"Pie or dick?" I ask, scooping a handful of it into my palm and holding it before him.
"Neither. I'm going to fucking—"
I seize my opportunity, stepping up to him and shoving a handful of the pie into his mouth even as he begins trying to push it back out with his tongue.
"So uncooperative." I huff, pinching his nose shut with the fingers of my stabbing hand, the knife precariously close to gouging his eye out. I think it's that, more than anything, that stills him.
Noah queues up the music— Brant's favorite— and I count the seconds, waiting for him to choose his ability to breathe over his pride.
It takes thirteen seconds of him panicking and straining before he chooses life, swallowing what was in his mouth and grimacing, choking and gagging some more.
"Fucking bitch!" He spits. "What is that? Did you drug me?"
"Drugging is really moreyourspeed." I tell him coolly. "It's just a mincemeat pie."
"Mincemeat? What the fuck is that?"
"Traditionally?" I shrug. "Fruits and spices, sometimes beef. In your case... fruits and spices, and Cole."
It takes a moment before he understands exactly what I'm saying.
"Cole?"
"Parts of him." I nod. "He was so scrawny there wasn't much, but I think you ate his ass, mostly."
Brant turns scarlet, outrage bleeding out of him. "You better be fucking joking."
"Nope. Entirely serious." I smirk. "Just wanted you to get a taste of what it's like before you die."
He doesn't dare ask me what I'm referring to. We both know; a taste of humiliation. A taste of misery. A taste of absolute fucking helplessness.
"Now, if you want to finish your last meal, I'll give you that grace. If not... well, you have a date with destiny."
"Fuck you!"
"You're so original." I deadpan, tired of his droll attempts to antagonize me. "Noah?"
Noah nods and with a few deft movements, he undoes the ties on the Christmas lights, tipping the barstool so that Brant topples onto the tile floor in a heap. He doesn't even get his feet beneath him before Noah's lassoed him again and dragging him to the living room as Brant tries in vain to shake him loose.
They stop before the fireplace, where large flames crackle and dance.
"You had your last meal." I say, walking around the back of them as Noah slips an arm around his neck, forcing Brant to his knees with his face mere inches away from the fire. I see it reflected in his eyes, the absolute utter terror of such a violent, painful death. "Any last words?"
Brant says nothing, trying to wriggle out from Noah's grasp or the Christmas lights. "Fuck!"
Noah pushes him further toward the fire, but with his knees bent beneath him, he can't get any leverage other than to tilt his upper body away from the flame.
I lift the fire poker and hold it in the flames for a minute, wishing I could feel the heat coming off of the fire. I know it's hot; I can see the iron glowing red the longer I hold it.
When I turn to Brant with the poker in hand, his eyes are as wide as saucers.
"Fuck, no! I'm sorry! Okay? I'm sorry! Is that what you want?"
Is that what I want?Like an apology would suffice after everything he did.
It's amusing, if nothing else, that he held onto his apology that long if he genuinely thought it would get him out of facing my wrath.
It won't.
