Page 102 of All The Pretty Little Lies

My heart races as I realize Talon is losing his grip on his carefully constructed facade. The tension in the room ispalpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. I desperately want to reach out, to offer some form of comfort or reassurance, but I'm trapped in my role as the submissive pet. Helplessness washes over me as I struggle to think of a way to steady him without breaking character.

“What do you say, Mr. Blackwood?”

His hand slides from my shoulder to cup my face, drawing me forward slightly. The movement is gentle but firm, a clear statement of possession. I can feel the tremor in his fingers, the barely contained rage simmering just beneath the surface.

"You see," Talon continues, “Vesper isn't just an asset. She's not a commodity to be traded or harvested. She's mine."

As he speaks, I notice a flash of white moving behind Natasha. At first, I think it's just another server, their crisp uniform blending into the elegant decor of the restaurant. But there's something familiar about the way this figure moves, a fluid grace that sets my nerves on edge.

"You forget yourself, Charles," she hisses. "This isn't a negotiation. It's a courtesy. The eggs will be harvested, with or without your cooperation."

Talon's laugh is cold and sharp, like shattered glass. "Oh, Natasha," he says, shaking his head. "The last thing I would ever do is hand Vesper over to you or your clients."

My eyes snap towards her. Rage contorts Natasha's features, transforming her face into a mask of fury. She opens her mouth, no doubt to unleash a torrent of threats, but before she can utter a word, the white-clad figure behind her moves with lightning speed.

A hand darts out, gripping Natasha's shoulder with bruising force. In the same fluid motion, a syringe plunges into the crook of her neck. Natasha's eyes widen in shock and fear, her mouth working silently as the drug takes effect.

"Nighty night, cunt," Talon seethes, his voice dripping with satisfaction as Natasha slumps forward in her chair, her forehead hitting the table with a dull thud.

My heart racing, I peer up at our unexpected savior. To my shock, I see Alex, dressed impeccably in a server's uniform. His usually stoic face is alive with grim satisfaction as he smoothly pockets the now-empty syringe.

"Excellent timing, as always, Alex," Talon says, rising from his chair. He reaches down, offering me his hand. “We need to move. We’ll take the Red Russian bitch to go.”

ALEX

I watchas Zaire and Oscar carry Natasha down the narrow stairs, her limp body swaying between them like a rag doll. The familiar musty scent of the basement hits me as we descend, mingling with the metallic tang of fear that seems to emanate from our unconscious guest.

My playroom, as the guys jokingly call it, awaits us at the bottom. The fluorescent lights flicker to life, casting an eerie glow across the plastic sheets hanging from the ceiling. They rustle softly as we move past, the sound oddly reminiscent of whispered secrets.

The room is a masterpiece of efficiency and horror. Stainless steel gleams from every surface, cold and unforgiving. The drains in the floor, strategically placed, promise to wash away any evidence of the night's activities. I've always appreciated their silent efficiency.

In the center of it all stands the pièce de résistance, a mortuary table. Its surface polished to a mirror shine, an altar to my craft, ready to receive its latest offering. Zaire and Oscar hoist Natasha onto it, her red hair spilling over the edge like molten lava.

"She's heavier than she looks," Zaire grunts, rolling his shoulders. The movement makes the tattoos on his arms seem to writhe in the harsh light. His eyes meet mine, a mix of anticipation and something darker swirling in their depths.

Oscar, ever the pragmatist, is already adjusting the plastic sheeting, sliding the hooks along their tracks with practiced ease. "You want full coverage tonight, Alex?" he asks, his voice low and controlled. Unlike his twin, Oscar's unmarked skin seems to absorb the light, making him look like a shadow given form.

I nod, my fingers trailing along the edge of the table. The cold metal grounds me, focuses my thoughts. "Yes," I reply, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. "We don't know how messy this is going to get."

As Oscar finishes arranging the plastic and Zaire checks Natasha's restraints, I feel a familiar thrill run through me. This is my domain, my stage. And tonight, I have quite the performance ahead of us.

“Start playlist,” I call out to the virtual assistant I have programmed for my playground. The haunting melody of "Just Pretend" by Bad Omens fills the space, providing a shield against the demons that haunt my thoughts during such tasks.

I stride towards the surgical table, my footsteps echoing in the cavernous room with the music. The array of instruments laid out before me glint under the harsh fluorescent lights, each one a promise of pain and revelation. Scalpels of various sizes, their edges wickedly sharp, rest beside delicate scissors designed for precise cuts. Tweezers of different lengths and grips are neatly arranged, ready to pluck and probe.

My eyes linger on the rib extractors, their cruel curves a testament to the depths of human ingenuity when it comes to inflicting suffering. Each tool has its purpose, its moment in the dance I'm about to choreograph. But not yet. Not quite yet.

Instead, my hand reaches for a syringe, its glass barrel filled with a clear liquid that seems to pulse with potential energy. Adrenaline. The key to unlocking our guest's consciousness and ushering her into our world of pain.

As I lift the syringe, I hear two sets of footsteps coming down the stairs. The footsteps grow louder, and I turn to see Talon descending the stairs, Vesper in tow. She's still wearing that slip of a black dress from the restaurant, the fabric clinging to her curves like a second skin. The sight of her makes my breath catch, a mixture of desire and something darker stirring in my chest. An odd feeling considering my longest relationship with either sex didn’t last more than satisfying my itch. But, with Vesper, there’s something different. Something that I can’t explain with pain or computer code.

As they reach the bottom, the harsh fluorescent light catches on the diamond circlet collar adorning Vesper's neck. It sparkles, a stark contrast to the clinical sterility of the room. My eyes are drawn to her legs, where the faint shadows of bruises are visible on her knees, a testament to her prolonged kneeling at Talon's side earlier.

Vesper's eyes widen as she takes in the room, her gaze darting from the plastic-draped walls to the gleaminginstruments on the tray beside me. I can almost see the realization dawning in those green orbs, the understanding of what this place truly is. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

Zaire and Oscar move toward her, their movements fluid and predatory. They flank her, creating a living barrier between Vesper and Natasha. I watch as they lean in, their lips barely moving as they engage in a hushed conversation. Vesper's eyes flick between them, her expression a mix of fear and is that intrigue?

Oscar's hand comes to rest on the small of Vesper's back, his touch light but possessive. Zaire, ever the more aggressive of the two, reaches up to trace the line of her collar with a tattooed finger. I can see the shiver that runs through Vesper at his touch, her pupils dilating slightly. Oscar's eyes meet mine over Vesper's shoulder, a silent question in their depths. I nod almost imperceptibly, granting permission for whatever they have planned.

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