I’m not the only one watching. Dahlia circles her post with a violence that’s almost ballet, her bare arms splattered and slick, face lit up in ecstasy as she drives a knife under the ribs of Mr. Steele. He sags against his post, piss pooling at his ankles, the sack over his head mottled with blood and spittle.
Bam stands with his hands full of fingers, each one cut off at the first knuckle, a small bouquet of human flesh. The Boardmember he’s working on is unrecognizable, face swollen and leaking, each new snap greeted with a sound like a kicked dog.
Eve watches Colton waterboard her dad with what looks like a $300 bottle of Scotch, a cruel parody of luxury as the man’s feet drum the dirt and the expensive liquor burns his lungs. She smokes as she observes, face blank, taking in the spectacle like an exhibit at the museum.
But it’s Amara who draws the eye. Always Amara. She’s the slowest, the most deliberate, her movements measured as if she’s gaining courage the longer she watches her father.
She steps closer to Dean Marcus. The cut she left on his cheek is thin and elegant, a single line of red that mars the perfect canvas of his face. He makes a sound, muffled by the gag and the tape, but Amara silences him with a touch to his lips—gentle, almost loving.
“Listen,” she coos.
He does. We all do.
She presses the blade to the underside of his chin, tilting his head back.
She speaks, and each sentence lands with the certainty of a verdict:
“This is for the years you locked me in that house.”
A new line appears, just below his ear. The blood runs down his throat, beads on the collar of his shirt.
“This is for the girls you fed to this place, year after year, knowing exactly what would happen to them.”
She slices the length of his jaw, slow and shallow, the skin opening like a seam in fabric.
“This is for the examination,” she says, and her voice cracks for the first time, only to harden a moment later. “For letting them treat me like that, for standing in the hall while they scraped me out like a spaghetti squash.”
The knife glides down, opening a slit in his arm from wrist to elbow. He thrashes, but the ties hold.
“And this is for planning to trade me to a stranger after Julian had done your dirty work. Like I was a stock option. Like I was a goddamn chicken.”
The next cut is savage, across the front of his thigh, deep enough that the blood soaks his pants. He screams, a choked animal sound, then goes limp.
For a second, I worry she’ll cave. Instead, she straightens, wipes the blade on the hem of her dress and steps back.
The clearing is quiet, except for the shuddering breaths of the men tied to the posts who haven’t died yet. Even Bam falls silent, watching her with something like reverence.
I am hard, so hard it aches, and there’s not a trace of shame in it.
Amara stands, head thrown back, blood running down her arms and legs, the white dress now pink and clinging. She’s shaking, but it’s not weakness—it’s the aftershock of violence, the way a bell trembles after it’s been struck.
She turns to me.
I have to move, have to touch her. I cross to her, ignoring the mud and the blood, and cup her face in my hands. She blinks, eyelashes sticking together, but she doesn’t pull away.
“Perfect,” I whisper, so only she can hear it. “So fucking perfect.”
Behind us, Dahlia whoops and drives her knife into Steele’s side. He screams, and she grins, white teeth flashing behind a veil of blood. She leans in close and whispers something, then draws the blade back and lets him bleed. She stabs again, this time twisting, savoring the slow-motion collapse of his composure.
Colton is still working on Mr. Harrington. “How does it feel to be seconds from death,sir? How does it feel to be reduced to what you are?”
Bam paces. His target is long past screaming, body a sack of broken bones and gasps. Bam crouches, looks the man in the eye through the tears and snot, and says, “Man, the human body can really take a beating, can’t it?” Then he spits in the man’s face and stands back, arms folded, like an executioner taking a break.
I drag Amara with me to the boulder. The knives are lined up still, immaculate despite the carnage around us. I pick the one that matches her—the stiletto, slim and perfect, a blade meant for exacting pain, not messy violence.
The ceremonial one with the white handle.
“Take it,” I say, and she does. It is made for her hand. She turns it, admiring the balance, and she smiles.
