Page 43 of My Masked Savior
I bring her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Then stay. Watch. See what I will always do to protect you.”
I select a scalpel from the tray, the blade catching the fluorescent light. Marco’s eyes track the movement, pupils dilated with terror. Good. Let him feel it—that helpless dread he inflicted on Morgan for years.
I position myself beside the table, angling my body so Morgan has a clear view. Her chair scrapes against the floor as she settles into it, hands gripping the armrests.
The first incision runs along Marco’s forearm, shallow enough to bleed but not fatal. Blood wells immediately, trickling down his skin in crimson rivulets. His muffled scream vibrates against the gag.
I glance at Morgan.
She hasn’t looked away. Her lips part, breath coming faster, but there’s no horror twisting her features. Her eyes are wide—not with shock, but with a hungry expression.
“The median nerve runs right here.” I trace the blade along the pathway, not cutting yet. “When severed, the pain is... extraordinary.”
Marco thrashes, the restraints holding firm. Sweat beads across his forehead.
I press down.
The scalpel parts flesh, muscle, and finally finds the nerve. Marco’s entire body convulses, a high-pitched keening escaping around the gag. His hand spasms, fingers jerking uselessly.
Morgan leans forward in her seat.
I move to the other arm and make matching cuts. Symmetry matters. Each incision deliberate, measured. I learned in the Navy how to cause maximum pain while keeping someone conscious, aware. The human body can endure so much before it surrenders.
Blood pools on the table, draining through the channels I designed for exactly this purpose.
“This is what he deserves.” I look at Morgan again. “Every woman he touched, every bone he broke—this is justice.”
“Yes.” The word escapes her lips barely above a whisper.
I reach for the bone saw.
Marco’s eyes roll back, frantic animal sounds muffling against the cloth. I activate the blade, the high-pitched whir filling the room.
Morgan’s fingers dig into the armrests, knuckles white. But she doesn’t close her eyes. She watches as I position the saw against Marco’s hand, watches as the blade bites through bone and sinew.
Her breathing quickens, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath her coat.
And there—right there in her expression—I see it. Not disgust. Not fear.
Fascination. Exhilaration.
The bone saw whirs to silence. I set it aside, blood spattering my gloves in fine droplets. Marco’s hand hangs by threads of tissue, nearly severed.
“You’ll never use these hands to hurt anyone again.” I lift his mangled fingers, forcing him to look. “No more broken ribs. No more fractured jaws. No more gripping throats until women pass out.”
Marco’s muffled screams have dissolved into broken sobs.
I glance at Morgan. Her lips are parted, and a flush spreads across her cheeks, down her neck. She’s leaning so far forward in the chair that she might fall out of it.
This is new territory for me. I’ve eliminated twenty-seven abusers, but never with their victim watching, never with the person I saved bearing witness to their abuser’s destruction.
The rush is heady.
I move to Marco’s other hand, positioning the saw. His head thrashes side to side, desperate pleas garbled behind the gag. Tears and snot stream down his face.
“Morgan.” I wait until her eyes meet mine. “Every time he raised his hand to you—this is for that.”
The saw bites through bone. Marco’s scream is inhuman, animalistic. Blood sprays in an arc across the sterile steel.
