Bold claim for someone caught red-handed. He’s been checking out the gate to my property for weeks now, and while he doesn’t have an online presence to speak of, I was able to dig up a bit of information about my intruder before I finally let him in. The old photo from his driver’s licence did him no justice, and his hair was short back when it was taken.
All I know is that his name is Victor Thompson, he has no immediate family, and works part-time as a pizza delivery man. He’s not been arrested before, but, for all I know, he could be a drug addict looking to steal something.
Or, more likely, one of my enemies got in touch with him and offered him a life-changing amount of money formy demise. I guess they don’t care if he lives or dies, and are throwing anything at the wall to see if it sticks.
I grin.
“Someone must really hate you,” I say and poke his little upturned nose. He’s young, with skin like a ripe peach, and I can’t help myself. It’s not every day that I have company. Especially company this attractive. Four years on my own has really fucked with my mind.
But that changes nothing. “Who was it? Who sent you?”
“S-sent me?” He glances down at the crossbow bolt sticking out of his calf. “Who hates me? What do you mean?”
“You’re a good actor,” I say, frowning at him. I suppose he is still alive, and I might as well keep him that way for a bit longer. It’s been a while since I’ve had a live model who wasn’t me.
I can hear him inhale as I pluck latex gloves from a box on the nearby counter.
“What are you doing?” Victor’s voice reaches a higher pitch. “This is some kind of mistake.” He pulls against the binds, probably checking how solid they are.
The chair is nailed to the floor too. He’s not going anywhere until I let him.
The cupboard contains everything I need, and when he whines, I know he is getting an idea of what I might do with the saws and pliers displayed inside. For now, the scissors will do.
“Do yourself a favor and stay still,” I tell him before cutting through the leg of his pants.
He freezes, like a good boy, and once I peel away the pesky fabric, turns out my job will be easier than I assumed. The crossbow bolt from the trap pierced through his calf, and since only the very tip emerged on the other side, the sensible thing is to push the sharp tip all the way through.
Flesh is much softer than people think—that is why it’s so easy to accidentally stab someone when they walk into you. Under normal circumstances, people struggle with cutting into someone on purpose. But I’m not normal. I’ve done this many times before.
I don’t even mind the screaming and begging that starts the moment I push the bolt. It means he’ll be more pliant when I talk to him again. I saw through it, then easily take out both parts. Once the bolt is out, I glance up at his face, and my heart skips a beat.
I’m not a sadist. It’s not his suffering that takes my breath away but the tears streaming down his freckled face, the twist of lips, the flushed cheeks, hair falling over one eye. He’s panting, and so expressive I want to lick him lips to forehead to see how he reacts.
I really shouldn’t, but I grab my phone and take a photo as his eyes widen once more.
“Please… just let me go. I’ll tell no one about this,” he whispers as more tears drip from his chin.
Another photo? Oh yes, he looks so charming with damp streaks reflecting the overhead light on his cheeks, and the way that last tear clung to his chin, begging me to kiss it...
It’s been so long since I touched anyone without violence.
“I can’t. Nobody gets to leave my home, ever,” I say, softening my voice as if he’s a scared animal in need of coddling, not someone who came here to dispose of me.
I distract myself by cleaning the wound. I don’t need him losing any more blood. I shouldn’t savor his every flinch and whimper, but he doesn’t need to know how he’s affecting me. It’s not an advantage I want to give him.
Still, I cut his jeans a bit higher, all the way to the knee, amazed just how freckled he is. I need to know if that’s the caseeverywhere.
Worst case scenario, I’ll have a look when he’s dead.
“Wh-why?” He sniffs, and I’m starting to wonder whether he’s the most inept assassin I ever encountered, or a fantastic actor. With a face like that, I’d be playing up the hapless act as well. In the position he is in, most people would do anything to get out. And I meananything, including fighting through instinct and amputating their own limbs.
But there will be none ofthattonight.
“What do you mean ‘why’?” I ask as I dress the wound. “You know who I am. That’s more than enough. Now let’s find out who you are and who sent you.”
“No onesentme!” He frowns at me, so it seems he’s getting back some fighting spirit. We’ll see how long that lasts when the pliers come out.
“Oh really, then why have you been stalking my property for weeks?” I ask and reach into the cupboard. Oh yes, the pliers certainly make an impression.
