Page 19

Eve

RING RING

RING RING

My phone is screaming at me from my coffee table, and I nearly break an ankle running from my kitchen to pick it up. Stuffing the last bite of my bagel in my mouth, I do all I can to not choke while I scramble to answer.

RING RI—

“Hello?” I don’t even check the caller ID, and the voice I hear on the other end of the line is one I wouldn’t have expected.

“Eve, this is Derek.”

My jaw freezes mid-chew as my brows furrow.

Why is Derek calling me?

“Hi, Derek,” I struggle to speak through a mouthful of everything bagel. “What’s up?”

A pause for a moment, and then he says the three words I’ve been waiting to hear for the past two weeks, ever since the night at Clover where I learned the truth about Jason, Derek and the Suits.

“We found him.”

I swallow. Hard.

“You…you found him. HIM?”

The sound of a keyboard clicking in the background as Derek types is a testament to this man’s dedication to his work.

“Yes. Jack is en route to collect him and bring him to Clover. You’re aware that Jason has work tonight, yeah?”

I WAS aware, yes. It’s become routine for me to head to Clover on the nights that Jason had clients. I would wait at the bar, have a few drinks, and then he would come up and join me while I helped him decompress. I wouldn’t ask him about what happened downstairs, and he wouldn’t talk about it.

Easier said than done, because every time we would be having drinks my mind would race with so many thoughts: what he did to the person down below, how he must’ve made them suffer, and imagining what it must be like to cut somebody’s heart from their chest. I couldn’t help it, I was curious.

But still, I never asked.

“Yes, I know. I am supposed to head down to meet him at the bar, like I have been,” I say, walking into my bedroom and rummaging through my closet to prep an outfit.

“Well Eve…the offer that Jason extended to you still stands. Again, it’s completely up to you and what you’re comfortable with, however this will be the only opportunity. The. ONLY. opportunity.”

My hand stops on a coat hanger, as I consider what Derek is telling me. He’s making sure that I know that I’m signing up for cold-blooded murder. That this is my only chance to kill without repercussions. I don’t have to think twice about it: I’ve dreamed of killing this man ever since he and his friends tried to kidnap me. Ever since I got my first taste of blood the night I bashed his partner’s brains in on my driveway.

Still, I don’t want to seem too eager. I don’t want to seem so far gone that it looks like I’m chomping at the bit for a fresh kill, which is what Jason thinks. I know he loves me, I can see it in his face…so I need to play this carefully. I care about Jason, yes.

But not as much as I care about claiming my revenge.

“I’m ready,” I say as I slowly continue sliding hangers to the side. “What time will Jason be there tonight? What time should I be there tonight?

Derek pauses for a moment, the clacking stops as I hear faint voices behind him. I try to make out what they’re saying, but the sound is hushed, as if he’s covering the phone. After a few moments, there is shuffling on the line and he clears his throat.

“Be here by 7:30pm. I have to go.”

CLICK

The line goes dead, but I don’t take offense to his sudden ending of the call. After all, Derek–ACE–is a busy man, and Lord knows I’m not a needy woman.

As I absentmindedly flip through the hangers, my imagination is racing with all of the things I’ve been dreaming about doing to the man who threatened to kidnap me, rape me and abuse me. I remember Jason saying he had a signature, a way he would finish off the people on his table: carving out their hearts. Last week, he and I had a laugh over the fact that I had chosen an obsidian urn for my dad, how I had said the reason was because my father was my heart, and obsidian was used to cut away the heart from the body. We chuckled at the similarities between my choice and Jason’s signature.

But what would be MY signature? What would make this feel more…personal? What would tie it all together for me?

So many stories I’ve acquired over the years–methods I’ve read and studied– and none of them seem to speak to me. Too mundane, too predictable, too elaborate: I want something simple. Elegant. Something that reflects me….but what…

My eyes widen.

“Wow, Eve, as if it’s not obvious,” I say to myself.

