Page 112 of Slaughter

Keep her alive? What was he gonna do to her? My imagination runs wild with thoughts of him cutting her over and over only to have Lance stitch her up. Then starting the process over again. “Hold him down,” I order Tristan.

Lance jumps up to his feet and tries to run toward the door, but my brother grabs him by the collar of his shirt and throws him onto the only table in the room. My brother jumps up onto it as well and straddles his chest, holding him down. Now my brother isn’t big, by any means, but he’s strong. That was one thing my father instilled in us. You want to win? Then you know how to take out your opponent. Doesn’t matter that they are bigger. That makes them slower. You always be faster, quicker, and smarter.

I walk over to the end of the table where Lance’s head is. He struggles to free himself, but his hands are tied behind his back, so he has no leverage.

I pull out the Ziploc baggie in my back pocket and open it up. His eyes widen when he sees what’s in it.

“What are you going to do with that?” he asks, his voice laced with fear.

“You’re gonna eat it,” I tell him.

“FUCK YOU!” he roars.

“Open your mouth,” I order, and he clamps it shut just as we knew he would. “Tristan.”

Tristan places his hands around Lance’s throat and tightens them to the point of asphyxiation. His face turns red, and he tries to shake it.

I stand, looking down at the man I once called a friend who has become one of my biggest enemies. He’s gonna pay for not telling me what happened years ago. And for helping my father. In the most horrific and depraved ways. He forgot who taught me how to slaughter those who deserve it. My father. At least he was useful for one thing.

Finally, my brother lets go of his neck, and Lance opens his mouth to take a deep breath, needing air, and I shove the piece of skin that I cut off Bunny’s leg into his mouth. Then slap my hand over his mouth. “Swallow,” I order.

He shakes his head viciously as his chest starts to heave. Right now, his mouth is filling with extra saliva, and his mind is telling him to spit it out. I don’t remove my hand. I hold it over his mouth, pressing down while my brother continues to straddle him. Tears form in his eyes, and his face turns red.

His chest convulses, and he closes his eyes. Then we see his neck work as he swallows it.

My brother climbs off him, and I remove my hand from his mouth and tap him on the face. “Good boy.”

“You’re fucking sick!” he shouts while his body shakes.

“Tristan,” I say, holding out my hand. He places the black ball gag in it. The same one I used on Bunny the night I tied her to her bed and gagged her.

Lance goes to cuss me out once again, and I shove the black ball gag in his mouth and quickly fasten it behind his head. “Now, don’t go and puke. You’ll drown yourself in your own vomit. And I’m not done with you yet,” I say, rolling up the sleeves to my shirt.

PRESLEIGH

I sit up against the wall, my hands still cuffed behind my back. My knees are pulled to my chest, and my forehead rests on them. My eyes are closed, but I’m not sleeping. Instead, I’m wishing I would die.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but I know they visit me often. Well, Victor does anyway. Vaughn hasn’t returned since he got kicked out earlier. And I’m thankful. I can’t even fight off one, let alone two.

The smell of sweat and blood makes me want to barf. But I’ve swallowed the bile more times than I can count now. Afraid they may make me lick it up.

My leg still throbs where he branded me with two letters, and every time I look at it, I wish my hands were free so I could claw it off.

It stands for everything I said I’m not–slave.

I don’t know why I never just told Avery I was his slave. Because being his toy was nothing compared to belonging to his father.

The door opens, and I whimper, unable to take anymore. “St … op.” I don’t even recognize my own voice. It’s scratchy, and my throat’s raw. So many tears and so many screams. I’ve lost it.

He crouches before me and grabs my hair. He yanks my head back, and I look at him through watery eyes. No matter how bound I am, he still likes to hit me.

“I want you to know that it was never personal. It would have been any daughter your father had.”

“What?” I ask closing my heavy eyes.

“I won you in a poker game. When you were ten. But by the time you were old enough to be my slave, my son had fallen in love with you. And then you got pregnant with his child.” He sighs as if disappointed. “If I would have taken you to be my slave, he would have fought me for you, and although he would have never won, it was just easier to let you go. Until I found out that he had you. And that you were his slave.”

I grind my teeth. “I’m not …” I cough. “A sla … ve.”