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“Help me. Please.” He yelped the words at me like a coyote trapped in a snare. “Untie me, girl.”
The room’s colors looked more vibrant, almost like I was in a dream. Hands clamped into shaking fists, I strode across the floor to a chest that sat opposite the table he lay on. There was no need to get instructions from Sam. I knew exactly what he wanted me to do, and I was going to enjoy it. A sudden burst of excitement filled me. It was as though I’d woken on Christmas morning, with decent parents, and was about to run downstairs and see what treasures Santa had brought.
My breath hissed in and out of my nose in frantic bursts as I ripped the lid open.
“Listen, this is all a mistake. I’ve got money, just untie me, and I’ll give it to you.” His voice was high pitched, shaking a little with tension.
He didn’t recognize me. That was obvious. If he’d known who I was, he wouldn’t be trying to bribe me. He’d be howling for anyone to come and save him, but no one was coming. All thoughts of escape and rebellion were gone. I’d never been so grateful for anything in my life. Jesus, if Sam had walked in at that moment, in the state I was in, I’d have blown him as a thank you.
“Dahlia?”
Freezing as I dug through the toys in the chest, Drake’s voice brought me back to reality for an instant. I turned and saw him standing by the door. Our eyes locked, and he shrugged and pointed to his cuff.
“Uh, I was told to come to help you.” His eyes asked if I was all right with this.
My lips peeled back into what I wanted to be a grin but was probably more akin to a snarl. “Good. I want someone else to make sure I give this piece of shit everything he deserves.”
“Where am I?” Quinten squeaked. “What is this place? Really, what do you want? I’ve got money, I’ve got dope, I’ll give it to you.”
Spinning and glaring at him, I said, “It’s Hell, you motherfucker. You’re in Hell, and I’m going to see that you get everything you’ve earned.” My voice was deep and angry, full of more power than I’d ever heard out of myself before.
Drake’s device buzzed and he glanced at the screen. After reading, he looked at me. “I’m going to help you. Like the last time. Then we kill him.”
Quinten craned his head, looking at us in abject horror. Tears dribbled from his eyes as he shook his head back and forth. “No, no, no, please no. I didn’t do anything to you people. I’ve done nothing to deserve this.”
Unable to control myself, I leaped toward the table and slapped my hand across his face. The gunshot snap of it sounded like a bomb going off. I hit him so hard that red outlines of my fingers appeared on his face instantly, and my hand stung from the impact. A tiny bit of pain that, for some reason, sent a shiver of pleasure between my legs.
Leaning close to him, I locked my eyes with his. Through gritted teeth, I whispered, “Lillian Belrose.”
At the mention of the name, his pale brown eyes widened in comprehension and, at last, recognition. His terror morphed into horror as he understood who was in the room with him.
He shook his head violently. “No. I’m sorry. That wasn’t supposed to happen that way. I’m already being punished.”
I slapped him again, harder. “How was it supposed to go? A simple rape of an eleven-year-old girl? Huh?” I took on a sickly sweet explanatory tone. “You see, Mister Policeman, all I wanted to do was fuck this little girl. I wanted her to enjoy it so I shot her full of drugs. It’s not my fault she didn’t want to fuck a grown man and fought back. If she hadn’t done that, she wouldn’t be dead, and I’d still be fucking her.”
I brought my fist down on his face like a hammer. His nose crunched beneath my hand, and two streaks of blood shot out of each nostril down his lip to his chin. Quinten, shocked by the abrupt and mind-numbing pain, didn’t even scream. Instead, he gagged and coughed, trying to clear the blood that was probably streaming down his throat.
“You don’t know anything about punishment. But you’re going to learn.” I wiped the blood off my fist on my shirt. I was going to keep it as a memento.
“How do you want to start?” Drake asked from behind me.
My jaw was set, teeth grating together, as I looked at the pathetic naked man in front of me. Years of pain and emotional damage had built up to an explosion. When I’d killed my father, there had been a bit of shame. The child who lived in a deep part of me knew I wasn’t supposed to do that, no matter what my parent had done.
For Branson, old childhood terrors had clawed at me under the rush of power. Anger yes, but even as he’d bled and screeched under my hands, I’d had a sliver of fear. Terror was instilled by all that he’d done to me. For years, I’d thought all the torments in my life had crushed me, shriveled me into a skittish thing that couldn’t do anything to protect herself. That person had been a cocoon for something strong, dangerous, and powerful. A being so terrifying that my own mind had pushed it deep into my subconscious, but now it was out and breathing the air. Free.
A quick glance at Drake showed that he saw it too. He stared back at me in a mixture of amazement, horror, and surprise. The look on his face added to the pleasure I was already feeling. Sexual tension twisted itself in my guts as I considered what was to come.
“Bring me a knife,” I said, nodding to the chest.
Quinten wasn’t begging anymore, instead, he made pathetic mewling sounds as Drake dug in the chest and pulled out what looked like a filet knife. He pulled the sheath off, gingerly grabbed the blade, and handed it to me with the handle forward.
“Thanks,” I said and took it.
The human sewage that was Quinten Bouchard looked at me with wide eyes of terror as I raised the knife to show him.
“This isn’t going to be fast. It isn’t going to be painless. You will beg me to die before I’m done.” I leaned down until my nose was almost touching his. “I hope you’re ready. I am, and I’m going to enjoy this a lot.”
Before he could say anything, I laid the edge of the blade along the edge of his kneecap and ran the razor-sharp knife all around the bone. Quinten shrieked in pain as I circled the cap, slicing through skin and tendon as I went. A few moments later, with a wet pop, the entire kneecap fell to the table with a muffled thump. Blood oozed from the new wound in thick rivulets. Quinten’s face had gone nearly white with pain, sweat was beading up on his forehead and upper lip, tears sliding down his cheeks, snot dripping from his nose.