Obsidian. Obsidian would be my signature. Out of any historically relevant means of sacrifice, torture and killing, obsidian has always had the most personal meanings. Even the Aztecs had a god called Tezcatlipoca, who represented duality and change through conflict. It was said he could reveal the true nature of things, including the human soul.

‘Change through conflict.’ I think about the past couple few weeks, and smile wide at the irony.

My hand settles on a black sheath dress, its pattern organic and the fabric slightly reflective. For a moment I second-guess the choice to wear something so feminine and impractical, but I can’t stop myself from pulling the dress from the closet rod and hooking the hanger over the door, staring and mulling it over for a moment.

You know what? Fuck it. These men were going to make me feel shame over my body and my femininity, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to hide and shy away from myself like that.

I check the time on my phone. 11:47am. Jesus Christ, it’s early. Still, it gives me time to get things together, the most important of which being an obsidian knife. As I pull out a pair of low heels and slide them against the closet door under the dress, I try to think of where I would find one this last-minute.

Shit. Maybe not such a good idea after all.

The wood floor is cool under my bare feet as I make my way back to the living room, booting up my computer and immediately searching the area for any place that would have such a thing. Pawn shops, social media, knife and cutlery shops. Nothing. I sigh heavily, the excitement I had felt moments earlier beginning to mellow out as I suddenly see a notification pop up on my social media page, the words causing my chest to tighten with a pang of grief.

MEMORIES - 3 YEARS AGO

Below is a photo reel of my father and I at a variety of archaeological digs that year. As I flip through the photos, the images of him and I bring back fond memories: us in Arizona covered in red dirt, then layered in jackets up in Canada , and rocking matching “Que Tal?” tank tops at the Queretaro dig in Mexico.

I pause on the last photo, one of him and I at a museum expo where we had brought all of our items from those digs. There were old vases, tools, and an assortment of knick knacks that have since been auctioned off or donated to local schools and collectors.

Something in the photo grabs my eye, and as I lean forward towards my computer, I squint and zoom into the image. My finger gingerly rolls the scrolling wheel on the mouse as I scan the artifacts behind us, and settle upon something long. Dark. Reflective.

It can’t be what I think it is.

I zoom in even further, and after a moment or two, my eyebrows raise in realization

“No fucking way, Dad,” I exclaim as I sit back, crossing my arms and shaking my head in a marriage of disbelief and amusement.

It’s an obsidian dagger. THE obsidian dagger that first got me interested in my dark predilections in the first place. The dagger that started my entire fascination with the depravity of humanity is staring at me through a computer screen.

And I know exactly where it is.

I grasp my phone from the table and flip through my contacts until I find the one I need, and make the call. A woman picks up the phone, her customer service voice dripping with forced friendliness as she greets me.

“Thank you for calling Sav-U-Storage, how may I help you?”

“Hi, I was wondering how late you are open tonight?” I ask as I turn off my computer, heading to the bathroom to prepare for a shower.

“Office closes at 6pm, but storage access is available until 10pm. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Nope, that will be all, thank you.”

I hang up and set my phone on the bathroom counter, gripping the sides of the granite with both hands and looking up at my reflection in the mirror. For a moment I barely recognize myself, barely recognize the eyes of the woman staring back at me. My father's passing hit me hard, but ever since that night on my driveway, I’ve been different. FELT different. The icing on the cake was when I learned the truth about Jason: noticing how indifferent I felt about the fact that my boyfriend was a serial killer, about how his friends and coworkers have been lying to my face for the last few months, about how I seemed so comfortable with all of that information that they actually offered for me to take revenge into my own hands.

I am different, alright. My desire for justice has been consuming me, and tonight is the night I find out if I have what it takes to make my assailant suffer. If I have what it takes to claim his life as mine.

“First thing’s first, bitch,” I mutter to myself as I turn around and strip, leaving my clothes piled on the floor as I turn on the water.

Cold. Refreshing. Clarifying.

Perfect.

I spent the day running errands, the most important of which was running by storage where my father’s possessions were being held, and digging out the obsidian dagger. As I walk in the door after getting home, I check the clock. 6:00pm. Perfect, it gives me a little time to get ready.

