Page 114 of Make Me Scream

“Understood. I’m on my way.”

“Thanks.”

I hope his van is gassed and ready. We don’t have any time to waste.

Chapter 27

I should be grateful that Professor Rush Mundell is the slowest fucking painter in history. It took Michelangelo years to finish the Sistine Chapel. Mundell would need a century. It’s no wonder he needs to abduct his models — no one would be willing to stand for days on end while he worked. But every second he agonizes over his canvas is one less that he’ll spend touching me.

Fucking piece of shit.

I should hold out hope that I’ll be okay, but as the minutes tick by, it gets easier to believe I’m never escaping this place. Chloe’s been here for years now. Anne was too — possibly still is. I haven’t seen her, but maybe she’s nearby. Mundell must be very careful, or he would have gotten caught by now. He knows what he’s doing.

After what must be many, many hours, Mundell finally pulls my panties off my face and slips them back into his pocket.

“What do you think, Toy?” he asks, showing me the completed painting.

How do I even answer that? There are a million threats I’ve issued in my mind. I’ve pictured him torn apart by wolves, crushed by a pneumatic press, burned with a flamethrower. I’ve turned on conveyor belts to feed him into a buzzsaw, I’ve pulled a knife across his throat and watched a river of blood pour out.

Then there’s his hand — a tiny, delicate hand holding a needlessly expensive paintbrush. There’s so much I would do to that hand. Broken knuckles. Ripped off nails. Acid-burned skin. For every minute he’s kept me in this chair while he painted, he’d spend an hour crying over what I did to his hand.

I don’t know what to say that won’t risk a punishment for me or Chloe, so I opt for the truth.

“I think a first-year student could have done twice as good in half the time. Master.”

Mundell laughs, setting the canvas back down.

“You’re right.”

Huh. For a man with his ego, that’s not what I expected.

“Go on. What else?”

Okay, if that’s what he wants.

“It’s garbage. There’s no depth. It’s not artistic, it’s pornographic. Like you’re jerking off with a brush instead of a cock.”

His smile grows wider.

“Excellent. Very good, Toy. When it comes to art, I want you to be honest. Never tell me something is good because you think it’ll appease me. Otherwise, how will I improve?”

Now it’s my turn to laugh.

“Improve? You’re a dirty old man. If you haven’t improved by now, you won’t.”

Sighing, Mundell nods. He walks over and sets a hand on my shoulder. The contact makes me shiver, and wonder if I should bite him, if I get the chance.

“Toy, I want you to think of the Empire State Building.”

What?

“Now, tell me what you see.”

Is this some kind of trick? What the fuck is this, some kind of art exercise?

“I see… the Empire State Building. Master.”

“Is the sky blue or cloudy?”

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