“So you became someone else’s.”
She bared her teeth at me, although she looked more like a drenched kitten than she did anything else. “N-n-no.”
She was right. Steven wouldn’t know how to play with a toy if it was slapping him in the face.
Had Olivia slapped him before?
I almost smiled at the thought.
Almost.
“Your parents shit you out to play perfect little daughter for the cameras,” I said on a breath. “Typical.” I leaned forward, letting both feet fall to the ground. “Poor little pathetic writer, growing up with all the money in the world and wanting for nothing. Such a terrible, agonizing life you must have lived.”
Something flashed through her eyes before her expression hardened to stone. “N-n-nothing at a-a-all,” she confirmed bitterly.
I searched her cold eyes. “Did you become a writer to escape your sad little life on the hill? Too much monotony?”
She swallowed again, working her chattering jaw, but didn’t say anything.
I suppose if I wanted better responses, I would have to warm her up a little. Maybe feed her some more scotch.
My eyes fell to her feet before I shoved myself to a stand, stepped up to her, grabbed the chair between her legs, and flipped her back, causing her toes to catch on the bucket.
She cried out as she fell to the ground, landing painfully on her arms.
The ice water flooded across the floor, soaking into her ass,her back, as her knees fell open, revealing how wet her pussy truly was.
It was an effort to ignore as I walked over her and crouched down above her torso, one foot on either side of her waist, the half empty bottle of alcohol gripped in one hand.
There was such rage in her eyes as she panted through her teeth, trying to move her arms enough to test if they were broken.
They weren’t. They’d be bruised in a few hours but nothing broke, she didn’t have enough weight for that.
I flicked her hair from her face, her back arching on instinct as the water pooled under her.
I smiled, tracing my finger down from the center of her throat to her belly button, watching as her muscles clenched against the warmth. “Tell me why you became a writer,” I demanded quietly.
She shook. From fear or the cold, I wasn’t sure. “W-why?” she stuttered. “Y-you w-want m-my m-m-money, not m-my st-t-tory.”
I flattened my hand against her stomach, pressing her back into the freezing water, watching her body clench, her face shift into a snarl. “I like stories too, little writer. I like knowing my victim’s lives before I take them away from the world.” It was an addiction, you could say. Knowing about their families, their loves, their animals. Where they grew up. It allowed me to really revel in their pain before I sent them back to dust.
She lifted her head as much as she could, making sure I knew that she was directing what she said next at me. “I l-like to edge m-m-my readers and I l-like them m-m-more than you.”
I felt a smile curl one corner of my lips up. “Very well. If you don’t want to talk, then let’s get back to business.” I released her stomach and grabbed her jaw, forcing her mouth open before tipping the bottle against her lips once again.
She sputtered and coughed, fighting back against me. Shethrashed and jerked, coughing and spitting until I finally saw her throat start to bob.
I watched her swallow a few painful gulps before I released her and set the bottle to the side, only a few drinks left.
I turned back to her, watching her gasp and struggle for air, her body slowly relaxing as the alcohol took full effect.
She blinked, shaking her head, breathing deeply, trying to hold her glare.
I smiled. Sometimes a drunk victim was the best victim.
I adjusted myself, sinking onto my knees, her stomach, letting the cold-water soak through my pants as I settled right above her hips.
She tried to shove her hips up, pulling weakly at her arms again. “Get off,” she grumbled, but she was too far gone to have any strength left.
