Page 66 of Owen (Storm Enterprises)

OWEN

It’s been a week since I fucked my wife’s ass and she rolled over to tell me she was sorry she lied. I narrowed my eyes, and she bit her lip with the innocent look she’s come to perfect, only to tell me that she’d never done anal before but wanted to push me into giving her every part of me. Not gonna lie, I wanted to both spank her ass and ride her raw for letting me lose my shit on her like that for her first time.

She assured me she loved every minute, telling me she never orgasmed as hard as when my fingers wrapped around her neck until she saw stars.

My cock hardens, but I ignore it.

Not when I have a job to do.

Nico Garcia delivered the two men to the basement of my apartment block last night, and today, I will deal with them.

They terrorized my wife and have left her with PTSD. They will pay for their sins, and I will love every second of extracting it from them.

I turn into the underground car park and switch off the engine, then climb out of the car, slamming the door behind me. I stride toward the elevator and step inside, then stab the button for the basement and descend.

My body vibrates with adrenaline as the doors slide open. Three of my security team turn in my direction as I take in the room.

The two men are hanging from their wrists by chains attached to the roof.

“Do you want us to leave you to it?” Dale asks, and I give him a firm nod. He tilts his head toward the other two men. They all nod in my direction as they enter the lift, and I wait for the doors to close behind them before I make a move.

They’re stripped down to their boxers and gagged, their faces a little bruised. I step forward and push the gag down for the man to speak. “You killed Carlos?”

“I did the job,” he replies with confidence in his eyes that has no place being there.

I shake my head. “There was a woman and child in the room, you sick fuck.”

“No bitch there,” he snipes back, and I close my eyes at the derogatory word used toward my wife.

“Liar!” I bellow, then grab his face between the palm of my hand. I squeeze and squeeze until his jaw cracks, and only then do I feel the hit of euphoria. Clenching the tips of my fingers harder, I’m determined to make this piece of shit crumble, to shatter beneath me.

His eyes bulge in horror, and he splutters around me, his body thrashing while his friend fights against his own bindings, knowing what’s going to happen to him as well.

When his jaw gives way, I tear through the flesh with ease, then I rip his lower face from him, throwing it to the floor. Iswipe away the remnants of his spittle with my forearm, relieved I had the foresight to wear a black shirt today.

Then, while the fucker bleeds out onto the floor, I move toward the workbench and collect my tool of choice.

A screwdriver.

You can do many things with a screwdriver, including deliver pain. My father, the son of a bitch, taught me at a young age how vital this piece of the toolkit is. I felt the pain of his lesson in my thigh during a visit home from boarding school; that’s something my children will never learn, not by me.

For me to become man enough to receive his wealth, my father delivered multiple lessons, not one of them compassion. At the end of each lesson, I would tell him I didn’t care about money, and he would laugh in my face.

It’s part of the reason I asked my best friends to go into business with me. I never received an inheritance, not deemed strong enough. All I got was a list of contacts when I used my IT skills to target his security firm and steal his data, then I liquidated the firm and used my newfound knowledge to help create the security side of STORM Enterprises.

My mother would be proud. I destroyed everything he loved, everything that mattered to him.

And I created my own family, my destiny, with Laya right there in the center.

My children will inherit my business by passion driven by love, not brutality.

I slam the screwdriver into his eye and quickly step back to let the surge of blood and fluid fly from him. Then I yank it out before delivering the same treatment to the next. I turn to his friend. “Are you watching? What should I do next, hmm?” The prick’s face falls like he’s about to pass out, and I know I will love every second of keeping him alive just to endure a sliver of the pain my wife had to witness.

Next, I flick open my penknife and slash through the scumbag’s boxers. Then I close it and slide the knife back into my pocket. My grip on the screwdriver tightens as I deliver a sharp slam of it to his balls, relishing the squeal of terror behind his gagged friend.

“I’m going to enjoy slaughtering you, motherfucker.” I grin sadistically as his bloodied body mingles with images of Carlos’s face while trying to shake away the edge of insanity I feel.

My bloodstream becomes potent with a jealous poison reserved solely for Laya. Every touch he gave her that was meant to be mine.

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