Page 31 of The Collector
"Sounds like a plan, I'll bring the snacks," she said, handing her performance attire to try on. The green sequined slip dress had slices cut in just the right spots to show off all her delicious assets. She loved it.
“Do they have any masks or wings to go with outfits here? I’d love to turn this into a butterfly costume.”
“Of course they do,” Destiny said, already moving. “Go try that on—I’ll find what you need and hand it over so you can see the whole ensemble together.”
“Sweet, thanks.”
Destiny’s voice lifted with sudden excitement as she passed the wings over the top of the dressing cubicle. “You know what would be awesome?”
“What?” Mynx asked, slipping the straps over her shoulders.
“We’ve got this birdcage we use as a stage prop. You should make your entrance from inside it on opening night. Maybe we release butterflies when the curtains rise. Talk about unforgettable.” A beat. “I wish I could redo my own debut—just to steal that idea.”
Mynx smiled, the image blooming vivid and strange—a cage, wings, butterflies. Escape dressed as spectacle.
“Sounds like an amazing idea. Thanks. Now I need to figure out how to get butterflies.” Mynx laughed.
“No worries, I’ve got your back on that one. I have a friend who owes me a favor out in the world who knows a butterfly breeder. She works at Los Angelous Botanical Gardens. We had a friend in high school who got married after senior year. We did it for her, too.”
Mynx stepped out of the dressing room.
“That dress is going to have the room on its knees next weekend,” Destiny said, grinning.
Mynx blushed, the heat rising fast. “I think I’ve got everything I need,” she said, watching Destiny tuck the last undergarments into the bag. “I’m just not sure how I’m supposed to pay for all this.”
“With your card, silly,” Destiny chirped. “It all goes toward what you owe, of course. But with your look, you’ll be raking in cash, you’re smoking hot.”
Of course it goes toward what I owe. I live in debt now—every breath, every move, every damn dollar spent becomes a new debt.
Chapter 9
Collector
The mausoleum was alive with the sound of his tattoo gun; it hummed as he worked. The metallic scent of blood floated through the air. The Collector smiled, admiring his work, watching each ink drop sink into the woman's flesh. The needle bit into the skin, drawing blood in delicate, precise lines that seemed to hum with an electric charge, the vibration of the machine coursing through him like a live wire. His breath hitched as he watched, transfixed, the design unfurling beneath his hand. Each stroke--a fusion of pain and artistry. The raw, visceral connection sent a thrill racing through his veins, quickening his pulse with every drop of ink; this was what he lived for. It signaled the beginning of the end for her. But his restraint was wearing thin.
Need filled his body; he desperately craved the release of a kill.
Sugar's screams ricocheted off the walls, each twisting and overlapping the last, creating a haunting symphony that filled the room. The harmonics of the soundproofed room seemed toamplify her desperation, the screams lingering in the air like a ghostly melody.
More ink. Just five more minutes and the real fun could begin. The Collector walked over to the worktable and refilled the ink, studying the naked figure of the woman before him. Her screams stopped but only momentarily as she watched him intently.
"Damn Sugar— you scream so beautifully— it's like an orgasm for my ears. I know how badly you want to please me. I'm excited; it's almost time for you to give me all that satisfaction you whispered to me about in the club." He loved taunting them and playing with their emotions and shattering their souls before the end came.
"They're going to find you, and when they do, I hope they put you in the chair for this, you fucking monster," she said. Days of struggling had drained her. Each desperate attempt to wrench herself free met only with bruises and blood. For a fleeting moment, she stilled, her breath shallow and uneven, her strength sapped by the relentless fight.
He could see it in her eyes, that edge of surrender, that hazy mix of exhaustion and despair. The silence in the room was heavy, pressing down on her like a physical weight as she waited for his next movement. Yet, even in her stillness, there was a faint flicker—an ember of resistance buried beneath those layers of fatigue, waiting for a moment to reignite. She had fight in her; he would give her that. All she needed was a little push to teeter over the edge of insanity. So, he'd push until she broke; he enjoyed watching the shattered pieces fall into place.
"Now…, now…is that really— how you feel about me? What did you call me before? Ah, yes—the man of your dreams, wasn't it?" He shifted, watching her.
"More like a monster from my darkest nightmares— you freak," she said, her brows furrowing and pinching over her nose, her eyes narrowing to slits, and her jaw clenched in anger.
"Have you ever heard the saying you shouldn't poke the bear? In this case, maybe…. You shouldn't poke the serial killer who holds your life in his hands," he said.
Her tears fell freely again as she pursed her lips together, waiting for his next move.
Her sharp tongue had lashed out in a vulgar display of hate for the last time— it was about to be silenced.
He was in control… not her. He would show her who was really in control.