Setting the dagger on my bed, I walk over to grasp the dress I had left hanging on the closet door. The fabric feels soft in my hands. Transformative. As I slide it over my head and reach behind me to zip it, I feel as if I’m putting on a suit of armor. For as much of a ‘sweats and t-shirt’ kind of girl I can be, something about wearing a beautiful dress–matching it to my mood and energy–makes me feel empowered. Confident. Feminine and strong.

Steadying myself against the wall, I slip on my shoes, my eyes fixated on the shard of obsidian on my bed. I know Jason will ask about it, talking about how his tools are more efficient and stable: as much as I hate that “know it all” attitude, he’s not wrong. For as sharp as obsidian may be, it IS relatively brittle. So I’ll only use it for the parts where I need to slice, where I need to deal delicate and devastating damage.

I don’t bother with makeup. I’m not here to put on a show, and I’d rather get to Clover early so that I’m not keeping anyone waiting.

Besides, I’m looking forward to seeing Jason, and to showing him what I can do.

Slipping the dagger inside of a black suede bag, I grab my keys and phone and head to my front door, looking back at my apartment one more time before shutting the door behind me. My engine purrs to a start as I leave my driveway and dive towards Clover, the cool evening air awakening my senses as I retreat inside my head and disassociate to thoughts of finally confronting this man.

My phone buzzing snaps me out of my trance as I fish it out of my center console and thumb to the texts, seeing a new one from Jason.

VIP. LAST DOOR ON LEFT. FLOOR 2.

Tossing the phone back into the center console, I set my jaw and pull off of the freeway exit towards the club. The lights outside seem brighter than usual, and as I drive through the parking lot towards the front, I swear I can already hear the sounds from inside reverberating through my car.

As I park, I feel as if my senses are heightened, the anticipation of what to come already flooding my body with adrenaline. Looking over at my passenger seat, I stare quietly at my bag. It’s as if I can hear the dagger inside calling to me, begging to be seated inside someone’s fist and put to use as it was hundreds of years ago.

I slide out of my car and slam the door behind me. Closing my eyes, I inhale the cool air, my lungs chilled and my nostrils filling with the married scents of pine and cigarettes.

“Mmmmm,” I hum as I exhale, the hairs on the back of my neck standing at attention as I walk inside the club and head straight for the VIP doors. Jack is standing guard, and as he sees me coming he nods his head in greeting.

“Hey lil’ sis, how goes it?” He puts an arm around my shoulders and gives me a light squeeze, glancing down at the bag I have in my hand.

“So you’ve got a kit now too, eh?” he asks, releasing me from his grip. “Finally one of us or what?”

I chuckle, holding the bag close to me and giving it a pat.

“Family heirloom that might come in handy.”

Jason smiles slightly and walks over to the keypad, swiping his card as the doors open.

“Jason has a case of ‘family heirlooms’ too, ya know…careful where that path leads, Eve. I love you, but there’s no—”

“I know, I know,” I cut him off, walking past him and reassuringly brushing his shoulder with my hand. “There’s no going back.”

Jack looks at me, his smile draining from his face as he steps away from the doors, giving me room to pass by him.

“Did they tell you where to go?” he asks, his voice suddenly somber and serious as he watches me walk by him.

“Yeah, they did.”

I place my hand on his shoulder as I pass him, stepping into the hallway and looking over my shoulder at him.

“Jack, I wanted this. I still do. Don’t worry, I can handle it.”

He shrugs, reaching up and taking my hand off of his shoulder, giving it a slight, compassionate squeeze.

“I’m sure there’s a lot you CAN handle, Eve…it’s just…I worry. The stuff that goes on down there, it’ll haunt you. Creep up on you when you least expect it. There’s no future outside of the Suits, and you have to leave your past behind you…”

He trails off as his eyes look off over my shoulder, hazy, as if searching for a long-lost memory

I squeeze his hand back before releasing it, smiling at him.

“You’re a good guy, Jack. And I appreciate you looking out for me. But my future is downstairs.”

