Page 56 of Twice as Twisted

The other day comes back to me, stabbing into Mabel’s cold, limp body in that freezer. She felt like a corpse, her skin icy, her eyes blank as I squeezed her throat until she stopped moving. I’ve never cum that hard with Jane.

“No,” I say, turning away and climbing the six stairs to the door. I flick the switch that turns off the bare bulb, leaving her in the dark. Maybe I’ll fuck her when I get back, when she’s cold, as I choke the life out of her. I don’t have to be careful with her, to hold back. It doesn’t matter if she dies. It would be unfortunate to lose her, but she’s not important. If I needed to, I could find another Jane to replace her. There is no other Mabel.

We pull up at the house where Mabel is staying ten minutes later. It’s a big, rectangular beach house with balconyviews right on the water, the last house on level ground before the narrow road begins to climb for several miles along the coast. At the precipice, some billionaire recluse’s house sits at the edge, where the land ends in a sheer cliffside, looking out over the choppy Atlantic to an island that’s only visible on a clear night because of the lighthouse there.

Mabel’s aunt divorced her husband and moved here a few years ago, supposedly to be closer to their only son, who was institutionalized on the island just off the coast. In reality, it’s probably because our family had a habit of castrating Darling men and then taking care of their wives in a way they were no longer able to—whether they agreed or not.

Up until now, we haven’t bothered tracking down any Darlings. Driving them out of Faulkner was good enough for us.

“Whose car is that?” Duke asks when we pull into the last spot in the 4-car driveway, beside a Jeep Wrangler and behind a powder-blue Volvo 1800. Mabel lives here with only her aunt and her cat, but my mind flashes to that pink-haired bitch she protected from us.

“Let’s find out.”

We climb out of the car onto the pine needles scattered atop the sandy gravel, heading past Mabel’s vintage car to the door. She ditched her Prius when she left Faulkner, and her new car is one of the few luxuries she allows herself. Her apartment is small and sparse, she only eats at nice restaurants when she’s meeting one of her doomed dates, and unlike most of the girls in our income bracket, she doesn’t flaunt her wealth by collecting frivolous things like designer handbags or shoes. But like her wardrobe, she changed her style of transportation when she became Dahlia Süskind.

I want to know why almost as much as I want to know why she chose that name.

I don’t knock—as long as Mabel is staying here, it’s her house, which means it’s our house, and she knows that. The door isn’t locked, which means not only does she know a lock won’t stop us, but she’s expecting us. I’m not worried about a setup. Mabel’s perfectly capable of trapping us, but the thought of escaping such a challenge only excites me.

I walk into the unfamiliar house and turn towards the warm, ambient light coming from the large, open room on our right. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust, to make sense of what I’m seeing. Dozens of candles flicker around the room, on the mantel and side tables. Two wine glasses sit on the coffee table amid a half dozen more candles.

Mabel is on the couch, barely visible under the broad body of the middle-aged man fucking her.

I knew she wasn’t a helpless animal who would hide and naïvely hope we wouldn’t find her. I told her we were coming for her, and she knows I don’t make idle threats. I let her wait three days, picturing her here, cowering with fear, not knowing when we’d make good on our promise.

But she was never the prey. She’s a black widow, invisible and deadly, more diabolical than I gave her credit for.

She peeks out from under his arm, like she’s been just waiting for the door to open. For all I know, she’s been fucking other men for three nights in a row, waiting for us to walk in on her and see how little she cares. She’d probably keep fucking them until we came, no matter how long it took, just so she could see our faces when she drove the knife in.

I’m done letting her have the power. She doesn’t get to control how this goes, and she sure as hell doesn’t get to fuck other men. Not anymore. It was one thing before we showed our faces, when she didn’t know I was watching, and it had nothing to do with us.

This isn’t about her need to punish men for all they’ve done to her. It’s about us.

This is personal.

There will be no more other men. Not behind our backs, and not in front of our faces.

Especially not in front of my brother.

Not ever.

She made her move. She made her statement.

It’s time to answer.

I turn to Duke, who stands staring, slack-jawed with shock.

“Give me your knife.”

I cross the room in a few strides. I’m almost upon them when the man finally notices, too busy fucking my prize to have heard us come in. His head swivels our way, and he has one second to register what’s happening, his eyes going wide, before I grab what’s left of his sparse hair, yank his head back, and slide the blade across his throat.

It’s not the clean kill I wanted. I can tell that right away. The knife is too small for the job, bigger than the surgical blades I use on Jane but not the kind of hunting knife made for a kill of this magnitude. Blood splatters onto Mabel, who looks as disgusted and horrified as she does shocked. The man gurgles, his arms shooting out, his bare ass flexing. I make a second pass with the knife, the blade sticking in the tough cartilage and bone of his neck. I jerk it through with all my strength, and an entire wave of blood erupts onto the girl under him.

She shrieks, holding up her hands as if to ward him off.

It’s too late though. I drop his body, and it collapses onto her, still spasming and twitching, his head lolling at a grotesque angle, his pants around his knees. Her eyes roll back, and the revulsion on her face is pure and raw, the absolute beauty ofsuch intense, unmasked emotion making my head spin and my cock stiffen.

Duke runs over and jumps onto the sofa on his knees, bouncing the couple under him. “Mabel’s fucking a dead guy,” he crows, shoving the guy down with each bounce. “His dick’s still inside you, isn’t it, little sicko?”

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