Page 41 of The Darkest Gift

It's almost funny, in a twisted way. They think they're breaking me, pushing me to my limits. But the truth is, they're just scratching the surface. They have no idea of the depths of depravity that lie within me, the darkness I've cultivated and nurtured over the years.

I've played the role of the reluctant captive, the defiant victim, because it suited my purposes. It was fun to play along. But now, with this drug coursing through my veins, stripping away my carefully constructed facades, I can’t keep up the charade.

It’s time to let go, to show them exactly who—and what—they're dealing with. To turn the tables and see the shock and fear in their eyes when they realize they've caught a predator far more dangerous than themselves.

Mason's parting words echo in my mind: "Dead men tell no tales." So, that's their endgame. Twelve days of torture and pleasure, and then... oblivion. It's almost disappointing, really. I expected more creativity from them.

Little do they know, I have no intention of becoming just another nameless, faceless victim in their twisted game.

I grit my teeth, forcing myself to focus through the haze of lust and need clouding my mind. The drug rages through my system, every nerve ending alight with desperate desire. But beneath the chemical-induced frenzy, a cold, calculating part of my brain clicks into gear.

Slowly, deliberately, I take a deep breath. Then another. I close my eyes, visualizing a mental fortress - thick stone walls rising up around me, shutting out the raging storm of arousal. It's a technique I've honed over years of practice, a way to compartmentalize and control even the most intense sensations.

With each measured breath, I feel a fraction of control returning. The need is still there, a constant throbbing presence, but it no longer consumes me entirely. I can think again, can plan.

My eyes snap open, newfound clarity sharpening my gaze. I flex my left hand, feeling the familiar give in the joint of my thumb. A ghost of a smile tugs at my lips as I recall the childhood accident that gifted me with this particular talent. Who would have thought a poorly executed backflip off the garage roof would one day prove so useful?

I take another deep breath, steeling myself for what comes next. In one swift motion, I twist my hand and pop my thumb out of joint. The pain is sharp, immediate, but it pales in comparison to the relentless ache of arousal still throbbing through my body.

Gritting my teeth, I work my hand free of the restraint. For a moment, I simply hang there, one arm free, the other still bound. The temptation to touch myself, to seek relief from the maddening ache between my legs, is almost overwhelming. But I resist. There will be time for that later.

Instead, I reach up and begin working on my other restraints. It takes time—too much time—but eventually, I manage to free myself completely. I stumble away from the cross on shaky legs,my body trembling with the effort of fighting against the drug's effects.

As I look around the room, my eyes lock onto the sleek black box on the side table. I push my dislocated thumb back into place with a sickening pop as I make my way over to it on unsteady legs. My skin feels like it's on fire, every brush of air against my naked body sending jolts of electricity through me. But I force myself to focus, to push past the haze of lust clouding my mind.

I open the lacquered box with trembling hands, unable to suppress the vicious grin that spreads across my face as I take in the four sharp knives nestled within. The polished ebony handles gleam in the soft morning light filtering through the windows. I pick up two of them, savoring the familiar weight in my palms.

Holding one up, I let the light catch on the razor-sharp edge. The blade is a work of art - perfectly balanced, wickedly sharp, with an elegant curve that promises to slice through flesh like butter.

"Oh Iris..." I call out in a voice that barely sounds like my own. "Where are you? I have something for you."

The drug pulses through my system, heightening every sensation. I can hear my own heartbeat thundering in my ears, feel every drop of sweat as it trails down my overheated skin. My cock throbs painfully, desperate for attention, but I ignore it. There will be time for that later.

I move towards the bedroom door with predatory grace, my earlier shakiness gone. Each step is measured, deliberate. The cool marble floor beneath my feet grounds me, helps me maintain focus through the raging storm of desire threatening to consume me.

As I reach for the doorknob, I pause, listening intently. The house is quiet–too quiet. Where is Iris? Is she waiting justoutside, ready to subdue me? Or perhaps she's downstairs, unsuspecting, going about her morning routine?

A wicked chuckle escapes my lips at the thought. Oh, how the tables have turned. They thought they were the predators, that I was just another helpless victim in their twisted game. But they had no idea who they were dealing with. No idea of the monster they've unleashed.

I tighten my grip on the knives, feeling the comforting weight of them in my hands. My body thrums with a potent mixture of drug-induced arousal and predatory anticipation. Every sense is heightened, every nerve ending alive with electricity.

"Ready or not, here I come," I murmur, a feral grin spreading across my face as I slowly turn the doorknob.

It's time to show Iris and Mason exactly what happens when you cage a beast far more dangerous than yourselves. The hunt is on–and this time, I'm not the prey.

Chapter 25

Iris

I hang up the phone with an irritated huff, resisting the urge to hurl it across the room. Detective Reeves' incessant questions and theories grate on my last nerve. As if I have any special insight into why the abductions suddenly stopped at six women. I'm psychotic, not psychic.

My gaze drifts to the ornate silver tray on the kitchen counter, laden with a carefully prepared breakfast for our guest. Fresh fruit glistens with moisture, arranged in an artful pattern around a small bowl of Greek yogurt. A croissant, still warm from the oven, nestles next to a tiny pot of homemade raspberry jam. The delicate china cup steams gently, the rich aroma of coffee wafting through the air.

All of it growing cold as I waste time on pointless phone calls.

I drum my perfectly manicured nails against the marble countertop, impatience thrumming through my veins. The memory of Mason's goodbye kiss lingers on my lips, a promise of darker pleasures to come. But for now, I have Elijah all to myself, and I'm itching to return to him.

My mind drifts to our captive, imagining him spread out on the St. Andrew's cross, his golden skin glistening with sweat. I picture the way his muscles strain against the restraints, the defiant glint in those icy blue eyes even as his body betrays him with its responses to our touch.

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