“Wrong answer,” Gabe whispers. “Amelia asked you a question.”
Walsh sobs, “She was just an art student?—”
“Who killed herself after you raped her,” I finish, carving another line parallel to the first. “Perfect symmetry, don’t you think, Gabe?”
Gabe’s eyes never leave my hands as I work. His breathing has changed—deeper, hungrier. I glance down and notice the hard outline pressing against his black pants. The sight sends heat rushing through me.
“Your turn,” I tell him, stepping back.
Gabe selects a thin blade from the tray. He places one of Adrian’s chocolates on Walsh’s tongue.
“Bite down,” Gabe commands. When Walsh complies, Gabe slides the knife under his fingernail. “Now, tell us about Rebecca Thompson.”
As Walsh confesses between screams, I watch Gabe’s technique with appreciation. The way he inflicts pain is beautiful—calculating yet passionate. When he steps back to let me take over again, a low groan escapes his throat.
“God, you’re magnificent,” he whispers as I press a hot metal rod against Walsh’s chest.
The smell of burning flesh fills the room as Walsh writhes against his bonds. Our eyes meet over our victim’s body, and I’ve never felt more connected to anyone in my life.
I drag the knife across Walsh’s collarbone, watching blood well up in a perfect crimson line. His whimpering has grown hoarse, yet something inside me hungers for more. With movements I’ve practiced by watching Gabe, I slice deeper into his shoulder.
“The basin,” I whisper to Gabe, never taking my eyes off the flowing red stream.
Gabe positions a wide metal bowl beneath Walsh’s arm as I open another vein. Blood pours into the container, thick and vibrant. The metallic scent fills my nostrils—intoxicating, primal.
“Perfect,” I breathe. “I need this for my new series.”
My fingers dip into the warm liquid, swirling patterns across Walsh’s chest like I’m working on canvas. Each stroke releases something buried deep within me—rage transforming into terrible art.
“Tell us about Caroline Weber,” I demand, pressing myblood-soaked thumb against his lips. “The student whose work you stole after she rejected you.”
Walsh sobs incoherently, but I don’t care about his answer anymore. The confession is secondary to the medium. His punishment creates my masterpiece.
I mix some of his blood with a thickening agent Gabe prepared, creating the perfect consistency for painting. My brush strokes across a small canvas capture Walsh’s terror in visceral detail—his eyes wide with horror, his mouth contorted in a silent scream.
“Look at what you’re becoming,” I tell him, turning the canvas toward his face.
My breath comes in short, hard pants as I work. Sweat and blood mingle on my skin, my shirt spattered with crimson. The feeling is transcendent—beyond anything I’ve experienced before. Power, creation, and destruction merged into pure sensation.
Behind me, I hear Gabe’s breathing change. I turn to find him watching me with feral hunger, his eyes nearly black with desire. Blood smears across his chest and arms from our work.
Without warning, he unzips his pants and frees himself, fully erect and straining.
“I need you,” he growls. “Now.”
I don’t hesitate. Turning away from Walsh, I shed my blood-soaked clothes and press myself against Gabe, smearing crimson across both our bodies. His hands grip my waist, lifting me onto the steel table as implements clatter to the floor.
“Let him see what he can never have,” I whisper, biting Gabe’s earlobe hard enough to draw blood. The metallic taste mingles with Walsh’s blood already on my lips.
Gabe spins me around to face our captive. Walsh’s eyes bulge—terror and something else. Something familiar.
“Spread your legs,” Gabe commands, and I comply, bracing myself against the table. His fingers, slick with blood and lubricant, probe between my ass cheeks. The intrusion burns, but I push back against him, wanting more.
“That’s it,” he growls. “Show him how you take me everywhere.”
When Gabe enters me, the pain is exquisite—a searing violation I’ve come to crave. He doesn’t start gently. Each thrust drives me forward, my blood-covered breasts swinging with the force of his movements.
“Watch her,” Gabe orders Walsh. “Watch what real power looks like.”
