“Don’t deny it,” Carter tuts, clicking his tongue. “Your bitter speech last week about howfineshe is gave you away.”
Broadway’s head whips toward us, a shit-eating grin on his face. “I fucking knew it. Fun, isn’t it?”
His shirt is spattered with blood, and his eyes sparkle, adding a few insanity points to his look. He’s landed a few punches on Vincent’s face already. By the looks of it, he’s either knocked out—or at least loosened—his front teeth.
“What is?” I ask, rolling my shoulders as if that will unwind the tension cementing me in place.
“Feeling like your bones will cave in on themselves whenever your girl’s out of reach,” Broadway clarifies.
“She’s not mine.”
“Who isn’t?” Koby asks, returning with a mean-looking, rusty-toothed power saw. “Bianca?”
“She’s cold, calculated, and rude,” I point out, pushing the words past clenched teeth.
“Oh please.” He drops the saw on the metal table with aclang. “The sexual tension between you getsmehard.”
“All we do is argue, Koby.”
He bounces his eyebrows. “Sounds like a good hate-fuck is on the books.”
That already happened...
Every second since, I’ve been dying to bend Bianca over any given surface for a repeat performance.
“I can think of at least one person who’d be royally annoyed if you fuck her sister,” Broadway pipes in. “Careful, Ryder. Hailey will expect you to commit.”
“Hailey’s a big girl,” Carter cuts him off, glaring at his right-hand man. “She keeps her nose out of other people’s business.”
“As entertaining as this conversation is, it’s pointless,” I mutter, eager to nip the topic before it escalates further. “Trust me, she might be pretty, but she’s not likable.”
“I like her,” Koby sing-songs. “In a she’s-fun kind of way, not in an I’d-like-to-fuck-her kind of way, so stop glaring.”
“She kneed you in the balls, Koby,” Broadway reminds him, winding his elbow back.
One more powerful punch that turns Vincent’s head sideways and Broadway moves along with whatever tick-list he prepared for this occasion. Grasping his pinky, he bends it as far back as it’ll go, snapping Vincent’s digit and earning a blood-curdling scream. He’s gagged, his screams muffled but still audible enough to make me cringe. My head’s killing me.
“That’s why I like her,” Koby chuckles. “She’s tough.”
“Funny,” I clip. “That’s what I hate about her most. She’s capable, independent, so fuckingfineit makes my teeth itch.”
He pats my shoulder. “You know what? I think you need to let off some steam.” He hands me the saw, nudging me forward. “Know my good heart. Have at it.”
Shit, I must be in bad shape if Koby’s sacrificing his fun for my benefit. While Broadway might’ve stolen the show the past few months, torturing these men in the most elaborate ways, Koby is and will always remain the true torture master.
He’s not as theatrical as Broadway, but he’s methodical. He can keep going for hours, pulling one fingernail after another, never once losing patience. Something Broadway lacks. He has fun until his balls turn blue, and then he pulls the trigger, eager to get home and make Violet scream his name.
“You know I don’t get much pleasure out of maiming people,” I tell Koby, dropping the saw on the table. “You have fun, though.”
Once Broadway’s quenched his initial bloodthirst with another rain of punches, the three of us help him strip Vincent. Twenty minutes later, he’s hanging from a small crane one of the soldiers delivered while we were on the road. Ropes carve long lines into his skin and blood drips down his body, creating a macabre painting.
Broadway said this was what Vincent did to Violet and he’s returning the favor. His set-up bears little resemblance to shibari. The rope placement is random, our knots not as elaborate and tied much tighter than required.
“How’s that, V?” Broadway asks. “Enjoying yourself?”
Vincent mumbles something incomprehensible around the tennis ball Carter’s shoved in his mouth, while Broadway circles him, holding a large knife.
“I think we’ll start with your balls.” With awhooshhe sticks the blade into Vincent’s sack.
