Page 32 of Bloody Black

B aldric used to be trim and muscular. Like a dog, he trailed after me everywhere, never speaking. It was because of him that I never felt afraid. Not until that night.

In the last three years, I’ve learned quite a bit about him.

Heard of how his sons were ambushed and tortured, hung up to die by Celestian soldiers.

How he’d met William in a tavern, and shortly thereafter joined Celestia’s army.

How he’d spent seven years earning our trust, then was promoted to my personal guard.

Seven years. Seven years he bided his time.

How many times had he wanted to plunge a dagger in my back?

He plotted each night, sitting at the same supper table.

“Just how hard did you hit him?” Teach mutters as he helps me drag Baldric down into another room of the brothel. One secure, quiet, and deep in the bowels of the house .

“Not hard enough.” I grumble, but I glance down at the rotund man at our feet. “Although, if I accidentally killed him, I’m going to be annoyed.”

Teach makes a hum of affirmation as he helps me tie Baldric to a chair in a dimly lit circular bedroom. “I’ll be over in the corner if you need help lifting him.”

At this point, I was more than capable of killing a man in cold blood; more than capable of kidnapping, torture, and murder without remorse. After all, they’d done the same for me.

An eye for an eye.

We sit quietly, companionably. It’s about fifteen minutes before Baldric wakes, befuddled and confused. He shifts his weight, attempts to move his hands and discovers himself bound. He quickly realizes that he’s been stripped naked.

“Who’s the whore?” he asks Teach, jerking his chin toward me.

If I didn’t want to kill him before, I definitely do now.

“The one you have to answer to.” My second continues picking at his fingernails, not bothering to look up.

“What? Is this about coin? A woman? If it’s your wife you’re defending, she can have what’s left when I’m done.” Baldric laughs baudily.

He ignores me entirely.

Clearly, he’s thinking that it must be Teach who’s come after him. Because surely a woman couldn’t keep him captive—couldn’t outwit, outsmart, or out-muscle him.

He’s in for a true awakening.

I stare at his smug smirk, thinking of how fun it will be to carve that slimey smile off his face. Just like I did Roger .

“Hold her down,” Baldric tells Roger, scowling as I struggle. “I can’t get a grip if she keeps wriggling.” There’s a loud rip as he yanks at the fabric of my nightgown.

The room is silent, save for the ragged pull of Baldric’s breath. The faint creak of rope as he shifts. He’s testing the knots, slowly realizing there’s no escape.

I let him wonder who I am. What I want. I let him believe that all this is just a scare tactic. He’ll panic eventually, and when he does, I’ll savor his fear.

I open the drawer nearest to me, and as expected, there’s a wide variety of tools inside. Rope. Cloth for a blindfold. Knives so sharp I could cut the wings off a butterfly. A hammer, a bludgeoning tool with nails embedded into one end… along with several belts of various widths.

“Time to play, old friend,” I tell him. “Justice is a righteous bitch, and she’s keen for a reckoning.”

I chuckle and take out the length of red silk, then stuff it into my pocket. “The women of this house must really, really hate you.”

I circle him, each measured step deliberate, and consider my captive. Sweat beads along his temples, his upper lip.

“Scream for me, Princess. Scream loud.” That’s what he said, as I lay under him on the dock.

I trail my fingers lightly along the back of his chair as I move—not touching him, but close enough that he flinches. A soft laugh escapes me. “Funny. You don’t seem nearly as bold as you did when you were on top of me. ”

Baldric swallows hard. His nostrils flare, his fingers twitch—though he tries to keep his expression blank. He shakes his head. “Woman, I don’t know who you are.”

I nearly gag on my own fury. He should know me. He should relive that night, repeatedly, unable to wipe my screams from his mind. Nightmares should scare him from sleep.

No matter. I’ll fix that part soon enough.

“If this is because I’ve insulted your honor, you have my condolences.”

My honor. He did far, far more than insult my honor. Though that is quite the pithy way to describe it… what he does to women. My spies have many stories about him, none of them pleasant.

“I must say I’m hurt that you don’t remember. But I suppose for a man like you, you’ve probably raped lots of women in your lifetime. One whore is like any other, yes?”

I smile. Slow, patient, cruel. I lift my dagger, running the flat of the blade along my palm—casual, as if considering where to begin.

Then, without breaking eye contact, I trail it down the side of his face, the honed steel kissing his sweat-slicked skin, splitting it open.

A shallow cut, it’ll burn but barely bleed.

“You can’t kill me,” he informs me. His voice rasps, but there’s still a flicker of arrogance beneath it. “Not without consequences.”

“Oh, Baldric.” I lean down, letting my lips hover near his ear. Close enough that he can feel my breath against his skin. He stiffens. “I’m not here to kill you.”

I let the words settle, then step in front of him. His eyes flick to mine, dark with something that might be anger, might be dread .

“I’m not here to kill you,” I repeat, and tip up his chin with a gloved hand, smiling as I look into his eyes. “I’m here for justice. Unfortunately for you, that will be much, much, much more painful.”

It’s so satisfying to cut him that I do it again on the other side, and he strains against the chair. Annoyingly, he doesn’t scream. I expected he would, and I’m disappointed when he grunts and pulls against his restraints instead.

Patience, Blackbeard. There will be plenty of screaming later.

I twist up my dark hair, tying it atop my head. Then I drop into a sweeping curtsy, and when I look at him, it’s with demure, dark eyes and a sweet, soft smile.

