Page 9 of Razors & Ruin

“Apologize toher, idiot.” He pulls the razor away and points it at me.

“Sorry, Mrs. Lovett.”

I fold my arms and glare at him. No one has ever stood up for me before, and I intend to make the most of it.

“Ooh.” Sweeney makes a mock face of fear as he puts the razor to the man’s neck once more. “Nellie is angry. Tell me, Mr. Wetherby, who knows you came here?”

“No one,” he replies. “But I have a wife and son. He’s only young.”

“Let me guess,” Sweeney says. “At boarding school?”

“Yes indeed. A most excellent school, Barley Hall. I have money, I can?—”

“So here’s what we will do,” Sweeney says, interrupting. “You will avail Mrs Lovett of one hundred pounds, and then you’ll leave and stay gone. Otherwise, I shall wander over to your boy’s prestigious little zoo and introduce him to my friend here.”

He raises the blade in the light, Wetherby’s blood dripping onto his trousers. “Are you amenable, sir?”

Wetherby scrambles to his feet, during himself off. “Certainly. I apologize for my assumptions; I didn’t know Mrs. L had a gentleman to keep her.”

Sweeney narrows his eyes as he stands, leveling the razor at the pallid-looking Wetherby.

“She doesn’t, and I don’t. But I wouldn’t fuck around, my friend. Put the money on the counter and get gone, before I do some damage you won’t walk away from.”

A wad of dry-looking notes appears beside me, but Wetherby avoids catching my eye. Then he’s gone.

Sweeney sheathes the blade and pockets it. “Two hundred. Fucking idiot. That’ll more than cover my needs and, just maybe, a few of yours.”

5

Sweeney

Ican’t lie; it felt good to make that pig-man squeal. Strip away the social niceties and knowing-your-placeness, and you’re left with little more than skin, flesh, and bone.

Rich men, poor men, obsessed little girls: they all bleed just the same. There’s a straightforward justice that comes with a sharp edge, and that edge isme.

“There’s enough here to pay for good meat,” I say, waving the money at Nellie. “Where would you buy it if you could?”

“There’s no good meat to be had,” she replies. I notice a sheen of sweat on her brow, and it occurs me I may have scared her.

“The traders grind up whatever they find. Anything dead and unwanted goes in. The Lords and Ladies get their protein from places the likes of you and me can’t get near.”

Nellie needs to turn her business around. It’s a sow’s ear now, but with a little lateral thinking, it could be a silk purse.

“Why did you run him off?” she asks. “Wetherby, I mean. He was prepared to give me a regular income. If that’s all that matters, what do you care what I have to do to keep a roof over my head?”

The smirk on her face is as arousing as it is infuriating. How dare she ask a question like that when I fucked her raw less than an hour ago?

Nellie reads my face and leans into her theme. “In fact, I think you were too hasty. Like he said, what’s a fuck between?—”

My hand is at her throat before I realize I’ve taken a step. The razor, too, shimmering in the lamplight, pressed to her cheek.

“Shut the fuck up, Mrs. Lovett,” I hiss. “You don’t fool me for a second. I walked through those doors, and you surrendered your body to me like it was your life’s very meaning. You will not be giving an inch to anyone other than me, ever, even if I have to kill you to prevent it. Is that clear?”

Her pulse surges against my thumb as I wedge it into the gap between the tendons. I turn the blade gently, scraping her skin, and some of her delicate peach fuzz skims off, tumbling onto her bodice.

“Is that fucking close enough?” she whispers. “I don’t think so.”

Nellie’s bed is large and surprisingly comfortable. I sit on the coverlet, spinning my razor between my fingertips as she strips.

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