Page 16 of Rebels & Rejects

He laughs maliciously. “Come on. Show me what a whore you are.”

I move to straddle his thighs, wrapping my fingers around him and working him up until his head falls back against the pillow and his eyes drift shut. I’m already touching him more than I ever wanted to, but as I slide the thin blade out of my boot and aim it at his dick, I can feel my own excitement coating my panties.

I nick the loose skin of his ballsack, and he jolts, hissing through his teeth. “What the hell?”

“Oops,” I giggle drunkenly. “Sharp nails.”

“Well, watch it.”

I wait until he relaxes back against the pillow again before debating what I want to do next. Part of me wants to drive the blade right through the bead of precum forming at his tip and into his urethra and see how much he fucking likes that. Another part of me wants to just slam it through the center of his shaft, right into the mattress below, and sit back while he screams in agony.

Unfortunately, castration will make it too obvious that it was a woman out for revenge who murdered this sorry sack of shit, and I can’t have anyone pointing fingers in Sheryl’s direction. So instead, I climb up his body, grinding my still fully clothed pussy against his dick. His eyes pop open as I pull off my crop top, and he drinks in my tits as they bounce in front of his face.

With him distracted, I link his fingers with mine and push them above his head, pinning them against the wooden headboard.

“Oh yeah, just like that. Take off your panties.”

I smile down at him, and he probably thinks the wildness in my eyes is because I’m as caught up in this as he is. He doesn’t suspect a thing... until I drive the dagger through his palms, into the softwood of his headboard, trapping him.

His eyes widen to the size of saucers, and there’s almost a second’s delay before he starts screaming bloody murder. I jump off him, quickly moving to turn on the stereo, letting some god-awful rap shit blast through the room as I turn it up to a blaring volume, effectively blocking out his screaming curses.

Spinning to face him, I watch as he stares up at where his hands are pinned to the wood above his head, blood dripping down into his hair, looking like some fucked up version of Jesus on the cross. He tries to push against the handle, wincing and quickly stopping. My blades aren’t even that long. It probably wouldn’t take much effort to wiggle it free from the wood, but despite thetough-guypersona he puts on in public, he’s clearly a fucking wimp.

I move to climb back on top of him, slipping my other blade out of its sheath. My grin is positively vicious as I loom over him, ignoring the murderous look in his eyes. I flash my dagger at him, pushing his top up so I can trail the tip lightly down the center of his abdomen, moving closer to his now flaccid cock. I fucking revel in the gratification that floods my body when a spark of fear enters his eye and sweat beads along his hairline.

Why is it men will do practically anything when you point a knife at their dicks? You could literally point it at any other body part, and they’ll challenge you, goad you, call your bluff... but so much as wave it at their cocks, and they turn into statues, muttering fake apologies and placating assurances not to do it again. Not that I have any idea what this asshole is saying to me over the sound of the shitty music. Everyone saw him come up here with a girl. No one will even think to check on him until morning... After all, what could a mere woman possibly do to a big, strong gang leader? Hmm, let’s find out, shall we?

Getting bored of teasing him, I move my blade to the upper right quadrant of his abdomen and push the blade into his flesh. A drop of blood forms, and as I dig deeper, forcing the blade downward, that droplet becomes a slow, steady stream that flows faster with each inch I carve into his stomach until his midsection and my hand are coated in blood.

I stop just above his pelvis and use my hand to wipe the blood away, frowning when I find the line isn’t straight.

“Asshole,” I snarl. “You moved!”

His eyes have rolled back in his head when I lift my head to glower at him, and his breaths are coming in sharp, pained inhales, making his stomach rise and fall in rapid movements.

Shaking my head at the genuinely pathetic display of manliness, I get back to the task at hand, and I don’t stop again until I’m done. I admire my handiwork for a long moment before focusing on Python, noticing his skin is coated in a layer of sweat, and his face is deathly pale.

“Oh dear, you’re not looking so hot.”

I’m fully aware he can’t hear me over the blasting of the music, but I don’t really care. Doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun. After all, this is one of the few moments in my life when I actually get to let go a little and enjoy myself, whenI’min control; whenIhold all the power. When I’m holding some asshole’s life in my hand, I get to gain back some semblance of dominion over my own goddamn life. So yeah, I’m going to enjoy every fucking second of it.

Leaning forward, this time, he doesn’t even look at my now blood-spattered tits as I wrap my hand around the dagger sticking out of the headboard and give it a hard yank.

His hands collapse onto the pillow, unmoving as his eyes begin to droop. He’s close to passing out, and well, we can’t have that.

I give his cheek a hard smack, and his eyes fly open, blinking rapidly as he tries to orientate himself.

“Pay attention, motherfucker.”

He looks at my lips, but I’m pretty sure he can’t understand what I’m saying. No worries, the manic look in my eye and savage grin is all I need him to see.

With a flick of my wrist, I slash the sharp blade across his neck, and his eyes flare for a moment as the life starts to drain out of them. I watch, fascinated as blood pools around the horizontal slice across his throat before it spills over, dripping down the column of his throat before soaking into his shirt and onto the sheet beneath him.

I’m not sure how long I sit there for, listening to him gurgle and gasp as he slowly drowns in his own blood. I watch as his breathing becomes shallow until his chest stops moving altogether. Only when he lies still beneath me, do I move, wiping the blade against his jeans to clean it off his blood before tucking it away inside my boot.

I’ve just grabbed my crop top from the bed when I hear noises in the hall. The thudding of boots. A scream. Gunshots. The sound of something heavy crashes against the bedroom door, jolting me into action as I hastily climb off the dead gang leader. If it’s one of Python’s men, I’m dead. There’s no two ways about it.

Confused about what could possibly be going on, I decide in a split second that there’s no way I could make it out the window in time, and clutching my top to my chest, I scurry into the corner of the room. Making myself as small as possible, I press my back flat against the wall and bring my knees up, ensuring my daggers are within reach. I force tears to my eyes as what sounds like a boot smacks against the wooden door, breaking the shitty lock. The door swings inward, and with tears streaking down my blood-stained face, I lift my head. I make myself look as innocent as possible as two muscular men—one who looks like he can’t be any older than eighteen and a middle-aged man with gray, thinning hair—that I don’t recognize as Satans’ members storm into the room with their weapons raised.

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