I turn and proceed down the hallway, hearing the doors close behind me. A sudden chill creeps up my spine, and as I approach the elevator door to the left, every hair feels as if they’re standing on end. Fear? Anticipation? Whatever it is, it has my heart beating hard against my ribs.

I open the door and step inside, noticing the two buttons on the panel next to me. I push the one on bottom, the cool, smooth metal tingling under my fingertips as the doors close and the elevator jars awake, slowly beginning its descent. My eyes close as I take slow, deep breaths, steadying myself as my mind plays through a dozen versions of what to expect. Preparing myself for what I’m about to do…and the more I think about it, the more I realize it’s not fear, or nervousness that’s coursing through my veins, fueling my body with adrenaline…

It’s excitement.

I know very well what is about to happen: being brought face-to-face with the corpse on Jason’s table the night I was stabbed had awakened something in me that I had been stifling for ages. A hunger that was aching to be satiated.

Yet despite Jason’s predilection for violence in the name of justice, despite his familiarity with the dark and macabre, I don’t want him to see me so eager to take vengeance into my own hands. As he and I have grown closer, I have seen some small shred of humanity become reignited amidst his twisted reality, and I want to do all I can to encourage that spark to grow, to breathe life into his ability to love and commit to me the way he commits to his work.

If that means maintaining some small shred of my OWN humanity–despite my strong desire to bury it alive–then I’ll do my best.

For Jason.

The elevator jerks to a halt and the doors slowly part before me. The cool air creeping in and swirling around my body is thick with the lingering souls of those who have died here…and I am eager to add one more. Staring at the common room before me, I take a final breath before stepping out of the elevator, leaving my old world behind as I embrace my fate and future with open arms.

Ace walks out of his office, looking me up and down and nodding in approval.

“Always so fashionable,” he says as he glances at the bag clutched in my fist before lifting his gaze to meet mine.

“Just a little something I thought might come in handy,” I say, patting the bag lovingly.

Ace reaches his hand out, his serious expression enough to rid me of the giddiness I felt just moments earlier in the elevator. My brows furrow, as I glance at the bag, and then him.

“Do you not trust me, Derek?”

Ace’s eyes take on a dangerous intensity that makes me want to crawl out of my skin. I can feel myself wanting to take a step back, but with a sharp breath I regain my composure: I won’t have them thinking I can be intimidated. Not when I’m here to prove that I can do what they do, live how they live.

“Will all due respect, Eve, it’s “Ace” when we’re down here,” he says, taking a step forward to close the gap between us and dropping his hand. “And since this is your first time down here in this capacity, I need to check your bag.”

He reaches forward slowly, his fingers brushing my hand as he curls them around the handle of my bag. He doesn’t pull it from me, just simply holds onto it until I willingly release my grip.

“Do you not trust me?” I ask coldly.

He stares right through me.

“I don’t trust anybody.”

Although it catches me by surprise, I understand where he’s coming from. He’s just trying to protect his organization, and despite my relationship with Jason and the friendship I have with Ace, I AM a stranger to their inner circle. I want them to trust me, regardless of what it takes.

I let Ace take my bag and open it, the expression on his face almost comical when he sees what is inside. Keeping his head downturned, he looks up at me through his eyebrows, raising one of them skeptically.

“My dad was an archaeologist and historian. There’s significance in it, trust me.”

He closes my bag gently and hands it back to me with a nod.

“Eve, you have to know: there is no going back now. We will have eyes on you, for your safety and ours. If you ever think of exposing us to the police, if you speak about this to anyone, we will know. If you cause trouble for any member of the suits, we will know. If you try to leave the city, we will know. And if you do, it will be YOU strapped to the table next. Do you understand this?”

I nod solemnly.

“I would expect nothing less,” I say, keeping eye contact with Ace and meaning every word I say. “I have nothing waiting for me upstairs, nobody to live for and no reason to betray any of you. I am committed.”

My answer seems to satisfy him, and he nods in return at my answer.

“Alright, follow me. King is in his office, waiting for you.”

King? Who is King?

I nod to Ace as I follow him down the hallway.

So they all go by their aliases when down here. Good to know.

