Page 112 of Buried in Blood

I slam a fist onto the table. He flinches.

Wrong move.

I smile.

“You see,” I continue, voice like velvet wrapped around broken glass, “I’ve been patient with you. Loyal even. And loyalty—well, it used to mean something in this place.”

I pull a chair out. Place it backward. And I sit.

“You know what I hate more than betrayal, Enrique?”

He shakes his head.

“Incompetence.”

Silence stretches like sinew pulled too tight.

I tilt my head. “So I’ll ask you once. Just once. Did you know it was Lucien?”

A pause.

His lip trembles.

“No,” he whispers.

I nod slowly. “Okay. That’s your answer.”

I stand.

Enrique exhales like he’s been holding his breath.

He shouldn’t have. Because then I reach for the drawer, and pull out the pliers.

“You know,” I murmur, pacing behind him, “I’ve read studies about how long it takes for a man to feel real regret. It’s not the first cut. Not the first bone.”

I crouch beside him. Right ear. Close enough to whisper.

“It’s the teeth.”

He jerks against the cuffs.

I laugh.

“Oh, don’t worry. We’ll get there.”

I begin slow.

One finger. Crushed. Then another. No blood—yet. Just pressure. Skin splitting. Bone grinding. Nerves lighting up like fireworks behind his eyes.

He screams.

Not loud. Not defiant.

Pathetic. Pleading.

The kind of sound that doesn’t echo—itclings.

I hum under my breath. A lullaby. A hymn. Something my mother used to sing before she broke glass behind my back and called it discipline.