I slip a gun into my waistband and head down the staircase toward my garage.
If I stay in this house another second, I’ll lose the last shred of control I pretend to have.
Time to hurt someone.
The warehouse,as usual, smells like death.
Which is perfect for what I have in mind.
The guy Rafe dragged in sits zip-tied to a steel chair in the center of the concrete floor. He’s already breathing like he ran here. Chest jerking and throat working overtime.
His eyes flick from me to the door, like he’s trying to find an escape route in my face.
Spoiler: there isn’t one.
His lip is split, and one eye is swollen shut.
The sight soothes me more than the best drugs could.
Rafe stands off to the side, arms crossed, expression carefully blank. If he looks too amused, it encourages me.It encourages me anyway.
I circle the rat slowly, boots echoing across the concrete, and then I trail a finger along the back of his chair.
I like toying with my prey.
“You know,” I muse, voice almost light, “I actually woke up today in a bad mood.”
Rafe makes a sound that might be a laugh.
The guy in front of me, however, stares at me with his one good eye, like I’m speaking another language.
“Long night,” I continue, letting my smile sharpen. “No sleep. Lots of . . . personal problems.” My gaze drifts over his trembling hands. “And then I found out you existed.”
His breath catches.
“And suddenly, I felt happy. Soon, I got this itch.”
“What kind?” Rafe asks, rubbing his jaw comically. He’s clearly enjoying this.
“The urge to pull someone’s spine out of their throat type of itch.”
Rafe’s mouth twitches. “Is that even possible?”
“Not sure, but I’d like to find out,” I say pleasantly, then crouch in front of my prisoner so he can see exactly how calm I am. “And you? You’re the perfect specimen.”
“I didn’t do anything,” he stammers. “I swear, I wasn’t—I didn’t—”
“Please,” I interrupt, tone dripping with fake sympathy. “Don’t lie. I’m already traumatized enough for the week.”
His throat bobs. His one eye shines wet.
Good. Fear is motivation.
I tilt my head like I’m considering him as a concept. “Let’s not beat around the bush. Tell me what I want to know.”
“N-no—”
“Don’t insult me,” I snap, tapping his cheek—lightly, almost affectionately, the way you’d pat a child before you punish them. “I’m already in therapy.” I lean closer, voice dropping. “It’s going terribly.”
