Mygrinisferalas I circle the pathetic excuse for a man hanging from the ceiling hook. His arms stretch above his head, his toes barely scraping the floor as he teeters and flails.
His fear-soaked eyes lock onto mine as I stop in front of him, the baseball bat dangling loosely from my palm.
“I’m sorry,” he blubbers, snot streaming from his nose.
“It’s not me you need to apologize to.” I tilt myhead, nodding toward Izzy, who stands in the corner—arms crossed, face unreadable. But her eyes gleam with curiosity. She doesn’t flinch at who I’ve become. In fact... there’s a flush creeping up her neck. As if—maybe, just maybe—she’s a little turned on.
Xander jerks his head toward her, words tumbling from his lips in a frantic stammer. “I’m sorry. Please. Forgive me.”
Izzy steps forward, joining me at my side. She smiles.
“What will you do to him if I don’t forgive him?” she asks, her gaze never leaving the man.
A low laugh rumbles from my chest. I lift the bat, palming the handle, eyes glittering. “I was planning to return just a fraction of the pain he gave you.”
Izzy understands the subtext. Xander, probably not.
She taps her chin, considering. Then shrugs. “Apology not accepted.”
Anticipation thrums through me. Xander trembles violently as I circle behind him. His clothes are already shredded from two days ago. Izzy picks up a knife from the table of tools and hands it to me. I slice downward, peeling fabric until his back is bare.
He whimpers.
Then—my phone rings, cutting through the tension.
With a sigh, I wipe my palms on a handkerchief and pull it out. Nate’s name flashes on the screen. I answer. “Now’s not a great time, man.”
“Oh?” Pause. “Why? Whatcha doing?”
I set the phone on the table and refocus on Xander. I yank his pants down, and he kicks and thrashes, desperate to escape.
“Funny you ask,” I mutter. “I’m about to shove a baseball bat up a rapist’s ass.”
Nate snorts, delighted. “Oh, please switch to FaceTime so I can watch.”
“No, you psycho. You’ll have to get off on the audio.”
I swear I can hear him pouting. “No fair.”
Ignoring him, I press the bat against Xander’s clenched asshole. He screams, pleading, begging for mercy. I give none.
One hand grips his shoulder to stop him twisting; the other forces the bat inside. There’s no lube, just friction and pain. That’s the point.
He chokes on a scream; the sound caught in his throat as I pull the bat out—then slam it back in.
My eyes flick to Izzy, expecting revulsion. But she only watches, satisfaction curling at her lips.
“You know,” she says, almost thoughtfully, her voice threading through his sobs, “when he was violating me... he put it in my mouth. Didn’t even clean it first.”
Her words hang in the air.
A dark laugh escapes me. “I like your thinking,Cuore mio.”
I pull the bat free and circle to face him. No time for him to beg. I ram the shit-streaked wood into his mouth.
He gags. Vomits.
I don’t stop. I push it deeper, harder, until he’s choking on bile and breath, his face purpling, skin ballooning.
