Page 40 of Black Heart

“Can I please have some water?”

I hate sayingpleaseto him, but maybe that’s what he wants. A begging, pleading submissive before he lets me go. “Or use the bathroom?”

“Come,” he croons.

Not to me. But to his pet cat.

Then he disappears again.

“Hey!” I call out to him. “Come back!”

A familiar clicking sound draws me away from hisretreating form, and as I turn to look, a match is lit in the far corner of the room. The aroma of a cigarette fills the air, making my nostrils tingle with its pungent scent.

Then slow, unhurried footsteps approach and a figure emerges from the black, sauntering toward me with an arrogance and cruelty that makes my skin crawl.

No burn marks. No scars. No tattoos.

This isn’t the Scythe.

His aura is different—more menacing, more volatile. He flicks the spent match onto the cold concrete floor and takes a long drag from his cigarette before he finally meets my gaze.

“Would you look at those eyes.” He smirks. “Nature's own little freak show. I always wanted to fuck something rare. Guess it's my lucky day, dollface.”

I blink, taken aback. He’s taller than the Scythe, larger in build, and his face—though handsome in a pock-marked sort of way—is twisted with barbarity.

Panic surges, but a part of me still believes this is a ruse—until his unfamiliar, rough hand hooks my chin.

“Pretty young thing, aren’t you?”

"Who are you?" I manage to choke out.

The man chuckles, an awful, grating sound. "You can call me Bonesaw. And you, dollface, are my new dissection project."

He releases my chin, only to trail his fingers down my neck and over my collarbone. I shudder, trying to shrink away from his touch, but the zip ties’ teeth hold me in place.

"The Scythe will kill you for this," I say, mustering up what courage I have left. "He brought me here. I'm his ... captive."

Bonesaw barks out a laugh. "You think he cares about you? Oh, that's precious. The Scythe, if that’s indeed who it is, only cares about himself and his precious mission. No one truly knows him. If he had a name he was born with, that’s longgone. He goes by reputation only. He’s succeeded in every one of his contract kills. Very expensive guy from the sounds of it. Me, I come cheaper, likely because I’m … messier.”

He takes another drag from his cigarette, then blows the smoke directly into my face. I cough and sputter, my eyes watering from the acrid sting.

"Besides," Bonesaw continues, flicking ash onto the floor, "I have an arrangement with the guy who gave me the tip you were at this warehouse, trussed up and ready for me. He won't interfere with my fun so long as I don't interfere with his plans.”

He traces a gnarled finger down my cheek, scooping up an errant tear, then raises it to his lips and flicks his tongue out.

“Mm. Tasty, but I bet your pussy has more seasoning.”

Ice floods my veins. The Scythe knows about this man? Allowed him to be here, to torment me? The betrayal cuts deep, even though I know I shouldn't have expected anything less.

Bonesaw seems to sense my despair because his smirk widens. He stubs out his cigarette on the back of the chair, inches from my bound wrists, making me flinch. Then he leans in close, his breath hot and rancid against my ear.

"Now, let's see what makes you scream, shall we?"

His hands roam lower, tugging at the hem of my shirt. Bile churns into my throat and I thrash against my bonds, splinters digging deeper into my palms.

"No! Stop!" I'm beyond pride now, openly pleading. "Please, don't do this!"

But he just laughs, his fingers tightening on my hip hard enough to bruise. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for the worst?—

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