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“Not hungry?”
Gaze lowered, he looks away and shakes his head.
“That’s too bad.” With a sigh, I rise to my feet and nab one of the long metal poles that’s hanging on the wall beside other tools. When I grab the mag torch from the counter, and light it to warm the end of the rod, his whimpers intensify, and he moves toward the opposite side of the cage. “A while back, when we first began these little sessions, you called me a sadistic bastard. Remember that?” In the blazing flame, I twist the end of the rod, until it begins to glow orange.
“I’m sorry. I’m …. I didn’t mean to.”
“No, no. It made me think. In fact, I’ve been thinking of what you said ever since. Tell me, Patrick. Do you know the difference between a sadist and a psychopath?”
He shakes his head, his bare feet scraping against the cement as he kicks himself farther back.
“I didn’t, either, at first. But in recent weeks, I think I’ve finally come to understand. The difference is very simple: empathy.” I set the torch on the countertop and dial off the flame. With the end glowing hot, I make my way back toward the cage and crouch down beside it. “I didn’t think I had it in me to personally kill another man. My father made it sound so easy, and I was certain, my whole life, the bastard was a psychopath. But that’s the thing. It’s not about empathizing with the victim. In this case, it’s empathizing with your victim, Patrick. All I have to do is imagine Isa tied to that filthy fucking bed. Your hands on her. Your breath in her face. Suddenly, I have all sorts of fucking feelings. Deep-seated feelings. Anger. Rage.”
The tremble of his body rattles the cage against the stone wall.
“So, here’s the deal. I’m going to give you a choice this time. We can keep this up for as long as you like, or I can plunge this rod right through your throat and watch you sputter for breath for the last time.” I click the end of the rod against the cage, smiling when he twitches. “Your choice, Patrick.”
It takes a few minutes before he finally looks up at me, and when he does, the decision written all over his face makes my heart swell.
Epilogue
Isadora
Four months later ...
Blindfolds are the most frustrating thing when at the mercy of Lucian Blackthorne. I never know what I’m in for.
Who am I kidding? I never know what I’m in for, even without the blindfold.
The leather seat, warmed by the heater, is a welcomed comfort, with the temps having taken a dramatic nosedive in recent weeks. What I’d guess is the Bugatti’s engine hums along at speeds I couldn’t begin to calculate. Which is probably a good thing, with Lucian behind the wheel.
My stomach twists from the force of acceleration pressing down on my body. “Why the blindfold, though? I’d at least like to see death before it hits me.” I squeeze the edge of the seat, desperate to hold onto something.
The sound of his chuckle is one I’ll never tire from. Dark and wicked, it seems to have a direct link to the muscles in my thighs and prompts me to cross them all the time. “I promise it’ll be worth it.”
“Death?”
He chuckles again, twitching my thigh. “The blindfold.”
“If you say so.”
Ten minutes later, I can hardly stand it anymore. My temples itch with the silky fabric tied tight enough to keep me from peeking.
Thankfully, the vehicle rolls to a stop. His hand slides out of mine. The car door slams. In seconds, a blast of autumn air hits my side, and at the warm grip on my arm, I climb out of my seat. A gentle tug prompts me to step cautiously, one hand out in front, while the other remains imprisoned in his grasp.
We come to a stop, and something is curled into my palm. Cold and metallic, with teeth along the edge. I’m guessing it’s, “A key?”
The blindfold slips away, and I focus past the floating objects, my vision coming into sharp focus on the sign overhead.
Vellichor.
I glance down to the key again, and to Lucian standing beside me. “What is this?”
“Yours.”
A cold, tingly sensation slithers beneath my skin. Confusion renders me momentarily dizzy, and I stumble back a step to be caught by his arm. I open my mouth, my throat tight, trapping words inside my chest.
Shock, I’m guessing. Icy, numbing, can’t-spit-out-a-single-word shock.
