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A low, growling tone that makes my skin shiver. A direct offer that balances on the precipice of an order. The bed sinks slightly, and I swear I’ve manifested him from my wishful thoughts. I slide my hand down my torso, my fingertips grazing soft flesh and easing their way toward the outermost of my undergarments. I can almost hear a throaty groan, a purr of approval as he inches closer to me, the mattress shifting at the weight. My movements become much more vigorous, a pleasurable torment as I whisper, “I need you to touch me.” He gives a playful tut, causing ecstasy to pressurize in my abdomen. I can feel his grasp on my ankle as I shut my eyes tightly.

“Please,” I beg, while my legs give small jolting spasms from the ensuing pleasure.

Before a climax may reach its crescendo, I feel a sharp pain in my ankle, as if he had laid his nails or teeth within my skin. My eyes fly open, ready to scold him, but instead I’m met with my dear Morrigan, sitting beside my foot with a judgmental glare.

“Oh, hush. You ruined a perfectly thrilling escape.”

I begin pulling on the sheet to inspect my foot, but Morrigan decides that the movement has become her prey.

5. Pain is Death's Younger Sibling - Lazarus, the Slaying Sickle

Blood

“Death is not nearly as daunting as people pretend it to be.

“Death is final.

“It is peace.

“The closing of a book after the final chapter has been read. No more obligations. No more debts. No more fear.

“Pain, however, is an entirely different creature.

“Pain is death’s younger sister.

“Cruel. Persistent. Seductive.

“It waltzes through life wearing a charming smile while dragging its victims across every corner of the ballroom. Grief. Heartbreak. Rage. Regret. Self-loathing. It delights in keeping people alive long enough to suffer them all.

“Death simply waits at the exit.

“Patient as ever.”

“I don’t understand a fucking word you are saying!” the man—bloodied and hanging upside down—screams from the abandoned barn rafters, interrupting my monologue.

The gravel crunches beneath my boots as I approach his rope and shake it haphazardly.

“That was extremely rude, bloody bellend. It was a beautiful, philosophical meditation on death and pain, given how important they are to me, and you bloody interrupted!” I explain with frustration and disappointment.

“Just let me go and you may talk to all the stars in the sky about your philosophical bullshit. I have no idea what I did to you to suffer this mistreatment and abuse!” he whines out.

Gazing upon him, a small smile tugs at my lips. I’m rather proud of my knots; those Shibari instructions Helga practiced on me have come in handy with those that I apprehend.

I’ve wrapped him around his upper arms, then crossed the rope to tighten his hands behind his back, then intertwined it around his legs to keep him as comfortable as a caterpillar in a chrysalis. Granted, his face has become very reddened from hanging upside down, but this man hurt one of my favorite shopkeepers.

Mrs. Penas.

The first instance of bad behavior by Mr. Quarles was his pronouncing Mrs. Peh-nuhs as Mrs. Penis. She originally came to England from Madrid, Spain. She and her husband had settled into a small market and would feed me regularly since my mother was preoccupied with other arrangements. His second instance of bad behavior was increasing their rent for the building, to try to extort them of whatever amounts he could squeeze from their pockets. His fourth instance of poor behavior was slapping Mrs. Penas, which I had found out about right after his third and horrendous instance of terrible behavior: shoving Mr. Penas so hard it smashed his skull, causing his death, then blaming the old man’s “frail body” and “poor coordination” to bobbies in the neighborhood.

Thus, this animal is now in my care. Or shall I deem it his after-care—or end-of-life care? Eh, bugger.

I’m going to kill him and take all the pleasure in knowing I’ve avenged the death of my dear friend, though I am still saddened that Mrs. Penas shall have to run the shop alone. Hopefully I may find some assistance for her.

“Hello? Are you even listening to me?” Mr. Quarles shouts, breaking my thoughts—again.

Rolling my eyes, I take in a long, exaggerated breath and crouch down beside the upside-down man.

“You are rather rude. Has anyone ever told you that?” I ask while gesturing with my hand.