Page 33 of Tailored for You

Again, no one answered. Sighing, I began to roll up my sleeves, though experience told me it wouldn’t stop the blood from splattering on me.

One man shifted in his chair; his fear permeated the air. Good.

In one swift motion, I backhanded him, using all my pent-up anger to fuel the hit. And then again from the other side.

The sting from the blow ran from my hand up my arm. I welcomed it.

I hit him again, finally having a place to put my anger.

For every tear that Serena shed, I’d make them feel the pain tenfold and smile while I did.

There were questions that demanded answers, answers that I would get, and then I would unleash on them everything they deserved.

“This can be as easy or as hard as you make it,” I said. “If you tell me what you know, there’s a chance I might feel,” I paused, trying to find the right word, “benevolent. The longer you make me wait, the more it will hurt.”

The man in the center hocked and spit at me.

I turned to my men. “It seems we have a tough guy on our hands.”

They chuckled.

“Where are my shears?” I asked. They appeared in my hand a moment later. “Hold his hand flat.” Donovan ran up and splayed the tough guy’s hand out.

The man wiggled his fingers, trying to get out of Donovan’s hold. Donovan held tighter, pulling his arm straight. He started to kick, but his legs were tied to the chair.

Then he started to beg, and it was like music to my ears.

“Please. Stop. I’m sorry. I didn’t know how serious this was for you.” He rambled, but it would get him nowhere. I almost laughed at how quickly he went from bravado to a pathetic, begging man.

I bent to eye level. “Keep begging,” I ordered, smiling as he continued. “You should’ve done your research. The only person you have to blame is yourself.”

I held the shears, eyeing the sharp blades. Slipping the guy’s pointer finger between the two blades, I squeezed the handles, neatly slicing off his finger down to the top knuckle.

Blood spurted. I shifted to the side, the spray missing me.

“One down.” I held up the bloody flesh while the man howled. Hurting someone didn’t usually bring me pleasure, but for the first time, I found I enjoyed inflicting pain.

“Why did you break into that apartment?” I asked again.

I moved to the next man, lining up the shears.

“Wait,” he cried. How pathetic that he broke under the fear of pain. “I’ll tell you what I know.”

I stepped back and gestured at him to continue.

“We work for Millenium Securities. We got the job about a week ago. Took our time to case the place out and then made our move,” he explained.

“Do you think that was enough information to get you out of here alive?” I asked as I walked back, ready to move on with the torture.

“There’s more,” he wheezed. “We had specific instructions. Tear the place apart, hurt the lady, scare her daughter, and leave.”

“Hurt her how?” I ground out. I knew they had intentions to hurt her. What we found in one of their bags told me as much. The confirmation of what I had suspected ignited a new fire in me.

I was familiar with anger, but this was different. It was deeper, more vengeful than I’d ever experienced. It writhed under my skin, like a living thing that needed violence to be released.

I cracked my neck, trying to release the tension that had built up under the anger. It didn’t work. I needed him to tell me, bit by bit, what he planned to do. Everything he planned to do to them, he’d experience himself before he died.

“Rough her up and tie her down. It was left for us to decide how far we’d go. But the kid was off limits. We were just going to tie her up and leave her in the other room,” he rasped the words out as fast as he could.