumb comes up, bringing a fresh wave of pain to the area as he drags the pad over my skin. A wave of nausea rolls over me when he smears that blood over my lips.
“Red’s busy.”
“It’s really important.”
