Page 10 of Bratva Butcher

“Isn’t this all a little pointless, Samuel?” Autumn lounged back, giving off the illusion she was completely relaxed. However, there was a slight stiffness in her shoulders. Tension in those cunning green eyes. She wasn’t feeling as casual about the whole thing as she was trying to make herself appear. “You know I’m not going to talk.”

“I know,” Samuel smiled. “And I hope you never do. Because it means we can continue our little dates until you die.” He hauled Autumn to her feet, unlocked her from the wall and used the chain still strapped around her neck to lead her to an old, crusty reclining chair like a dog on a leash. “Now, be a good little doggy and sit.”

She took a seat, not putting up any fight.

I scoffed.What an obedient little bitch—

Autumn front-kicked Samuel right in the family jewels. He went down like a house of cards, hands tucked firmly between his legs, eyes wide and groaning in agony.

I arched an eyebrow in surprise.

Samuel writhed on the ground, and Autumn just sat there watching him, looking bored. She didn’t try to make a run for it. Didn’t try to escape. Maybe because she knew what a wasted effort it would be. I knew my brother. He’d have contingencies in place to counter anyone who tried to escape his prison.

Autumn crossed her legs elegantly like a well-mannered woman from the upper class, tilted her head to the side and said, “Woof, woof.”

A chuffing laugh burst out of me before I even knew what was happening. My eyes widened in shock.

What. The. Fuck?

I glared at Autumn like it washerfault the sound slipped past my lips. I didn’t want to findanythingthat woman did funny.

She was insufferable.

“You bitch,” Samuel hissed, legs shaking as he slowly got back on his feet. “You’re going to pay for that.”

She rolled her eyes. “You say that every time.” She lay flat on her back, staring up at the ceiling. “Can we get on with it, then? I’m sick of looking at your stupid face.”

She’s either brave…or stupid.

“Who hired you?” It was the fiftieth bloody time he’d asked that stupid, infernal question, and like every time prior, Autumn didn’t say a word.

Frustration marred the lines of Samuel’s face, and he picked up the needle and thread. It was an ingenious torture technique. EvenIhad to admit it. He would ask the question, and when she didn’t answer, he’d cut her deep enough that it would require stitches. He’d then give her the opportunity to answer again (which, of course, she didn’t), and then stitch the wound closed with no anesthetic. No pain relief.

It was effective in two ways.

For one, it wasincrediblypainful. Don’t believe what all of those Hollywood movies show you where the main character gets hurt, and they stitch themselves up with nothing but a bottle of alcohol to quell the pain.

It hurt a lot more than they depicted. The skin, already agonisingly tender and sore from being sliced open, felt like it was being burnt off your bones.

And second, it helped prevent the victim from bleeding out, ensuring they didn’t die before getting the information they were after.

Like I said… Effective.

Autumn sucked air in between her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut as Samuel weaved the needle through the open wound, humming joyfully.

“Who hired you?” he sang like he was stitching a blanket and not sewing human skin.

“Your mother,” she spat, rearing forward to try and headbutt him. He dodged it expertly, almost as if he’d anticipated the strike.

It was the same question over and over again. Nothing different. Just always “Who hired you?”, “Who hired you?”

The curiosity was inevitable. I mean, who wouldn’t be curious after hearing the same question a thousand fucking times?

“Who hired you?”

Hired her to dowhat? What was it she was trying to do? Or, more specifically, what was it she gotcaughtdoing?

Curiouser and curiouser.

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