Page 33 of Keeping Her Under
“Fine,” I snap. “I’ll do it.” Wiping the aloe vera on my naked thigh, I toss the tube onto the counter now that we don’t need it. It bounces hard, then skitters across and onto the floor. I might’ve agreed to “alternative care,” but I’m not fucking pleased about this.
“My hands will be steadier,” Asher says smugly. “You’ll probably mess up the S if you don’t place it right on top of the burn.”
I want to argue, but I can’t. Given the agony in my cock right now, I clearly only gave myself a second-degree burn. But if it’s a third, it’ll fry the nerves themselves. Then I will be able to fuck her without collapsing from the agony. Infections will be a risk, but I can get antibiotics easily enough.
“Fuck.”
Agreeing before I can change my mind, I let my cousin finish my branding.
By the time it’s over, I’m glad I did it though. Now her mark will be on me forever.
And it will be christened with the mixture of our cum.
Nineteen
Despite my casual stroll, my nerves are stretched taut as I walk up the stairs towards the ICU. The way I’ve styled my hair is so different to the normal way I have it for work – the medium-length strands now hanging over my eyes rather than slicked back. A fake, well-trimmed beard is glued to my jawline. A pair of glasses sits on my nose. I’m dressed in an expensive, fitted black suit, and I have a briefcase in my left hand.
But no part of my disguise will help if the police catch me in her room.
Which is why I took precautions to make sure Ryan wouldn’t rat me out. Still… manipulation is a delicate thing.
So by the time I near the door leading onto the third floor, my pulse is racing fast. I pull the burner phone out of my pocket. It’s 10:54. Ryan’s supposed to text me at 10:55 on the dot.
I open the files app and hover over the third of four pictures that Asher took earlier today. I called him at lunch time and told him all about the secret I’d kept from him, finally giving him the name of Ryan’s “special lady”. He looked up her address and then broke into her house while I was in surgery.
Together, on an empty road far from my house, we turned the phone on and sent Ryan the first pic: the back of his special lady as she cooked inside her kitchen. Asher was inside her house.
Through the hacked camera on the phone we gave him, we could see his fear as he opened the message. He typed back, begging us not to hurt her.
We sent him the next picture – of her all tied up and on the floor of an empty warehouse, with her shirt off and dirty scuffs on her white bra.
And that’s when Asher and I saw it.
Fear. Anger. Helplessness. And arousal – all on Ryan’s face as he looked at the picture of his mom.
Knowing we had him, I sent a text.
Unknown caller: Code Ms. Reeds or watch your mom get raped.
Ryan: I can’t!
Unknown caller: You can. Put insulin in her IV.
If they bother testing for it postmortem, any elevation can be explained by hyperinsulinemia. With her being anorexic, she has a high risk of developing refeeding syndrome, which occurs when starving patients are fed too quickly. That leads to hyperinsulinemia, which triggers an intracellular shift of potassium, phosphate, and magnesium; with her electrolytes severely imbalanced, it will lead to, cardiac arrest. No one will be suspicious of finding what they expect to find.
Ryan has one minute left to do it.
I enter the hall, my eyes flickering between my surroundings and the phone.
The clock ticks over to 10:55.
I tap on the third picture – that of his mother in only her underwear. Just as I’m about to send it to him, the intercom announces a code blue.
The phone buzzes in my hand.
Ryan: Wait 2 min for floor staff to come, then avoid the rubber
I smirk as I read his mistype. I sure as hell won’t be using condoms tonight.
