Page 29

Louhi

When my eyelids part, Honey Eyes is gone, and Sean is no longer by my bedside. My chest tightens for a moment until I realize that I’m no longer resting on the too-soft pillow, but the hard muscle of a thigh.

Strong hands run through my hair, tugging and pulling on the midnight strands. I begin to twist my neck to look up at Sean, when he snakes a hand around the front of my neck, holding my movements captive as his husky voice chastises me. “Stop moving, Lou. I need to finish the braid.”

“You’re braiding my hair?” I ask, my words vibrating against his palm. He slides his hand from my neck and resumes playing with my hair.

“I thought you might like it out of your face so it didn’t get into the antiseptic cream I applied to the scratches on your cheeks.”

It feels good to have his hands threaded into my hair, my eyes sliding closed again as I revel in the intimate gesture. No one’s ever done something like this for me, not since my mum was alive. Then again, it’s not like I really date . I don’t have boyfriends or girlfriends. Sure, I fuck…a lot, but I make sure they—or I—leave when it’s over. Dating requires trust and that’s not something I give freely, if at all. My line of work doesn’t allow for mistakes like trusting the wr ong person. Even if I found someone I wanted to date, I’ve had my heart closed off for so long, I don’t know how to let someone in.

All that was true until Sean prowled into my life, knocking down barriers I’ve had in place for nearly two decades.

“How do you even know how to braid?”

Shifting so he has better access, I face the far wall, feeling him tug on the strands of my hair as he replies quietly after a beat. “I have a sister.”

I’m sure he’s wondering if he can trust me the same way I’m exploring those same tentative threads woven between us.

“Only a sister?”

There’s a heavily pregnant pause, but he eventually answers, “Yes.”

It doesn’t go unnoticed that he doesn’t give me their name, but I still take it as a win that I internally celebrate. I’d never go after anyone in Sean’s family, but he’s clearly still a little apprehensive about sharing pieces of himself with me. That’s something I can understand, since I’m obviously doing the same.

Feeling the need to reassure him with his own words from yesterday, I assert, “You can trust me, you know.”

He doesn’t respond, but he heard me. I don’t know if he believes me, but he should. I want him to know that I’d have his back and protect him like I’d protect myself. While those emotions are a first for me, they feel good.

He finishes with my French braid, and I sit up, moving to face him. He’s still bare from the waist up, his expanse of muscled planes and tanned, ink-free skin on display. He must’ve cleaned the blood splatter from his forearms at some point, though his trousers are still speckled with the crimson spray from last night.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, and I gaze at his face, grateful that he hasn’t replaced the mask. His face is even more attractive than the rest of him—and that’s saying quite a lot—but I can’t help wondering if he’d look even hotter with a dusting of facial hair and growing out his hair a tad. Although, I doubt the army would take my evaluation under consideration.

When he locks out his darkness, he appears buttoned-up, and I briefly fantasize about dragging him into the shadowy blackness with me for a little while.

After his performance last night, I have no doubt he’d more than simply survive in my world. He’d bloody thrive .

“Better,” I answer, then after a beat, I add, “Thank you…for everything.”

In my world, thanking people is much like apologizing in that it doesn’t really happen. Transactions take place and you’re expected to complete the job. Gratitude is expressed via payment or the fact that no one took a hit out on you.

Except, Sean isn’t in my world right now, I’m in his, and I am grateful.

He moves to the counter, producing a disposable pre-pasted toothbrush for me. Desperate to clean my teeth again, I follow him, seizing the opportunity to brush my teeth once again.

Leaning against the counter, his arms cross over my chest as he watches me scrub my teeth clean, spitting into the sink, then brushing them again. Wiping my mouth clean with the face cloth he offers me, I savor the minty flavor lingering on my tongue.

As we stand there, our eyes stay glued to each other for several moments before he dares to run a thick finger over my defined cupid’s bow and across the seam of my lips. I open for him, wrapping my lips around his finger. His eyes sharpen on the movement, and I suck more of his digit into my mouth, swirling my tongue around the pad of his index finger.

Sweeping my eyes over his face, I continue licking and sucking, waiting for the shadows to appear, but they don’t. Instead, he simply retracts his thumb, gliding it over my lips once more before shoving both hands into his pockets.

Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out his mask, tugging it on, the soldier slipping back into place as he orders gently, “We have somewhere to be.”

My bare feet are silent as they pad over the cool concrete, sending a shiver through me as I follow Sean down the corridor.He holds the door open for me to the familiar room, and I duck inside.

Honey Eyes is perched in a chair in the corner reading… “Bloody hell, is that Playboy ? Could you be any more of a cliché?”

He glances up at me, smirking, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Not all of us get action around here, you know.” He winks. “Besides, there are more than just pretty pictures; some of the articles are actually interesting.”

Rolling my eyes playfully, Sean’s warmth surrounds me from behind. I’m about to toss out a quip when Sean beats me to it.

“You sound jealous. Maybe you should see if Carlos is interested?”

“I’d rather stick my dick in a paper shredder.”

As the two men continue to bicker good-naturedly, I turn my attention to the naked man in the center of the room, hanging from chains in the ceiling. The chains wrap under both of his arms, digging into his armpits and crossing over his chest and upper back. His arms are crossed at his lower back, bound with rope, as additional twisted ropes hold his ankles together. I appreciate that Honey Eyes took things to the extreme by essentially hanging him by the armpits and stripping him of his clothes solely for the added humiliation.

Circling the man, I poke him in the back. When nothing happens, I peer around his body, asking, “Can we wake him up? He’s rather boring like this.”

Sean snorts, reaching for a black case on the floor next to Honey Eyes’s chair and holds it out for me. Inside, there’s a needle and three vials that I’d venture contain adrenaline .

“You can wake him up, but we need to get a few answers first, then he’s all yours,” Sean informs me, my lips forming a thin line as I narrow my eyes at him. I don’t relish the idea of letting these two have a go at this bloke first, but I suppose we all know that he won’t still be breathing when I’m finished with him, so how can I really argue with Sean’s order of events?

Filling the needle, I estimate the amount, since it doesn’t particularly matter, so long as I don’t accidentally kill him via a heart attack—that’d spoil the fun prematurely.

Plunging the needle into the side of his shoulder, I depress the plunger. A few beats later, he’s gasping, filling me with giddiness and zeal.

“Hello, doll,” I chime as I flash him my most reprehensible smile. Now conscious, he attempts to wriggle free, but the clanking of his chains is simply the soundtrack of his death.

Ignoring the vitriol he’s spewing like a faucet, Sean comes to stand beside me, and I nod reluctantly, backing up to stand against the wall, sulking a bit as they take their turn.

Based on my own experience in this room with them, I knew that Honey Eyes and Sean worked well together. Able to view things through a more objective lens now, their seamless partnership is nothing short of impressive. They alternate asking questions and removing fingers and toes without batting an eye. The two men seem to communicate nearly telepathically, anticipating the other’s next move.

It’s comical how quickly a guard in a government-run torture prison buckles under the torture inflicted on him. Wimp.

When Sean and Honey Eyes learn all they want, they step back, droplets of blood speckling their bodies from their masks to their sand-colored boots.

Sean nods at me, and I trod toward the shelves containing the various tools, perusing my options. When I spot a block with various knives stationed on the bottom shelf, I pluck a fillet knife from its slip, testing the sharpness of the blade against the pad of my thumb. This will work.

The world around me—the audience, the room, the entire bloody prison—fades away as I stand before the sniveling man, his face bloody and bruised. Lifting the blade, I trail the tip over his skin much like he had done to me, only I press a little harder, a stream of blood appearing in my wake, leaving me transfixed by the way his skin parts like water for me. It’s been so long since I got my hands dirty. I fucking missed it.

Breathing deeply, I soak in his terror, committing it to memory so that I might bask in it later. I missed the feeling of exacting retribution.

I’ve mastered my craft so that I’m now able to be highly selective in the jobs I accept at this point in my career. I have more requests in my encrypted inbox than I could realistically take in this lifetime and the next. It wasn’t always that way, though; there was a time where I took every job, regardless of the risk. However, I made sure I became the best in the business, so that I could be able to choose which hits I wanted to accept and reject.

The guard I killed in the infirmary was the first target I haven’t been paid to eliminate in years. Nonetheless, he provoked me, and I wanted to remember the way bloodshed felt.

