Page 16 of Knot Ruined

Then I slap his cheek, not hard enough to do more damage—just enough to bring him fully back to reality.

His head jerks to the side, a groan tearing from his throat, his lip splitting further, fresh blood welling along the already cracked skin.

“What was that?” I ask when he mumbles something, his words thick, slurred.

He tries again, a little louder this time. “...Wasn’t… me… wrong… person…”

I tilt my head, watching him struggle, his one eye barely cracking open, the other too swollen to function.

Behind me, I sense movement. I don’t have to look to see Kingston and Jace watching, silent, waiting. Romano had already disappeared into his little tech lair, no doubt combing through files, pulling every dirty secret this guy had ever tried to bury.

I glance over my shoulder, smirking. “He says it wasn’t him. We’ve got the wrong person. Guess we can let him go.” Then I laugh in his face.

He flinches at the sound, and I can’t tell if it’s because he knows I’m lying or because he’s too damn stupid to realize I’m not. I exhale through my nose, stepping away and walking toward the steel table along the wall. It’s clean and organized, with each tool in its place. Knives, scalpels, pliers, syringes—everything necessary to get the truth out of a man, whether he wants to give it or not.

I drag a finger over a long, thin blade's hilt, watching how the light catches against its polished surface.

“See,” I murmur, flipping the blade between my fingers, “we’ve caught wind of someone doing… not very nice things.”

He shifts, a pathetic, rattling sound leaving his throat.

I ignore him, watching the blade as I turn it back and forth, letting him see it.

“Someone,” I continue, tone deceptively casual, “has been kidnapping omegas. From their homes, their businesses, and the streets. What for we don’t know.”

There’s a beat of silence, thick and suffocating.

Then Kingston steps in, voice smooth, controlled but coiled tight with barely restrained violence.

“Can you imagine what their packs feel?” he asks, pushing off the wall. “Through their bonds? As their omegas get taken, raped, beaten, drugged—torn away from them like they’re nothing.

The man is breathing harder now, his chest rising and falling in short, uneven bursts. I watch the panic start to creep in, the reality of what’s about to happen finally clicking into place.

I roll my wrist, flipping the knife in my grip before bringing it to his bare chest.

The blade is razor-sharp but not deep-cutting—this isn’t for real damage. It’s for pain. The kind that feels unbearable but leaves no real lasting scars.

I flick it across his nipple, watching as a thin red line blooms in its wake.

It’s barely anything—a papercut at worst.

He shrieks. Not a grunt. Not a hiss of pain. A full, panicked, dramatic scream.

My brows draw together. What in the actual fuck? I know it hurts. I made sure of that. But not that much. I glance at Kingston, who raises a brow. Jace tilts his head, unimpressed.

Behind us, Marco, who has been eating peanuts this whole time, chuckles.

“Either he’s real bad with pain,” Marco muses, tossing another peanut into his mouth, “or he’s about to give himself up before we even start.”

I turn back to my captive, amused now. “Huh,” I murmur, tapping the blade lightly against my fingers. “Dramatic. I like that.”

Then I drag the knife again, just a little lower.

Let’s see how much he’s really willing to scream.

An hour later, my friend is barely hanging on.

Blood drips steadily from his body, pooling beneath him in dark, sluggish puddles, soaking into the grated floor of the pit. His head lolls forward, his chin nearly resting against his chest, and the rise and fall of his breathing are shallow and uneven.

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