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Prologue
“Tell us where the package is, Homer, and all this shit ends.”
Homer’s lips opened, and a wail escaped, rattling his jowls before Homer began babbling incoherent nonsense again like he’d done for the last forty-five minutes. Fucker whined like a little bitch. Couldn’t take pain at all. He didn’t know whatrealpain felt like. Not that it helped. In our possession for the last couple of hours, he still hadn’t broken. My frustration with this piece of shit and his sniveling reached an all-time high.
I turned away from his body that dangled from a meat hook in the ceiling. His arms were strung above his head as the rope pulled tight from his bulk. Fucker needed to lose fifty pounds and spend a few minutes in a shower. He stunk. His rolls and flab were reddened, and the skin was greasy from being unclean. Rings of sweat lined his t-shirt under the neckline and armpits, and I left them there, slicing through the material with my blade to reach the sections of his abdomen that I needed to be exposed.
Crimson had soaked into most of the white cotton as a result, and I flashed a grin when I noticed my clothes displayed splashes and streaks of his blood.
My pres, Devil, leaned against the opposite wall, a cigarette balancing on the edge of his lips as he inhaled, his gaze fixed on me instead of our prisoner. “Reaper, you’re a thing of beauty to watch.”
What did that matter? Homer wasn’t giving up what we needed, and that was a fucking problem. “Let me kill him,” was all I growled in response.
It had been a whole fucking month since I killed anyone, and restlessness was already chewing away at my sanity.
Echoes of my past and the voices so often speaking into my brain threatened to surface again. I needed to kill the noise.
Devil didn’t answer right away, and I blew out a breath, cracking my neck as I met Raiden’s amused stare. The V.P. of our club didn’t mind getting his hands dirty, but he didn’t love carnage and suffering as much as I did. His fingers flexed. Scarred, tatted-up knuckles revealed gashes and smeared blood from the punches he delivered to Homer before I began using my skills of persuasion.
Raiden remained quiet, awaiting our president’s decision. We’d do whatever the fuck he wanted. Maim? Torture? Kill? Nothin’ more than a typical night for the RVMC. We learned long ago that no line was too big to cross when it came to protecting the club and its members.
“I don’t know where it is,” Homer whined, whimpering as I spun around, bolting forward so fast he flinched.
Fuck. I loved scaring people. Turned me the fuck on and made my dick hard.
My fist grabbed a handful of his greasy hair, yanking his head back as I reached for my knife, pressing it against his jiggly, fat throat. “I can bleed him out slowly,” I offered, delighting in the idea of his warm essence running scarlet streaks down his distended belly. Wouldn’t that be pretty as a picture?
Homer’s body began twitching, and I accidentally—okay, maybe not—nicked his skin. A thin rivulet of blood rose to the surface as I licked my lips, directing a pleading look at Devil.Please. Let me bleed him out.
Devil smirked. He didn’t read minds, but he sure as fuck knew me well enough to guess what I thought. “Do I need to do that, Homer?” Devil asked, regarding him with a cocky smile that I knew too well.
Our pres might be a pretty boy, but the cold calculation in his icy blue gaze warned crossing him in any way would provedeadly. Those who were smart discerned this before it was too late.
Homer? The stupid motherfucker didn’t understand shit.
He wouldn’t make it to dawn. His face already betrayed the extent of his suffering: one eye ballooned shut, a bruise forming on his jawline, and a busted lip with crusted, dried blood lurking in the corner of his mouth, and those were only the visible wounds. Beneath his tattered shirt, burns marred his skin from the torch I’d used earlier, intersecting the slices I’d made with my knife.
There was only one other soul with us tonight.
One of my enforcers, Manic, stood a short distance away, closer to the door, as he kept watch. He appeared bored. His head swiveled between the door and locking with a death stare on Homer, waiting for anything exciting to happen. He’d taken his turn on Homer first, the only time I saw him smile today. Moody fucker was an enforcer for a reason. He loved to get his hands dirty.
For him, carnage, like pain, equaled pleasure, whether inflicting it upon others or allowing himself to experience it—a true sadist.
I fucking loved that about him.
If only he would stop disappearing for days on end. He never said much about where he went, but I knew it had something to do with a woman. He wasn’t as slick as he thought about hiding shit.
“Tell you what, Homer,” Devil drawled, saying each word slowly, his words perfectly enunciated and crisp. “I’m going to give you one more chance to come clean.”
Homer’s pained expression didn’t change.
“And then I’m letting him,” he thumbed my way, “take his pound of flesh. Gotta tell you, I don’t think you’ll survive what he’s got planned.”
Jesus. Fuck. My dick swelled with all the ideas churning in my head.
Homer’s panicked gaze briefly focused on me before he shivered, loudly swallowing as I backed away, pulling the knife from his neck before I slit his throat without permission. I stayed close, playing with the serrated edge of the blade, enjoying the sharp tip slicing into a finger and drawing a few drops of blood.
“I-I,” he stuttered, not getting a fucking word out that anyone understood.
