Page 124 of Bonds of Hate

Iadjust the blade’s angle, savoring the mercenary’s sharp intake of breath. Blood trickles down his already mangled fingers where I’ve methodically removed each nail.

The abandoned basement below the kitchens is a perfect venue for torture. Blood-stained meat hooks hanging from the ceiling and an old carving station still full of knives provide a nice ambiance. Metal grates on the floor are perfect for easily washing away the blood.

I would live down here if I could.

“This uniform you’re wearing is an authentic palace issue. Which means you have to be involved with someone well-connected.” I trace the knife along his jawline. “Ready to tell me who hired you?”

He spits blood at my feet. “Go to hell.”

“You’re already there.” I slam his head back against the wall behind him, the sound creating a satisfying echo. “But it can still get so much worse.”

His resistance feeds something dark inside me, a beast Iusually keep carefully caged. But here, in this soundproof concrete room with its drain in the center, I can let it loose. Each scream, each defiant glare, fuel the beast inside.

This man might not have been the mastermind, but he nearly got Maya kidnapped or killed.

The door opens almost silently behind me, but the heavy footsteps are impossible to miss as Ares’s massive frame stomps across the floor.

“Having fun?” Ares leans against the nearby carving station, arms crossed.

I twist the knife with the flick of my wrist, popping off the mercenary’s left pinkie nail like it’s the top of a soda can. The man shrieks and I can’t help a small smile in response. “Always.”

“You didn’t tell me you took one of them alive,” Ares grouses, sounding offended. “I could have helped with the warmup.”

“You’re here now. Want a piece, or not?”

Catching my eye over the mercenary’s head, we share a small smile. Ares pushes off the carving station and approaches slowly, hands stuck in his pockets. Despite his imposing size, he always falls easily into the good cop part of our routine.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, crouching down to our captive’s eye level. “You’re looking a little worse for the wear.”

The mercenary squeezes bloody hands into fists, pulling at the restraints. “I won’t tell you anything.”

I shift the knife so its tip presses just under the mercenary’s orbital bone. “I think we’ll take something that doesn’t grow back next, just so you know we’re serious.”

Obviously Alpha in name only, the mercenary squeezes his eyes shut with a muffled whine.

“We can give him one more chance.” Ares keeps his tone light, like he’s talking to a child when he turns back to the weeping man tied to the chair. “Let’s start with something easy. What’s your name, man?”

It shouldn’t surprise me when the mercenary readily answers him. Ares has always had a way with idiots.

“Oscar,” he spits out with a desperate look between us.

“Oscar,” Ares repeats with a friendly smile. “I’m going to tell you the truth. I’ve got a very pretty and very willing Omega waiting for me upstairs. You have any idea what that’s like?”

He just shakes his head, eyes wide. It’s pathetic enough that I almost feel bad.

“But you can imagine it, right?” Ares gives a sympathetic nod in tandem with the mercenary. “So you can understand why I’d like to do this the easy way.”

I press with the knife until a drop of blood beads on his lower eyelid. Any harder and I’ll pierce the eyeball underneath. To his credit, Oscar holds himself almost impossibly still.

“Give us a name,” I demand.

The mercenary whimpers, “They’ll kill me.”

Ares pats him gently on the shoulder, but his eyes remain cold. “Not before we do, friend.”

Contrary to popular belief, eyes don’t pop when they’re stabbed. They collapse. Like a basketball with a slow leak, shrinking in on themselves as the fluid and blood inside run out like thick, red-tinged tears.

It’s a painful thing, at least judging from Oscar’sreactions. He screams and pulls at the ropes around his arms and legs, not that I left even a millimeter of give in the restraints.

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