The plastic wrap, the gloves, the way she moves, it isn’t random. It's a ritual. Every detail drags me closer; every second my pulse gets louder.
This isn’t just killing. This is a performance, and it’s the most exciting thing I’ve seen in a decade.
“Oh, you’re awake!” Her voice rings out, soft and playful, my eyes lock on her. She’s a black cat ready to strike: graceful, lethal, devastatingly gorgeous.
“Do you know who I am?” Henry screams, voice cracking as he thrashes against the chains. Sweat slicks his pale, patchy skin and a purple bruise blossoms along his cheekbone.
She tilts her head, slow and eerie. “Of course I do. Henry Lane.” She steps closer, smirking darkly. “Question is, do you know who I am?”
Her gloved fingers brush his cheek, and he flinches. “I’m your worst fucking nightmare,” she purrs, her tone sweet poison. “I’m the will of every woman you raped.”
She turns back to the table, and my cock fucking twitches and I shift as Beau’s eyes land on me, but I pretend that all my blood isn’t running south.
“So—” Beau whispers beside me, and I glance over, he’s just as mesmerized, eyes wide in excitement butthere’s fear there too.
“So?” I ask, keeping my eyes on him, watching the vein in his neck pulse.
“Do we stop this?”
I grin. “Hell no.”
When I turn back, she’s holding a knife. Her steps are slow, hips swaying, the blade twirling between her fingers. She drips confidence, but I see it, in the way her free hand tightens around the hem of the plastic suit. She’s nervous.
“Daisy,” she says, switching the radio off with a click.
“What?” Henry snaps, still squirming and spitting. She slaps him hard, blood spills from the corner of his mouth.
“You bitch!” he snarls.
My blood spikes. One more insult, and I swear I’ll bash his teeth in myself.
Wait, what the fuck is happening to me?
“Daisy Thompson,” she continues, voice calm as she wipes his bloody face with a cloth. There’s something disturbingly gentle in it, and it makes my spine tingle.
“Nineteen. You and your friends raped her for four hours. Broke her nose. Two fingers.”
“Fuck,” Caleb mutters beside me. I nod. So this isrevenge.
“I don’t know who that is!” Henry screams, straining against the wall.
“Right.” She picks up a paper from the table and shoves it in his face. We can’t see it from here, but the recognition hits him and his whole body locks up.
“I—I can get you… her… money! Lots of it!” he stammers; voice shrill with panic.
She laughs, throwing her head back, but it’s not joy. It’s a sound scraped from hell—dark, broken, furious.
“You and your friends destroyed her! Paid the cops and made the evidence disappear.”
Her knife slides down his torso, slow as silk. She stabs him in the left side, and he howls. She twists the blade; blood spurts in a thick stream. It gushes over the plastic, bright and glistening, pooling beneath it. His screams are ragged, raw, and animalistic.
“Please, please,” he sobs, mucus stringing from his nose to his lips. “I didn’t mean it—it wasn’t my idea.”
“Oh, Henry, seriously? You’ve been raping girls since you were eighteen. You’re almost thirty,” she says, trying to stay calm, but her hands are shaking harder now.
The pool of blood beneath him grows thicker and glossier, but the place she stabbed won’t kill him yet.
She runs the knife again, dragging it in a clean slice across his thigh. He screams, and she presses the tip of the blade to his dick.
