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When no one remarks on my presence, I assume the coast is clear and I haven’t been spotted.
Angling my head, I peek into the room.
Uriel shoves a wad of cloth into Rodney’s mouth then gives his cheek a little pat. “Let’s get this over with.”
It’s not lost on me that spying on these men is probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Obviously, whatever is about to go down is going to be bad, and I’m making myself a party to it.
But it’s worth the risk.
This might be my ticket to freedom, without actually having to interact with any of the men.
Jude turns more towards me, and my attention snaps to his face.
He looks different. So different I almost didn’t recognize him at first.
In the pictures I’ve studied, he was clean-shaven, with a lean, hungry look to him.
Now he looks… disheveled somehow. Like he’s tired and doesn’t give a fuck about his appearance. His hair is a little wild, badly in need of a trim, and there’s scruff on his cheeks.
I’m so focused on memorizing all the new, little changes, so I can report them to my uncle later, I don’t see the bigger picture.
I don’t see what Jude is holding in his hand.
Nodding to Uriel, Jude steps up to Rodney from his left side. “Now be a good boy and stay still. Trust me, you don’t want me to miss…”
Uriel suddenly grabs Rodney from behind so he can’t move.
Expression unchanging, Jude lifts his arms, gripping a meat cleaver in both hands.
As the cleaver glints in the light, my heart freezes mid-beat.
Then Jude drops his arms, bringing the cleaver down on Rodney’s left wrist.
Rodney screams behind his gag.
And I almost scream with him.
But it feels like someone just punched me in the stomach and knocked all the air out of me.
“Oops…” Jude says, looking emotionlessly down at the cleaver embedded in Rodney’s wrist.
“Oops?” Nathaniel asks.
A boyish grin stretches across Jude’s face, cracking his emotionless mask. “It seems I’m out of practice.”
Struggling to keep Rodney from thrashing around too much, Uriel growls, “What the fuck? It didn’t go all the way through?”
Jude chuckles. “I’m afraid not.”
“Fuck,” Uriel groans. “Do it again. I want to get this shit over with. This fucker smells like piss and he’s so sweaty he keeps slipping out of my hands.”
Face lighting up with a sick kind of glee, Jude wiggles the cleaver back and forth, trying to free it.
That sound… the sound of the metal grinding against bone is my undoing.
My stomach revolting in protest, I have to slap a hand over my mouth to keep from puking everywhere.
Unfortunately, the movement instantly draws Jude’s attention.
