Page 20

He knelt in front of me and secured my ankles first, the straps tight but not painful. Then my wrists. When he finished, I tested the restraints and found I could move slightly, but not enough to reach the buckles.

“I can still say mercy,” I said.

The Butcher nodded, then picked up the black silk blindfold.

“Wait.” My voice came out rougher than I meant it to. “Why do you want me blindfolded?”

He wrote on a new card and held it close enough for me to read before he put the blindfold on.

Because fear is more honest when you can’t see what’s coming.

“And if I want to see again before the performance ends?”

He wrote: You may ask. I will decide.

“That’s not good enough,” I said. “If I ask you to take it off, you take it off. That’s the deal.”

The Butcher paused, then wrote on a fresh card: Agreed.

“Okay,” I said. “Then do it.”

He tied the silk across my eyes, and the world went dark.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

I sat in the chair, breathing hard, listening to the hum of the overhead lights and the faint scrape of metal against metal as the Butcher moved around the room. My other senses sharpened in the absence of sight—the smell of wax and peppermint. Cool air brushed my exposed skin. His footsteps were deliberate and unhurried.

Then I felt the first touch.

Leather-gloved fingers traced the line of my jaw, slow and exploratory, as though he were memorizing the shape of my face. The touch moved down my throat, pausing at my pulse point, and I felt my heartbeat hammering against his fingertips.

“What are you doing?” I whispered.

He didn’t answer. The touch moved lower, skimming the edge of my collarbone, then down to the neckline of my shirt. He didn’t pull the fabric aside or try to remove it. Just traced the boundary between cloth and skin, patient and methodical.

Then the touch disappeared.

I waited, my breath coming faster, and heard the faint sound of something being lifted from the cart.

Cold metal pressed against the inside of my wrist.

I gasped, jerking slightly against the restraints, but the metal didn’t move. It stayed there, resting against my pulse, and I realized it was the thin rod—warmed slightly by his hand but still cold enough to make my skin prickle.

He dragged it slowly up my forearm, over the inside of my elbow, then higher, stopping just below my shoulder. The sensation was maddening—not painful, but sharp enough to make me hyper-aware of every inch of skin the metal touched.

“Fuck,” I breathed.

The rod disappeared, and I heard him move to the brazier.

Then I smelled the wax.

“Wait,” I said quickly. “Where are you putting that?”

He paused. I heard him set something down, then felt his gloved hand rest lightly on my shoulder—a silent question.

“Not my face,” I said. “And not anywhere that’ll scar.”

His hand squeezed once, then released.