Page 92 of The Beautiful Dead

His body shook in my grip. His blood seeped down the planes of his face, dripping off his chin onto his shirt. Slowly, deliberately, I pulled the blade free—watching his face.

I lived for this moment. The scent of fear saturated the air.

The power.

The control.

That flicker—when defiance melted into unholy terror and the light dimmed in his eyes.

He knew, then. He wouldn’t live to see another sunrise. The monster in me roared. It wanted more.

“Y-you’re dead,” he spluttered. “You a-and everyone who works for you. W-when they hear about this?—”

I drove my fist into his temple, knocking him out cold. A hysterical laugh tore from my lungs as he collapsed at my feet.

“Strip him and bind him to the chair. Hands tied to the arms—fingertips hanging over the edge.”

Angelo and the two men who had dragged him in jumped to work. My fingers twitched, itching to do more. Death hummed in my veins. My chest expanded as power flooded me.

One drop of blood at a time.

Pulling a cigarette from the tin in my back pocket, I lit it and watched them while they worked. Inhaling deeply, the cherry glowed in the muted light. The smoke spilled from my lips, coiling in the air like a serpent. Toxic. Deadly.

Just like me.

Once he was in position, Angelo dumped a bucket of lemon juice and ice water over his body. The acid burned into the cuts and grazes littering his skin.

The scream that tore from him was animalistic. His body jerked, convulsing against the restraints that were shocking him back to consciousness. What little color he had drained from his face. His blood stood out even more against his ashen skin, dripping in slow, thick rivulets.

I exhaled another drag of smoke, watching him. Letting him feel it. “My men tell me you came into my club, causing havoc. Said you had a message for me?”

His one swollen eye blinked slowly, unfocused. Trying to remember. His brain rattled inside his skull, struggling to put the pieces back together. A slow nod of acknowledgement. He grimaced as he tested the restraints.

“Yes.”

I tilted my head, considering what path to take next. Gooseflesh prickled across his exposed skin. The room was cold, like an industrial freezer. It kept my toys awake longer. Made them bleed slower.

“Who sent you?”

Something flickered across his face, but his trembling lips stayed sealed shut.

“Like that, is it?”

I spun the blade between my fingers. His eye tracked every movement. He winced every time the sharp edge of the blade flashed before his face.

His fear was potent. I savored it.

“You said you had a message for me?” I leaned in close, his acrid breath feathering over my face. “But now that you’re here, you’ve lost your voice?” I snorted. “Mmm. Not so cocky now, are you big guy?”

He shuddered when I stubbed my cigarette out on his thigh. The sizzle of burning flesh was like a shot of adrenaline. The pained whimper in his throat thrilled me.

I licked my lips and drank in his fear like the finest liquor. “There isn’t a man alive I can’t break. Are you sure you want to suffer?”

His entire body trembled. The chair rattled against where it was chained to the tiled floor.

“Tell me who sent you.” My voice was razor-sharp. He flinched like I’d slashed him.

“Y-y-you…”

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