Page 23 of Executing Malice

I want to roll my eyes, but he’s moving again. I feel him stalk past my left side and up towards my head.

Something touches my face. My head is lifted as it slides down and over my eyes.

I’m about to point out that I already can’t see, a blindfold is redundant, when a faint halo of light frames the satin slip. I realize he’s lit something. A candle, maybe, judging from the soft, swaying glow.

Chained and naked, I have never felt so exposed. So ... self-conscious. It’s ridiculous because I sure as hell don’t give a shit what this asshole thinks of my body, but ... My stomach isn’t flat. My hips are too round. There is weight and stretch marks in places I usually like to keep concealed. And with my eyes covered, I can’t see if he’s disgusted.

If he’s laughing.

“I hate you,” I whisper, muscles coiling, chains clinking as my body instinctively tries to pull together.

The hot well of tears burn my eyelids. Soak into the mask.

“I’ll change your mind,” he murmurs, sounding distracted.

“Why are you doing this?” I snap, hating the faint wisp of a tremor sneaking into my voice.

His answer is the barest brush of fingertips along the untrim line of my waist.

I flinch and he stills.

Without a word, he moves away. I hear him drift over somewhere to my left. Sticky, metal wheels squeal on concrete as something is dragged over.

He’s going to cut me open.

This is it. This is how I die. This is how Reed is going to find my mutilated and naked body. My poor parents will have to cut their trip short and hurry back. Mom will be devastated. Dad will get very quiet and blame himself. All because I followed a masked psychopath into a basement.

I brace for the sound of a bone saw. Maybe the sizzle of a brand. Something surgical and terrifying.

Instead, there’s a clatter. The distinct clink of cutlery striking ceramic.

Dishes?

A new set of worries start to creep in — is he going to eat me? Like literally?

I’m about to protest, tell him I really wouldn’t taste good when something hot lands on my stomach with a moist, soggy plop.

I squeak.

My restraints rattle violently as my entire body jolts at the disgusting sensation.

Is it shit? Did he shit on my stomach?

My horror is only stifled by the slow ooze of liquid running down my sides, by the second splat of something creamy hitting my chest.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I wheeze, careful to breathe through my mouth just in case.

But a person can only hold their breath for so long and I have no choice but to exhale. Then inhale ... warm, buttery gravy. Delicious, succulent fried meat.

Steak?

I recall his statement earlier about being hungry, but never, not in my wildest dreams did I ever expect him to turn me into a literal charcuterie board. A human table.

Maybe this is the appetizer. Maybe he’s going to start with a nice side of human steak before cutting through into me.

“Please don’t flay me,” I blurt, breathing hard as I hear cutlery clinking in neat rows along the table next to my hip. “Iknow it looks like I have really soft skin, but there isn’t enough for you to wear.”

He pauses.