His eyes darken when I throw his words back into his face, and oh God, it feels good to say them. The piece of glass is tuckedin my hand, ready to be used. I’m careful not to squeeze it too tightly, so I don’t cut myself, taking a couple of steps closer to Paul.
I don’t know where to start, so I pick his face.
My hand moves of its own accord, hovering over his cheek for a moment. I get the amazing sight of his eyes widening when he realizes that I wasn’t just giving him an empty threat — and that I’ll make sure he regrets everything he ever did to me.
“Wait, don’t—” He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. It’s cut off by his own scream, as I push the sharpest edge of the glass into his cheek, cutting as deep as I can. But, just as I promised, his screams make me press harder.
I drag the glass down to his jaw, as slowly as possible, watching as blood trickles down his face, droplets falling onto my hand. He thrashes against the chair, the sound of the heavy chains rattling fills the empty bar.
His eyes are as wide as saucers, his teeth clenched together as he tries to prevent himself from screaming further. A pang of disappointment flutters in my chest, and I sigh. It doesn’t matter, the grand finale is bound to make him scream his lungs out, if I don’t decide to take his tongue that is.
“Oh, why aren’t you screaming?” I mock, pulling the glass away for a brief moment.
The carving on his cheek is the letter B. Just so everyone who sees his dead body knows who did this, so they would know it’s the work of Blair Hawke, and I’ll make sure to engrave my full name all over his body. He’s holding on by a thread, and it’s laughable. Who would’ve thought that such a tough guy would struggle so much with the pain caused by a mere shard of glass?
“Once I get out of this,” he warns, his voice taking a lower tone. “I will kill you, you dumb whore.”
I chuckle. “It’s very cute that you think you have any chance of getting out of this.”
“Iwillget out of this.”
“Yes, you will,” I agree with a nod. “In a body bag.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Paul looks at me with pure hatred. Yet, now the evil glaze that crosses his eyes doesn’t wreck me on the inside. It doesn’t make me hate myself, it doesn’t make me consider suicide. Instead, it makes me want to make him pay for everything that he’s done.
For the entire day, I’ve been slicing him up. Only slicing deep enough to make him bleed, and to make it hurt, without causing him to lose too much blood. He is sweating profusely, his shirt wet, his forehead coated in small droplets. With a satisfied smile, I pull back, sitting down on the floor in front of him, tossing the glass aside.
Across his chest, I carved out my name. Just my name. That’s all that it needs, the blood dripping from the wounds. Fuck, it looks so good. It must hurt, too. I’ve experienced things in prison that were painful, but I can’t imagine what it would feel like to have someone slice me up like this.
I grab my phone, remaining silent for a few minutes.
That’s enough for him to start panicking. “What the fuck are you doing?”
I look up from the screen. “Looking up which body parts I can cut off your body without you dying.”
If possible, his face pales further. His eyes widen even more, and I think he’s trying to convince himself that I’m joking. But, I’m really not. Aside from the arteries Kaya told me not to touch, I have no knowledge of which body parts I could sever, without him bleeding to death.
Or, at least, bleeding out too quickly.
A whole ass day. I was so focused that I didn’t even notice the time passing. He’ll start to get hungry soon, and if he passes out from hunger, it’ll prolong this more than is necessary. I look back at the screen, finding some helpful advice on different platforms and websites, one finally catches my attention.
“Hmm,” I mumble. “This’ll do.”
Paul straightens in the chair, and his pants have holes in them from where he was clenching his fists, pulling on the fabric until he managed to poke holes through it. I scramble to my feet, contemplating what to do first.
Why not see the reaction of doing what Kaya said I should?
I move to behind the bar, opening every possible cupboard, looking carefully beneath the bar until I find it. It’s a jar full of salt, likely used for tequila. It’s old, stale, and I don’t think it would be safe to consume. However, he won’t be eating it. With a grin, I walk back to him, the only sound that can be heard is my feet thudding against the floor. He swallows thickly when he sees the jar of salt, and when I open it, grabbing a full hand of salt, he knows exactly what’s coming.
I shove the salt right into the name I’ve engraved on his chest, and he screams out like a little bitch.
Paul’s head falls back, his wails and screams soothing the nerves inside of me.Fuck, this is such a perfect sound.Fifteen-year-old Blair would be so fucking happy, I know she’d be proud of how far we’ve come.
“Oh, no,” I feign worry. “You just got louder. You know what that means, don’t you?”
“Please,” he croaks out.
