Page 7 of Felix (4 Seats #2)

Chapter Seven

Felix Greyson

I t’s seven in the morning, and I’m in the fucking basement again.

Sweat drips down my face as I heave Maxwell’s bloody carcass off the chains anchored into the ceiling.

I have to love my night job. I spent all last night peeling away flesh, one slow slice after another. The sick bastard had it coming.

“Ugh, you’re heavier than you look.” I grunt, my muscles straining. My tattoos glisten with sweat as I work.

“Please… stop…” Maxwell wheezes, his voice barely a whisper. Pathetic.

“Too late for that now, isn’t it?” I sneer, giving the chains a vicious yank.

My mind wanders to Aurora. My darling. I can’t fucking help it—she’s always there, lurking in my thoughts. What would she think of this shit? I chuckle darkly. She’d probably fear me even more if that’s possible.

“Is this what you do for fun?” Maxwell croaks, blood bubbling from his lips .

“Only on special occasions,” I tell him, smirking. “You should be honoured.”

“Fuck… you…”

“Feisty till the end.” I laugh, admiring his spirit despite hating the man.

Finally, the body is off the chains.

I lower him down into the old bathtub filled with salt water and alcohol, my dark eyes never leaving his face. The anticipation is intoxicating.

“Hope you’re ready for the grand finale, asshole,” I sneer, watching his remaining eye widen in terror.

Maxwell gasps in pain as the water touches his raw flesh, his tortured screams echoing off the basement walls. His body convulses violently, desperation clawing at his throat, but there is no escaping this. Not for him.

“Too much for ya?” I taunt, a cruel smile playing on my lips.

His life flickers out like a snuffed candle, and I can’t help but smirk.

It was a long night, but fuck, it was enjoyable enough.

To make sure he’s dead, I swiftly cut across Maxwell’s neck, my fingers brushing against the scar that runs along the base of my throat.

If anyone knows you can rise from death, it’s me. I’ve done it before.

“Rest in pieces, motherfucker,” I mutter under my breath, stepping back from the bloody mess in front of me.

My eyes dart around the basement, greedily taking in every detail of the chaos I have created.

It’s a macabre scene, almost like a demented work of art with splatters of blood decorating the walls and floor.

The sweet metallic scent of blood still lingers on my skin as I climb the stairs.

The odour of death and saltwater permeates the air, clinging to me like a second skin.

However, it is not an unpleasant smell for me but a reminder of my power and control.

My body aches from the hours spent inflicting pain upon Maxwell, but it is a satisfying ache and one that fuels my insatiable thirst for dominance.

I cautiously enter the bathroom, turning on the shower and listening as the water splashes against the tiles.

It swirls down the drain in a deep crimson hue, reminding me of my sins.

I scrub at my skin with determination, desperately trying to wash away any evidence of what just happened.

Once finished, I hastily throw on some comfortable sweats and a worn T-shirt before collapsing on my bed.

Exhaustion and guilt weigh heavily on my body.

I tell myself I’ll deal with the mess downstairs and look for flights to the Gold Coast after a quick nap.

As I lay there, drifting between sleep and consciousness, my phone suddenly buzzes on the nightstand. A random number flashes across the screen, causing confusion to flood over me. With blind hands, I answer the call, unsure who could be calling from an unknown number.

My voice, raw and hoarse with exhaustion, bounces off my bedroom walls as I demand, “Hello?”

There’s a brief pause before a tired, sweet voice responds, causing my heart to race. It’s Aurora. She called me. She reached out to me.

“It’s Aurora,” she confirms, her tone filled with weariness. “The chick from the restaurant.”

“Aurora,” I reply, trying to keep my voice calm despite the excitement coursing through my veins. “I’ve been expecting your call.” I can feel myself reeling her in bit by bit.

“Cut the crap,” she snaps, her tone suddenly sharp and demanding. “Who the fuck are you? Who the fuck is Angel? And how the hell did you get my email?” The words tumble out of her mouth as she demands answers down the phone line.

“Easy there, darling.” I smooth my voice as it travels through the phone line. “I’ll answer your questions, but first, let’s talk about why you called me.” My words are laced with amusement and a hint of something dangerous.

There is a quiet moment on the other end before she responds, her voice uncertain. “To be honest…” she finally replies, “… I’m not entirely sure.”

As I listen to her raspy breaths, my phone vibrates with an incoming text. I glance at the screen, and my blood boils. It’s from Angel.

Angel : Her house was trashed. Claimed it was an ex-boyfriend to the cops.

A surge of anger rushes through me, and my jaw clenches as every fibre of my being screams for vengeance. My voice trembles with barely contained rage as I speak into the phone. “Listen, darling. You need to stay where you are. I’ll be there in a few hours.”

“Wait, what’s going on?” Her voice shakes in confusion.

“I’m coming for you,” I growl out, my words dripping with venom. “I’ll take care of everything. No one dares to mess with what’s mine.”

I end the call, my heart thundering like a drumbeat. The thought of someone laying a finger on her and desecrating her home ignites an all-consuming fury within me. No one has the right to touch what belongs to me.