Hooked (Never After, #1)(12)
“Well,” I say as I sever the last of the connective tissue, the rip of the muscle making me smirk. “I suppose I lied.”
Tossing the useless slab of meat somewhere behind me, I hook my knife in his armpit, thrusting the blade until the edge of the handle meets skin before yanking out; his Axillary artery spurting, the liquid hot as it sprays across my face.
Blood drips onto my arm as I raise the edge of my knife behind him, the snick of the zip tie being cut, lost in the muddled screams of agony that unfurl from his blood-filled, tongueless mouth. I pull his arm to the side of the chair, taking the blunt edge of the handle, and slamming it on top of the watch, shards of glass sparkling as they crash to the ground.
“Don’t.” I repeat the motion. “Disrespect.” The bones of his wrist collapse from the impact. “Me.” His fingers this time. “Again.”
Over and over, I bring down my arms until my sides grow tired from the repetition. My hair is falling on my forehead, a slight sheen of sweat breaking over my brow, and I flip the knife around, rage burning through my soul urging me to cut off his hand completely. Make sure that he’ll never have control of my reaction this way again.
How dare he think he could in the first place.
My knife saws through the tendons and vessels until it meets bone, the useless extremity dangling, skin mutilated and unrecognizable.
I move on, making gashes over his torso; one for every tick he’s made me endure.
The gurgling screams grow silent, as do the sounds from his timepiece, and as they fade, so does the rage.
Slowly, the nightmares disappear and my eyes blink back into focus. Glancing down, my chest heaving, I take in the blood spatter along my exposed skin and the fabric of my clothes.
I crack my neck, soaking in the blessed sound of silence.
My eyes move from the twins, lounging against the far wall, to the man bound in front of me, his eyes vacant and mouth gaping, his corpse soaked in blood from the long, jagged slashes across his frame. His arm is hanging at an odd angle, a pool of dark red formed under the mottled skin. I walk forward, glass from the broken shards of his watch crunching underneath my shoes.
The tightness in my chest eases, and I blow out a satisfied breath. Moving to the metal table, I strip off my gloves and grab my suit jacket before spinning to head out the door. I look at the twins who have straightened off the wall, and my steps falter as my foot presses on something soft. I look down, amusement flowing through my veins, when I see a severed tongue squished beneath the sole of my shoe.
I glance at the twins, running a hand through my hair. “Clean this up and make sure he wasn’t someone important.”
They nod, and I leave the room, adrenaline causing every cell to spark under my skin, my blood pumping fast, and my cock hard from the rush of the kill.
There’s something strangely gratifying about becoming someone’s judge, jury, and executioner. A type of thrill that can’t be replicated. One that courses through your insides and makes you feel untouchable. Infallible.
Like a god.
Walking up the back stairs and into the office, I grab a plastic bag and unbutton my shirt, followed by my pants—stripping off the blood-soaked fabric to have one of the boys discard.
Changing into the spare clothes I keep hanging in the closet, I sit down in my chair, kicking my feet on the desk, and light up a cigar, basking in the earthy taste. Clicking on the computer screen, I pull up a photo of Peter Michaels and his family, desire cramping my stomach when I zone in on Wendy’s face, imagining what it will feel like to have her underneath me. To have her submitting to me fully before I break her and send her back to a fatherless home.
I groan, palming my cock over my pants as it pulses behind the zipper.
Wendy Michaels is a delicious treat, and I can’t wait to enjoy every bite.
7
Wendy
“But you’ll be home for dinner?” I hate the way my voice sounds—infused with a pleading tone in hopes my father will actually come home.
The faint sound of paper rustles in the background. “I won’t make it there tonight, honey, but I’ll try my best for the weekend.”
I chew on my bottom lip, worrying the flesh. My father has always been a busy man, but he used to make time for me. Over the years, he’s slowly slipped further and further away and now I don’t know how to reach him. I’m not sure how to convince him that we need attention too.
“You haven’t even been to the new house, Dad. It’s like... I don’t know.”
He sighs. “What did you expect, Wendy? You know how things are.”
I don’t want Jon to have to keep raising himself.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say it, but I swallow it down, hoping that if I bite my tongue, maybe he’ll come home. “What are you doing, anyway?”
He sighs again, and this time there’s a distinct feminine voice in the background.
My stomach tightens, my hand white-knuckling the phone. “Are you even in Bloomsburg?”
He clears his throat. “Not at the moment, no.”
I scoff, resentment billowing like a storm cloud in the center of my chest. “Dad, you promised that when we moved, you’d be around more.”
“I am. I will be.”
My eyes burn. “Then why are you still just… everywhere else?”