Page 36 of Hunted: Season Two

Is it rehydrated soap?

Conditioner?

Did he fucking bathe in sunscreen?

Wedging the cobra pliers deeper into his mouth, I work my wrist to secure the clamp onto another top tooth, meet his blue glare with mine, and ruthlessly yank backwards, ripping the off-white object cleanly out of place.

Blood curdling screams echo around the space as I drop it in the old drain pan Bunny is proudly holding.

If anyone should be proud, it should beus.

Not only did she not run when it would’ve been the perfect time to, she savedourasses.

Hit this asshole in the head hard enough to immobilize him.

And instead of letting us kill him with his own gun before burying his body – we were already in a cemetery – she insisted we take him somewhere.

Ask him questions.

See if maybe he’ll cough up something we or Garcia can actually fucking use to our advantage.

Maybe get us on the same lap as McAdams instead of stalling behind.

When all Nolan and I could see was rage, she managed to keep calm and focused.

Prove she wants to protect us…what we have…as much as we do.

It’s the kind of shit that makes me and Nolan wanna simultaneously drop to our knees and feast for hours.

Race to see who can have her crossing the orgasm line first.

Unfortunately, that can’t happen until after we finish up our work here.

And I don’t care what anyone says.

Tortureiswork.

Even when you find pleasure in it.

Red streams seeping past the corners of his mouth to mix with his tears, create a sight that prompts me to resume my interrogation. “Where. Is. My. Mom’s. Body?”

Choked sobs and hyperventilating sounds – both of which feel like test drive demonstrations rather than anything real – are expelled around his stuttered response, “I…I…I…d-d-d-don’t…kn-n-n-now.”

“I don’t believe you.” Pulling his head backwards by a second fist full precedes me jamming the tool back into his crimson coated mouth. “Let’s see what your molar has to say.”

“Nooooooooo!!” escapes in a muffled croak due to the grip portion of the pliers latching onto the aforementioned location. “Pweasenodomistome!”

This time I decide to prolong the process.

Tug and tug and tug.

Toy with the nerve.

Play with the pressure.

Extend the agony while intensely watching tears flow freely from his bulging stare, wanting – fuck that –needingto paint something in this situation right.

Provethere’s something here for the woman I lost too soon in life to be proud of.

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