Seeing is believing.
“What do you say, boys?” I ask, not looking away from Mark. “Should we find a little fun in murder?”
The answer is written in the heat behind me.
No one has to say a word.
To be insensitive is merely to place yourself above someone else. Interesting, because selfishness is the same thing, and cruelty, if you think about it.
The only difference isflavor.
I want to be cruel. I want to be selfish. I want to witness Mark break. I want to revel in his shock and devastation, and drink the moment like blood-warm wine.
Cassian’s fingers circle my nipple, coaxing the truth out of me with obscene precision. Mark’s pupils flare, his lips parting, twisting at the edges in revulsion.
His torment isradiantto me.
“Talon,” Cassian rumbles beside my ear. “Bring the chains.”
I bite down on my lip.
Chains.
Gods, there is so much one can do with chains to someone they hate. My mind obliges me with imagery. Tight around his chest until he can’t pull a full breath… the metallic drag of them scraping the floor as his body is hauled, helpless, across concrete… restraint, leverage, submission, ruin.
Talon answers with a wolfish grin, tossing the crowbar aside as he drags a heavy length of chain from the corner like he’s been waiting for this exact command. The sound alone spikes my pleasure, but then Cassian pinches, and I gasp, the sound ricocheting off the concrete.
Mark jolts. His eyes go wide, thenwider, when Talon drags the chain across the floor.
We both see it, Mark and I: his torment. My release after all these years. A symmetry of consequence for what he’s done.
“Give me your wrists, Skye,” Nathaniel says suddenly from my right.
He’s holding two cuffs—sturdy, industrial things meant for a heavy chain, the same kind Talon’s threading through the ceiling hooks.
“Me?” I whisper. Cassian presses a slow, wet kiss to my neck, teeth grazing. He sucks, then growls.
“You.” Nathaniel’s voice is patient.
I trust him. I offer my arms; my pulse thuds under my skin. The metal is cold when it clamps around my wrists. The cuffs click shut. Talon threads the chain through the hooks, lets it fall with a low hiss of steel, then walks over.
“Gotta give our spectator a good view, baby,” he purrs, looping one end of the chain through my cuffs. “Juicy angles and all that.”
He tugs. My hands rise; I gasp—half shock, half a raw, searing pleasure—and Mark flinches as if I’d split him open. My arms stretch high; my breasts lift, ribs flare, my back presses harder against Cassian. His free hand palms my waist and he lifts me higher. Nathaniel slides to my front, and I wind my legs around his hips, locking us together.
They press into me from both sides, Cassian and him.
“See everything well, Mark?” Talon taunts. “Get comfy, won’t you?”
Mark’s face twists, trying to fold itself into contempt, but his breath betrays him.
He’s scared. Envious. Shocked to the bone.
For years I wanted to know what he dreams about. I wanted to catalogue every twitch and shadow until I had it down to the exact minute, because whatever lived in his head would terrify him as much as I wanted to terrify him. What a pleasure it would be to deliver revenge perfectly, start to finish, matching the cruelty his psyche rehearses, but real.
Maybe it was me choking on the kitchen tiles.
Maybe it was me clawing out of the dirt, eyes white with death, dragging him down.
