It has to be difficult when your children are involved. I don’t envy Eddy his position at all.
“We’ll handle this in-house,” I murmur. “He’ll be leaving in pieces and will feed a pig farm my father is well acquainted with for shit like this.”
Tatum and I can clean up our own mess. Jamie doesn’t love it, which is why he can stay with Beckham at home afterward. Our omega needs to see the scarier part of our lives, one we won’t be giving up.
Sometimes, people have to die in our business. I also think Beckham will sleep better at night knowing his abuser is finally dead.
“Thank you,” Eddy finally says, his eyes glassy as he looks up at me. “My son is lucky to have such wonderful alphas. I’m sorry I ever let Ralph into our lives.”
“You didn’t know, Dad,” Beckham rasps.
“No, but I should have. There’s this feeling that parents are supposed to feel when shit is wrong, and I missed all the signs that he was hurting the people I love,” his father murmurs. “We’re going to get out of your hair so you can do what you need to.”
Eddy gives his son a hug, and then proceeds to leave with his men. We’re inside of a warehouse. Through the doors to my left is a large kill room. Drains for the blood, chains to keep the dickhead we’re working over upright, and a hose hooked up for when things get too messy.
If the blood is flowing too heavily, it can become too difficult to keep working.
“Jamie, grab his feet and drag him to the room. Don’t be gentle.” I growl.
Jamie gives Beckham a quick peck on the cheek before walking over to grab Ralph’s feet. The piece of shit must have been pulled out of the motel by Eddy’s guys because he’s not wearing shoes and he’s wearing the bare minimum for this weather.
Either way, what he’s wearing isn’t going to last long under Tatum’s knife.
Jamie pulls Ralph along, making sure his head hits everything possible. Ralph can’t even lift his head to avoid it because of how Jamie is throwing his body into things.
Hiding my smile, I follow them into the room.
“Find a spot and stay out of the blood,” Tatum says quietly to Beckham. “If there’s any point where you want to ask a question, do it, okay?”
“Okay,” he whispers, his eyes on the body on the ground.
Leaving the doors open behind us since we’re the only ones in the building, I move to help Jamie untie Ralph so we can hang him from the chains above us. There are thick cuffs attached tothem as well, and then Jamie and I strip the alpha of all of his clothing except his boxers.
Beckham doesn’t need to see his tiny dick until it’s time for us to cut it off.
Scowling at the gag in his mouth, I pull it out and move as he tries to spit at me. Beckham picks up the hose with the spray nozzle attached to it. Turning it on full blast, he douses Ralph in cold water as he screams in annoyance. It won’t be anywhere close to what he deserves, but it’s a good start.
“Manners!” Beckham yells, his voice belying the anxiety his body is projecting. I can feel it through the bond, something I’m monitoring to make sure this doesn’t become too much for him.
“Thanks,” I say, winking at him before Tatum moves over to the table full of fun toys for him. He picks up a sharp knife, perfect for peeling Ralph’s skin from his body.
He’ll ramp up the pain level as necessary in case Ralph refuses to speak to us.
“If you’re quite done now, Ralph,” I drawl. “I have some questions for you.”
“Why the fuck should I answer?” He snarls. “I know I’m a dead man.”
“Answering determines how much death hurts.” Jamie shrugs, leaning against the back wall with Beckham. “Tatum is a fucking sadistic bastard. He’ll fuck you in the ass with a poker just to hear you scream.”
Beckham fucking perfumes, making me grin. It would figure that talk of torture in his honor would make him hot.
“That’s a good idea,” Tatum murmurs, filing it for later as he begins at Ralph’s armpit.
It’s sure to bleed, and it’ll be right where Ralph can see it. Tatum is very well versed in the Art of War and scaring the fuck out of your opponent.
Tatum begins to peel back the skin slowly, his lips curling into a smile as he does it. He doesn’t wear gloves because he likes the way the blood feels between his fingers, but as things get messier, he’ll pull on a pair of safety glasses to keep it out of his eyes.
“Would you like to rethink your response?” I ask, pulling on a pair of gloves in a bored tone.
