Page 93 of The Beautiful Dead

“Well, if you insist.” I turned to the metal table, reaching for what I needed. The hammer and splinters of wood. “This will only hurt a little bit.”

Then, positioned a splinter just beneath his nail by the nail bed and pressed slowly. It sank into the soft tissue with a whisper.

“Who sent you?”

Silence. His breath was shallow. The tendons in his hand strained as he tried—futilely—to pull away.

I smirked. “No answer?” A low chuckle rumbled in my throat.

Oh, this was going to be fun. I pulled the hammer from my back pocket and twirled it between my fingers. His eye went wide. The implication of my actions dawned on him.

Stephan’s chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths. He knew what was coming. But like a car crash, he knew what was going to happen. He couldn’t take his eye off my every movement.

When the first strike fell?—

When the splinter drove deeper into raw flesh?—

The scream that tore from him was music to my ears. But that is not enough. It was never enough. I needed more.Unsatisfied, I gave myself over to the bloodlust inside me. One after another, I drove the splinters of wood into his nail beds.

The cacophony of agony filled the room—screams of anguish and pain crackling over my skin like electricity.

Each scream hardened my resolve. No one fucked with the DeMarcos without paying the price.

And this fool?

He would pay in blood.

In flesh ripped from bone.

I’d peel it back layer by layer until he sang like a canary. Then I’d send him back to his masters on the edge of death, with my message carved into his flesh and bone.

Shattered breaths slithered past his lips, coated in the stench of bile, but still—no answer.

Blood dripped from the end of each finger, pooling beneath his hands. Cold sweat slicked his skin. Tendons and muscles strained against the thin membrane that covered his body. His fingers were twisted in ruined agony. Black and blue flowed under his skin like a beautiful watercolor.

“Are you ready to talk?”

A limp nod was all he had left. He was slipping, his consciousness fleeting. I knew many effective ways to bring him back. Cold worked, but so did a sharp shock of burning pain.

I turned to Angelo. A single look was all it took, malice gleamed in his eyes. He disappeared, returning seconds later, two halves of a lemon in his hand. Without a word, he held them over Stephan’s shredded fingers—and squeezed.

The acid hit the open wounds like fire that licked through his veins. Pure, unadulterated torture. A guttural, soul-rending scream tore from his throat. His one good eye bulged from its socket. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the rivulets of blood that seeped down his body.

The taste of his suffering on my tongue was exquisite.

Beautiful.

“Try again.”

Stephan’s breath hitched, shallow and ragged. Pained. His body slumped forward, strength leaving him in waves.

“Please,” he rasped. “I—I don’t know...”

I grabbed a fistful of his hair, jerking his head back. “Lying pisses me off.” My voice turned glacial. “You don’t want to see what I’m like when I’m pissed off.”

His one good eye squeezed shut. His entire mangled body trembled. He was breaking perfectly. So close.

This was the best kind of foreplay.

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