I carried the bottle carefully back down the hall, all the while listening to Jackson’s blubbering and my friends’ voices.
I ducked into the bedroom doorway, keeping low, trying not to disturb Lane’s torturing.
Ro’s gaze flicked to me as I knelt on the floor. “Got it?” he asked, voice calm but commanding.
“Yeah,” I whispered, setting the bleach down beside me. I grabbed a few rags, dipped them carefully into the bleach, and pressed them to the trail of blood along the floor. The chemical bite stung my fingers through my gloves, but I ignored it.
As I cleaned, I watched the action on the other side of the room.
Ronan was propped up against the wall, occasionally throwing out instructions or comments, but mainly just watching the same as I was.
Lane was… truly in his element, I guess you could say.
He was crouched beside Jackson, peering down at him with a face that looked like something you’d see when successfully flirting with your date. Not quite bedroom eyes, but close. It was hard to describe.
“What should we play with next?” he crooned. Jackson was staring up at him in terror. And when he didn’t say anything, Lane continued the conversation by himself. “I think your fingers would be fun. Well, you know, the remaining ones.”
Jackson cried, “W-why are you doing this?”
Lane ignored him, and held the man’s uninjured hand flat against the floor. With his other hand, he pulled a tactical knife from its sheath.
Very slowly, he began to stab at the empty space between each finger, one after another. For a few seconds, Jackson’s eyes followed the knife, and he flinched with each movement of Lane’s hand, but eventually, he ended up rolling his gaze up toward the ceiling, unable to watch any longer.
Lane sped up as he went, stabbing between Jackson’s fingers over and over as the man trembled. Faster and faster, the knife cut through the air, until it was almost a blur.
The rhythm turned frantic.
Metal striking wood in rapid succession—thump, thump, thump.
A choked sob tore out of Jackson, his whole body jerking under Lane’s hold as his bound hands strained uselessly behind his back. “Stop—stop, please—please—”
Lane didn’t.
If anything, the sound seemed to settle something in him. His shoulders relaxed, his movements smoothing out even asthey stayed impossibly fast, the knife dancing between fingers with terrifying accuracy.
“Shh,” Lane hummed, almost fondly. “You’re doing so good. See? You haven’t lost any more yet.”
Jackson sobbed harder.
I forced myself to look away, focusing back on the floor. The blood was already starting to fade under the bleach, breaking apart, and dissolving into nothing. I pressed harder, scrubbing at the edges, making sure there wasn’t a trace left in the grain of the wood.
Behind me, the rhythm suddenly stopped.
The silence hit harder than the noise had.
“Oops,” Lane said lightly.
I looked up.
Jackson shrieked as he looked at the blood welling across his hand from where his ring finger used to be attached.
Lane tilted his head, examining the damage with mild curiosity rather than concern. “That one’s on you,” he said conversationally. “You moved.”
“I didn’t—I didn’t—”
“You’re really starting to annoy me, Neil,” Lane sighed dramatically.
Ro let out a quiet breath from where he leaned against the wall, head tilting as he watched the scene unfold. His gaze flicked from Jackson’s mangled hand to Lane’s expression. “Lane,” he called.
