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He’d felt the draw of the lifestyle, seen the symmetry and gloriousness of how a true artist painted his canvas in shades of black and blue, purple and red. How rope could leave a woman’s skin marked like a brand and the grip of a hand could sear her soul just as effectively.
His own selfish needs had been his downfall that night. That, and loyalty to a friend, a mentor. They’d struck a deal that cost him his soul and sealed his fate to follow in Ford’s footsteps.
He’d let Sire go that night and taken his friend’s place in Debbie’s life as master and sadist. Reported the perpetrator as gone, cleared up the crime scene, and let Ford disappear into the ether to return as Sire.
Oh, the things he’d learned from Debbie. The hours he’d spent honing his newfound fascination with the human body, how it could be made to bend to his will, physically and mentally. A steep learning curve, yes, but so worth the sacrifice of everything he’d thought he once was.
He hadn’t been born to be a cop, to change the world for the better.
No, his purpose was to re-educate the populace. Reset the balance back to how it should be—women at the feet of their men, obeying their master’s commands, accepting their punishments with grace and in silence.
Twenty-Two had been damn near perfect, a testament to Sire’s skill.
He wanted to kill her as slowly as he’d killed Debbie. The fucking slut had ruined everything, just as Debbie had shattered the idyllic bond of their relationship. Strangling Debbie, stringing her up, had been the defining moment of his transition—his point of no return.
Of course, without Sire stepping in to modify the coroner’s report from murder to suicide and funding said coroner’s early retirement, he would have been in the shit, but things had worked out well.
From that moment, he’d learned to work independently, selecting his own numbers, while also working with Sire as a team. Bouncing ideas off each other, growing their ideal. He hadn’t enjoyed being drafted as Sire’s body disposal unit, but it had benefitted him in the long run—body dumps in different states had given him a wider range of women to select from and had the additional advantage of throwing the FBI off their game.
His method of killing differed from Sire’s. While his mentor left the sex to the very end, the punctuation to a number’s demise, the protégé had a different view on the matter.
Numbers were not just for menial tasks. Cooking, cleaning, keeping house…they were the basics of what a number should be used for.
Sire took pleasure from the beatings, the floggings, the psychological pressure he dropped on his captives, which was understandable. He himself derived great satisfaction and physical pleasure from the crack of a whip on soft, unblemished skin. The cry of an unbroken number when flesh yielded to a strap had the power to make him cream his pants like a teenager.
But in his opinion, they were there for a reason. Three holes available with unfettered access? There was no reasonnotto exploit them. A number had no say, no voice, no opinion.
Iverson Ford might be dead and gone, but his teachings, his legacy lived on in his protégé, and his student was more than willing to carry the torch further, take it to new levels.
Everything the FBI had on Iverson Ford was in his hands. All data had been scrubbed from their systems, erased from human knowledge. They’d have to dig, and dig deep, to recover any shred of his existence once the file was gone.
Caleb tossed the papers into the flames.
The End