Strange, because I remember their real names being thrown around the day I was brought here after the bar attack. Maybe it was because of the circumstances. To make everything seem more…familiar…for me.

I don’t have time to finish my train of thought before we arrive at Jason’s door, the large gold heart nearly glowing as if lit from within.

“This is where I leave you,” Ace says as he puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Ace, I appreciate you. I promise you, you don’t have to worry about me. I know what I’m getting into...and besides, King will be there.”

Ace smiles slightly at my use of Jason’s alias.

“You’re in good hands with him, that’s for sure,” he says, removing his hand and knocking sharply on the door. “Just remember what I said before. And good luck.”

As he turns on his heels and disappears back down the hallway, I grasp the knob and push the door open. The familiar matte gold walls gleam as the lights bounce off of them and onto my face, causing me to squint for a moment before my eyes adjust. Once they do, what I see makes my heart stop.

Jason is standing next to the table in the center of the room, his legs shoulder length apart and his arms behind his back: his suit is the darkest shade of blue I’ve ever seen–tailored to perfection–and I can’t keep my eyes from hungrily devouring his silhouette. The tapered waist, the broad shoulders, the strong neck and sharp jawline…and his mask. The same dark red mask he was wearing the night I woke up in the basement of Clover.

The same night I was attacked by the man who is now strapped naked to the table before me, bound and gagged. He cranes his head to look at me, but I ignore him. Right now my focus is on nothing but Jason. On the King.

My gaze remains fixed as I slink across the room to approach the table. Jason doesn’t say a word, but his head turns slightly as he follows me with his eyes, the clicking of my heels puncturing the silence as I approach him. I notice his jaw clench as he slowly looks me up and down.

“I swear, if he wasn’t here, I’d take you on this table right now,” he grunts deeply, standing in place as I walk right up to him and press my body against his.

I purr against him, scanning his mouth before moving my eyes to meet his. The gold of his eyes is alight, gleaming amidst the dark red filigree and shadows the mask is casting across his face.

“I see you brought something,” he says, glancing down at the bag I have in my hand.

“Just a little family heirloom. Something to help me close this chapter of my life for good.“

I reached into my bag, palming the cool, smooth blade and bringing it up between Jason and me. He smiles.

“Obsidian.” He scoffs humorously. “You really are a stickler for tradition.“ He brings his hand up, dragging his fingertips along the blade as small red droplets bead up against his skin.

“Sharp, beautiful, dangerous…reminds me of someone,” he says, removing his hand and bringing his fingers to my lips. I oblige, parting my lips slightly as he slips his finger over my tongue. The taste of warm copper is comforting. Arousing. Sparks my senses as he removes his hand. I lick my lips, my eyes darkening as I look directly at him.

“Now now, don’t go making me forget why I’m here,” I muse as I turn to face the man on the table. I set my bag down next to me, the knife still in my hand. Walking over to the side of the table, I gaze at the helpless heap of flesh and bone that is looking up at me with pleading eyes.

“You and your friends tried to kidnap me. Hurt me. Would have done worse if you had had the chance.”

I slowly circle the table, gently dragging the tip of the knife along his skin. Not enough to cut him, but enough to set his nerves on edge. I know the obsidian isn’t meant for powerful slicing or bone work, but that’s no matter. I’m saving the blade for the heart, and the heart alone.

As I continue circling, I approach the tool rack and glance over the selection of tools and equipment, my fingers gliding over a row of small scalpels and blades until I find myself lingering on one in particular. I notice a box with latex gloves on a small shelf above, and I grasp two pairs, sheathing my hands for what is about to come. I pick up the metal blade, setting my own in its place, and pivot around to face my prey.

“We looked you up, you know. You AND your friends. Trafficking? Kidnapping? Rape? You ruined the lives of who knows how many innocent girls, and took the lives of others.” I pause and position myself near his hips, glancing down at the pitiful appendage resting between his legs. He whimpers against his gag, eyes widening as he notices where my focus is. I look up at Jason, who is still standing near the man’s head, and I see the corner of his mouth curl ever so slightly.

