Page 114 of Coveted By Cupid

Grabbing the tall stake in my hands, I hold it up for inspection with a sinister grin tugging at my lips. Kirill and Mikhail watch me with despairing interest.

Drift’s lips turn down. “The fuck are you going to do with that?”

“Have you ever heard of Vlad III Dracula?”

Crypt’s head snaps to mine, his face cracking into a faint smile. “I do, and it’s a brilliant idea.”

Drift frowns. “Well, I don’t. Not everyone is a Roman history geek, Cupid.”

“I’m not a geek,” I say, miffed. “I prefer history buff or bookworm. But Vlad wasn’t Roman—he was Romanian. You may know him best as Vlad the Impaler.”

Every crew member’s head turns my way, finally catching up with me and Crypt.

Having everyone’s full attention, including our captives, I share what I know. “Assyrians, Byzantines, and Romans all used the gruesome practice, but nobody quite perfected it like the Ottomans, especially Vlad. Where most would dump you into a pit of stakes or run you through with a spear before propping the stake upright, Vlad’s technique was more…unique.”

The room becomes as quiet as a tomb as I speak, my words heavy with suggestion. “You see, Vlad loved torture—the slower the better. He also had a fixation with sexual mutilation.”

“Like you,” Crypt says matter-of-factly, no insult in his tone whatsoever.

“I wouldn’t compare myself to the likes of Vlad III. However, I enjoy removing the weapons men like to use against women and other men, like cutting off the dick of a sex trafficker,” I say, looking at the Russians with a cruel smile.

Kirill glares at me with utter hatred. Mikhail is sickly green, like he might hurl chunks again.

I move closer to them, using the iron stake like a walking stick as I speak. “Vlad’s method was brutal, inspiring fear throughout the Ottoman Empire and beyond. You want to hear his version of impaling?”

Kirill and Mikhail squirm, knowing what I’m about to say is gruesome.

Crypt’s hand goes above his head. “I want to hear.”

“The insertion process was fascinating. A blade was used to slice up the anus. To stop the bleeding and prolong the torture, a clotting paste was applied to the incision. It would do nothing for the pain, but that was the point—no pun intended.”

I let out a low chuckle, laughing at my own joke.

“You’re a sick fuck,” Kirill hisses, fear making his voice quake.

“Why, thank you,” I say, feigning flattery. “But it wasn’t my process. Let me finish explaining it to you. A greased stake with a sharp point and tapered base would be thrust into the rectum tip first. They would then use a mallet to drive it further up the body’s intestines until the body was stable enough for the stake to be stood upright. Gravity would do the rest of the work, pushing down on the stake until the victim succumbed to death hours later.”

All the men cringe as if they can feel the very sensation. Well, everyone except Crypt. My enforcer looks at me like he’s taking mental notes to remember for later use.

My smile tightens my face as I watch the fear build in the traffickers. “Can you guess which method of impalement I’m going to use on you?”

“CUPID! You’re fucking with the wrong people, you piece of shit,” Kirill yells at me, his chest heaving with each breath.

“You’re wrong. I’m not fucking you, but this rod sure will.”

Snickers echo around the room, my men enjoying Kirill and Mikhail’s discomfort as much as I do.

Moving closer to Kirill, I know which trafficker I want to start with. He tries to jerk away, sensing danger.

“You’re scared. Good. You should be. I’m about to make you a human shish kebab.”

Ruger snorts loudly. “More like a shit kebab.”

We all laugh, minus our captives, of course.

“Hoist him higher,” I order.

Oaks moves towards the electric pulley system, hitting the button to lift Kirill higher toward the top of the twelve-foot ceiling.