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She wondered if having sex with him too soon would make him lose interest and never call her again. Yet the thought of finally experiencing a tall, hot, commanding man like Richard made her pulse throb with reckless want. She wanted to be fucked by him, properly ruined, even if it was just once.
“Richard?” she called out lightly, voice echoing in the quiet space. “Do you need any help in there?”
Silence answered her.
Then the reflection in the mirror changed.
Richard stood right behind her, a syringe in hand.
Her smile died.
His palm slammed over her mouth. The needle stabbed deep into her neck. She screamed into his hand, nails raking his wrist. The compact clattered to the floor. The room spun wildly.
“Shh,” he whispered in her ear. “It’ll be over soon.”
When Jessica woke, she was freezing.
The chill clung to her skin and sank deep into her bones. Moonlight Sonata played softly in the background, its haunting notes drifting through the air as she tried to move.
The bite of cold stainless steel pressed against her bare back, and a bone-deep dread coiled tightly in her chest. As the fog in her mind slowly lifted, the nightmare came into terrifying focus.
Her wrists were cuffed high to the corners of a heavy metal table, her arms stretched painfully wide. Her ankles locked far apart. Thick leather straps pinned her thighs, hips and torso, immobilizing her completely. A large drain sat directly beneath the table. Heavy plastic sheeting covered the floor and walls in a wide perimeter, already stained in places from previous use.
A rolling metal tray waited beside her, tools arranged with surgical precision under harsh fluorescent lights: scalpels, a large carving knife, shears, a bone saw, pliers, clamps, and several hooks.
She screamed until her throat felt shredded. The sound echoed off the concrete and died. No one answered.
The door opened.
Richard stepped into the room with his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair remained perfect, not a strand out of place, and his face held a look of serene composure. He carried a glass of red wine with casual elegance.
“Richard,” she sobbed instantly. “What is this?”
“Don’t call me that down here.” His voice was soft, almost affectionate.
“I won’t tell anyone. I swear to God. Just let me go.”
“They all say that.” He pulled on black gloves, slowly, finger by finger.
Richard stood over her, turning the scalpel slowly in his hand. “Have you seen the news lately, Jessica? About that crazed killer on the loose?”
Jessica’s breath caught, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs as icy fear clawed up her spine. She stared at him, eyes wide with dawning horror.
“They call him the Brentwood Butcher,” he continued, a cruel smile curving his lips. “He carves his victims up… leaves them with a permanent smile.” He leaned closer, eyes gleaming with dark delight. “Well guess what, Jess… it’s me.”
A choked whimper escaped her throat.
The man who had charmed her over dinner—the handsome, popular, and wealthy Richard Kincaid she had been so eager to impress—was the Butcher? Terror flooded her veins, turning her stomach to ice as she yanked uselessly against the straps holding her down.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because you came.” He picked up the scalpel. “And because I can.”
He clamped her jaw, tilting her face. The blade kissed her collarbone and sliced a deep line down between her breasts. Blood welled immediately. Jessica’s scream tore the air raw.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, watching the red flow.
“No—please, Richard, don’t!” Jessica begged frantically, her voice cracking with terror as tears streamed down her face. “I’ll do anything, just please stop—please don’t do this!”