He’s enjoying this. Watching me, studying my movements, my behavior: the look in his eyes is almost one of pride. I flash him a quick smile in return, only to be interrupted by the man suddenly trying to thrash about on the table.

I laugh.

“Oh what? You really think that you’re getting out of here? That you have any chance of escape?”

I touch his knee and slowly stroke his thigh with my finger, dragging my hand upwards until it reaches his hip. The anticipation must be killing him, but it is having the exact opposite effect on me: I’m electric. Every hair on end, my heartbeat increasing and my blood heating in the most delicious way. I’ve never felt more excitement than I have at this moment, except for maybe the night I bashed that man’s head in on my driveway.

Without warning, I shoot my left hand across his body and grasp his flaccid cock, and the man yelps in fear and surprise. He twitches in my hand, and I set my knife on his belly.

“Sssshhh, sssh, it’s alright! Don’t worry,” I say in a placating, soothing voice. “I want to give you a taste of what you and your friends were so desperate for the night you tried to take me.”

I see Jason shift out of the corner of my eye, but he remains silent. He has no idea what I’m doing, what I’m planning, and even though I know he trusts me, I can still sense the unease exuding from his body.

“It’s ok, my King.” I look up at him through my lashes, my head still angled downward at the body below me. “Trust the process.”

He snorts, half amused and half skeptical, and I can’t blame him. After all, the only indication for my predilection towards violence that he’s seen was the corpse he cleaned up on my driveway that night. He has no idea about my intimate knowledge of the human body, the pain it can withstand, or how to mentally break someone in a thousand different ways.

Looking back down at the man below me, I slowly pump my hand up and down, his dick betraying his efforts to resist my motions as he begins to harden in my fist.

I smile.

“Look at that,” I croon, increasing the pace until I feel his hips straining against his restraints, desperately trying to thrust upwards and meet my strokes. “You like the feeling of my hand on your cock, don’t you? I bet you and your friends would’ve enjoyed much more than my hands, if you had the chance.”

His eyes roll back and close, and I take the opportunity to slowly reach for the knife on his stomach: he doesn’t even feel me remove it, and as my hand continues to pump, I set the knife on the table beside his hip and pull a hair tie from my wrist, wrapping it as tightly around the base of his cock as I can. As he feels the pressure and raises his head in concern, I bring my fist up his shaft to his head, gripping it in my palm and giving it a squeeze.

“You’re so hard, handsome,” I muse quietly as I position the knife near the base of his cock. I look up at Jason, flashing him a devilish smile before pressing the knife against the rigid shaft, feeling it find purchase in the tight skin above the elastic.

The scream that comes from the man is more surprise than pain, and as he tries to buck away from me, I tighten my grip on his cock.

“NOW NOW,” I exclaim loudly, sitting up and leaning over to look him in the face. “If you move, this knife is going to slip right through that pitiful excuse for a tool and sever it from your body. But if you sit still, I promise you’ll keep your cock intact.”

The whites of his eyes are almost blinding, his eyelids ceasing to exist as I remain standing, leaning over him and beginning my work. I don’t press the knife hard enough to cut through the muscle…I’m only aiming for the layer of skin.

“Did you know that flaying someone used to be an art form? That removing the skin all in one piece was a sign of craftsmanship and dedication?” I parrot one of my many history lessons on ancient torture methods, stopping for a moment to glance at Jason and gauging his reaction. He walks towards me, standing on the opposite side of the table as he grasps the chair from behind him and slides it over, taking a front row seat to witness my work.

The man continues to wail and grunt against his gag, my hand expertly moving the knife up and around until the skin near the base of his cock is cut away from the meat below, a perfect circle sliced around the circumference of his shaft. I know what’s coming next, and I’m not sure if the man under my blade can take it. Setting the knife down on the table, I reach over with both hands and grasp the loose skin near the base. The man chokes, his voice catching in his throat as he struggles to breathe.

“Don’t worry, baby,” I sneer as I look at the man’s face, tears streaming down his cheeks and eyes streaked red with strain. “It’s like tearing off a band-aid. More or less.”