Standing before this man, I recognize a difference. This is vengeance I haven’t tasted in ages . This is compensation. This is punishment. This is justice.

I drag the blade over his chest and look up into his ruddy brown eyes, parroting his words mockingly. “Are you familiar with Lingchi?”

He doesn’t answer, not that I expected him to—continuing his wails and curses—so I tell him, “You seem to be a bit rusty on your ancient torture methods, but that’s alright. I’ll fill you in.” I don’t typically talk theatrically with an overabundance of hand gestures, but I make a point of waving the knife around when I speak to this wanker .

Borman won’t shut the fuck up and listen to me, though, testing my patience. Fed up, I glance behind me to request a gag, when Honey Eyes saunters past me, shoving a dirty-looking rag into the captive’s mouth, growling, “Shut the fuck up and listen to her.”

A grateful smile sweeps across my face as Honey Eyes stalks past me, returning to his post against the wall at my back.

Resuming my one-sided conversation with the soldier, I explain, “As I was saying, death by a thousand cuts means something different within various Chinese dynasties, but they all contained the removal of flesh, in some capacity, something you seem to either have forgotten or not have been aware of. Luckily for you, I’m somewhat of a slow-slicing expert, and I’ll try to keep this process as authentic as possible for you. I’m partial to the methods of the Qing Dynasty, so that’s what I’ll be adhering to.”

He screams into his gag, the sound pure delight to my ears, as I cut through the flesh of his left pectoral, then his right, tossing the skin and muscle tissue I removed aside, suddenly grateful for the adrenaline coursing through him. I want him alive for every painful moment of this.

I continue the cuts I made in his chest down toward his ribs, exposing the top portion of his ribs, again lobbing the flesh on the ground. I must admit, there’s something about seeing the inside of someone’s muscles that’s fascinating to me. Maybe in another life I might have been a bloody coroner.

I’ve only killed someone by slow slicing once—because it’s tedious and incredibly messy, not because I don’t like it—but I find it particularly poetic this time around.

Stepping behind him, I address the flesh on his upper arms, confident that my time with this tosser is coming to a close. I doubt he’ll survive much longer, especially since he’s already gone silent, his wet face and the shallow rise and fall of his chest now the only indication of life. He’s long since pissed himself and his head hangs forward, resigned to his fate .

Circling my prey, I stop to remove the flesh from his thigh, when I notice that he’s fading faster than I anticipated. Making one more slice before gripping him by the hair, I yank his head up so that he’s looking at me. I’m not sure if he can actually see me at this point, yet I still promise, “See you in Hell and we’ll pick up where we left off.”

Two more strategic cuts before I know he’s gone. In accordance with Lingchi, I exchange the fillet knife for a hatchet and remove his head.

A satiated calmness slithers through my veins lazily as I relax for the first time since I regained consciousness to find my wrists and ankles shackled by the bloody government.

“Fuck, Lou.”

At the sound of Honey Eyes’s voice, I turn around, a very real smile on my face. It’s the only indication that the hungry viper within me is well and truly fed for the first time in months. It’s Sean who catches my eye, though.

As we study one another, I observe the cloud of darkness encasing his blue irises, and he continues to hold my gaze as Honey Eyes adds, “You’re one scary woman. Remind me to never get on your bad side.”

Reluctantly, I drag my attention from the man systematically crushing the walls around my heart and slide my gaze to meet a pair of golden-caramel eyes, letting triumph seep into my smirk.

“I’m the best for a reason, Honey Eyes.”

“I believe you.”

I glance around the room, noticing the blood and gore covering my surroundings. Thankfully, Borman was positioned over the drain, so at least some of his bodily fluids disappeared, but there’s still a mess.

“Would you like some help tidying up a bit?” I ask. Under any other circumstance, I’d call in my crew, or leave it, depending on the situation; though I’m not above getting my hands dirty by cleaning up my own messes.

Honey Eyes just shakes his masked head and states, “I’ve got it. It was worth it just to see you in action.”

Sean brushes past me and ducks into the storage room, but returns in a flash, carrying another fresh uniform. Do all the prisoners fly through these uniforms as quickly as I seem to?

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Sean mutters, and I wave to Honey Eyes before following him to the shower.