“No. I want you to imagine it.”
I pause. “The screaming. Thebegging.The way some men piss themselves before I even touch them. Weak men.”
He smirks faintly. “Is that supposed to scare me?”
I close the distance in two steps, reach into my jacket, and pull out a blade. It’s simple and sleek, with an obsidian handle. The kind that doesn’t get fingerprints, only blood.
Julian watches it. There’s still no fear in his eyes, but his body tenses.
I press the flat of the blade against his throat. It glides over his skin with just enough pressure to make him swallow.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
I can feel effort it takes him.
“You ever skin a man alive, Cross?”I murmur, trailing the blade down his torso.
“You start at the stomach, thin skin. Work your way up. If you go slow enough, the nerves keep firing. He stays awake the whole time.”
I drag the blade lightly across the side of his neck, not deep enough to cut. Just enough to leave a whisper of heat.
Julian’s jaw clenches, but his eyes never leave mine.
“Maybe I cut off his fingers first,” I go on, brushing the blade against his knuckles. “Make him count them while he still can. Some men scream. Some beg. But the worst ones?”
I lean in, close enough for my breath to hit his ear.
“They don’t make a sound. They die quiet. Likecowards.”
I pull back slightly, studying the taut line of his shoulders, the breath he holds so tight behind his ribs.
It’s cute how hard he tries to pretend this doesn’t phase him. My blade finds his neck again, holding pressure there.
“What?” I whisper. “You trying to impress me? Want me to believe you’ve seen worse?”
He tilts his chin upwards, his voice a rasp. “I don’t need to impress you, Vitale.”
I press the blade down a little harder. One heartbeat more, and I’d draw blood. But I don’t.
Instead, I laugh, low and dark.
“Shame,” I murmur, pulling the knife back and slipping it away.“I like it when they flinch.”
Julian finally exhales, slow and controlled. His posture eases.
He turns toward the wall of restraints again, running his fingers over the cold iron cuff like it’s a relic instead of a weapon.
“You get off on this?” he asks.
I smile. “Only when they deserve it.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then he looks at me over his shoulder, his gaze sharp.
“And what happens when it’smetied up down here?”
I cock a brow.