In a slow, smooth motion, I begin to peel the skin upwards, the feeling like prying velcro apart. I go slow, as to not rip the skin itself, and the scream I hear the man make against his gag has me feeling uneasy for the first time in my life. Blood begins to ooze over my hands, the latex slippery and my grip weakening. For a split second I almost feel pity for him, almost feel remorse for my actions. Even Jason recoils in his seat, doubling over slightly as if he can feel the pain in his own perfect cock. It’s enough to have me stop halfway and consider my actions. Yet despite the falter in my resolve, my mind keeps going back to one simple, solid fact.

THIS MAN WOULD’VE TORTURED, RAPED AND SOLD YOU TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER.

I adjust my grip and continue to pull steadily upwards until the skin is joined to his cockhead by only a few threads, the blood from his tool flowing steadily down his hips and thighs as he begins to convulse on the table.

“Oh I know, I know it hurts,” I say as I reach down with one hand for the knife, and in one swift motion I sever the remaining fibers, freeing his skin completely and tossing the hollow flesh onto his stomach. His cock is nothing but a bright red hunk of meat, and as I consider my work, I tilt my head slightly and furrow my brows.

“Hmmm.” My lips vibrate with the sound as I watch his convulsing stop as he passes out from the pain, his breathing shallow and the bleeding slowing. “I can see why they call it a ‘tube steak.’”

I chuckle to myself, but Jason doesn’t seem to share the same sentiment. He rises from his chair, walking briskly over to the tool rack and grasping a syringe before and opening a drawer to reveal a large flat piece of metal. Leaning down, he pulls a blowtorch from behind the rack before appearing besides me in seconds.

“Hold this,” he commands as he thrusts the syringe at me. I hold the syringe and watch as he works, quickly heating the metal to a glowing red before pressing it to the now-flaccid flesh before us, working in sections. After a minute–with the wound cauterized and bleeding stopped, Jason sets the torch down and drops the metal next to it.

He turns to look at me, his eyes wide with a mix of emotions. I can taste my adrenaline on my tongue, smell the copper of blood in the air: as I tilt my chin towards him, he brings both his hands to my face, cradling my face and smearing my victim’s blood on me.

“Are you ok??”

His voice is tainted with concern. A useless emotion. He knew what I was here for: he knew the cause of my pain and had to know I would take this personally. Yet something in him seemed unable to come to terms with my comfortability for violence. My ability to laugh in the face of it.

As his thumbs caress my cheeks, I tilt my chin upwards and feel my lips curl into a smile.

“My King,” I say coyly. “Do I detect a hint of worry in your voice?”

I play with the syringe in my hand as his jaw clenches. The muscles contracting and tensing is so sexy, I can’t help but to lean up on my toes and try to kiss him…but he isn’t having it. The pressure of his hands on my face keeps me immobilized as he sighs.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m the last one to talk when it comes to finding joy in delivering justice. But this isn’t like killing a man in self-defense. This is cold blooded, calculated murder. And you’re acting like it’s second nature to you.”

My smile melts away as I cock my head and look at him, the shadows of his mask dancing over his face as he tries to read my expression.

“Jason, darling, you’ve come to know me pretty well. What makes you think that I don’t have the stomach–or the heart—to follow through with this? Need I remind you I’ve spent the better part of my life studying ways to cause pain, to mentally decimate, to physically and psychologically ruin someone?”

I step back as his hands fall from my face, walking around him to return to the man’s side. I remove his gag, not wanting to muffle the sweet sound of suffering that I’m aching for. Rolling the syringe in my hand, I raise it up to the man’s neck, looking back at Jason sternly as he takes a seat in my chair.

“You wanted me to embrace myself. To free myself. This is me, FREE.”

I push the needle into the soft skin, thumbing the plunger and waiting for a few seconds for the man’s eyes to open. He looks around wildly, eyes meeting mine for a split second as he regains his bearings. A silent scream tears at his throat as he tosses his head back and stares at me, pleadingly.

“Good morning, handsome. Now, where were we?”