“Scream for me, Princess,” I tell him. “Scream loud.”

Recognition dawns on his face, mixed with horror. His eyes widen. “You—it isn’t possible. You’re dead. We killed you—”

“You locked me in a box. Turns out there was someone else already inside, and she and I had a lot in common. Too bad for you.”

“You’re the one killing us.” He seems stunned. “Hunting us down.”

“Aye.” I grin, then my smile fades. “And I won’t stop until I find every man who helped William. Every person he bribed. Every guard he convinced. The one who cut my father’s throat, the one who looked away as you dragged me down to the docks. Every last one .”

I inhale with relish, imagining it.

“I won’t stop until I’m back where I belong. On my throne. With that liar’s tongue nailed to my wall.”

Baldric shifts, his shoulders rolling. A movement so slight, so unassuming, that he assumes I don’t notice. The slow, careful twist of his wrist, the flex of his fingers.

I don’t move fast enough on purpose. It’s almost sweet, watching him believe that a torn rope and a fist will change anything. Let him have his moment. Giving him hope will make revenge that much sweeter; that night on the docks, I thought I had a chance.

The knot gives. His right hand wrenches free, swinging up like a viper striking.

Before I can recoil, his meaty fist swings wild and hard. I let him get that swing in, pivot at the last second, deliberately late. Let him taste that brief, glorious flash of victory.

His knuckles slam into my mouth, splitting my lip open with a sharp, metallic tang. Pain flares, hot and stinging, as my head jerks to the side. The taste of blood floods my tongue. He’s grunting, snarling, yanking against the remaining restraints. Off balance.

The chair crashes onto its side, the impact rattling through the room.

He grunts, rolls his shoulders, and suddenly he’s on the floor—half bound, but dangerous.

His one free hand claws at the wood, trying to find purchase, his legs kicking, twisting to break the last of his restraints.

If he gets loose, if he gets to his feet… I’ll have a problem.

I wipe blood from my mouth, cursing under my breath. He’s ripped the skin from his own hand, grinding his flesh against the rope until it’s slick with sweat and torn enough to slide through.

I kick him in the ribs. “Stop that,” I order.

Behind me, Teach shifts, ever ready to assist. I flick a lazy hand without looking back; a silent signal that this is part of the game.

Baldric laughs. “You’ll never win. He’s smarter than you. Better than you. He’ll finish what we started.”

He moves fast. That’s true. Baldric is very fast for a man of his size. But, I’m technically not even alive, and all the damage he does to me will disappear within a day.

His free hand shoots out, clamps down like a vise, crushing bone, twisting hard. My dagger clatters to the floor, and then he wrenches me down. The impact slams me into the ground, knocking the breath from my lungs. His bulk follows, a solid mass of weight and sweat and desperation.

His hand wraps around my throat.

I snarl, twisting, but he’s strong, dragging me underneath him, pressing all his weight down, pinning me. My fingers scrabble at his grip, nails digging into his skin, but he doesn’t loosen. His wild eyes gleam in the dim light.

“Stupid girl,” he hisses, his breath hot and rancid. His grip tightens. Stars bloom at the edges of my vision.

Baldric grunts, jerks to the side, just enough for me to twist free.

I roll, gasping, scrambling for the dagger—but he’s already lunging, his hand grabbing at my hair, yanking me back. But I wrench free and, before he can react, drive my boot into his gut. He doubles over, coughing, spitting blood.

Teach sighs and helps me to my feet. “Thought you had him handled.”

“All part of the game,” I snap, wiping blood from my mouth.

I grab the fallen dagger and drive it through Baldric’s shoulder, pinning him to the floor. Then I rebind his hands quickly.

Once I’m done, I take the chair across from him .

“Did you always hate me?” I ask softly. “Did you always want me dead?”

“Yes.” He glares up at me. “You. Your father. That bastard Ben.” He doesn’t look apologetic. Despite the situation he’s now in, there’s not even the smallest trace of sympathy or regret in his eyes.

“You’re still that scared little princess,” he growls. “Still proving you belong. Weak and vain. You should be glad William is king.”

I still at his words.

He leans forward, his voice a low rasp. “Think you can outwit him? Beat him at his own game? Or maybe you want to be him? Just as mean, just as ruthless?”

The knife in my grip tightens.

I will never be like William.

Never.

Baldric opens his mouth to speak again, but I’m leaning across the space between us, winding red silk fabric around his head, wrapping his mouth.

“I’m done talking. And you’re about to start screaming again, and we wouldn’t want to disturb the patrons upstairs.”

“You know what I remember most?” I ask casually. “How much it burned afterward. I couldn’t figure out why, until I realized that you must have ripped me. On the inside, you know? Then you laughed and said that your dick was so huge, I’d scream.”

“I’ve seen a lot of cocks since then, And I must say, yours is big.” I eye his huge belly. “I suppose that’s the only reason anyone can still find it.”

“Hm. What to do?” I tap my chin theatrically.

He shakes his head. Don’t .

There’s a small black cauldron over the fire in the corner. Oil bubbles within it, and I saunter over, then ladle up a large portion. “You said that you had a monster for me. This time I have a monster for you .”

Baldric shakes his head, eyes wide, shouting through the gag over his mouth. Just like I shouted through mine.

I lean in close, grab him by his damp, sweat-soaked hair. And then, looking deeply into his eyes… I pour the entire ladle of boiling oil onto his dick.