Page 57 of The Colour of Revenge

My knife cuts cleaning through the muscle, slicing his cock clean off. The howl of pain reverberates through the room before silence descends as he passes out.

I roll my eyes.

Weak.

Standing, I wipe my forehead of sweat and blood.

“That was….” Nate trails off as if lost for words.

“Gruesome? Unhinged? Terrifying?” Kai supplies for him.

“Hot,” is the word Nate settles on.

“Psycho’s,” Kai mutters shaking his head. His face is a little pale, like he’s not sure whether he’s going to throw up yet.

“How do we wake him up?” I ask, smiling sweetly at Nate.

Nate grasps Simon's shoulders and shakes him, slapping his face as he starts groaning.

“Wakey wakey,” he sing-songs.

Simon’s eyes open and he starts screaming from the pain once again. Nate looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to decide what to do next. He might be the expert, but I’m the one in charge here.

I’m still holding Simon's bloodied penis, so I step forward, keeping it tightly in my gasp. Simon squirms, pleading for this to end.

Soon.

Nate stands behind him, a steady presence, as I shove the penis into Simon's gasping mouth.

He groans around it, trying to spit it out as he makes garbled noises, but Nate's hand locks around his jaw, pushing it closed.

“Chew,” I command.

Simons tries to shake his head, his eyes pleading, tears dribbling down his cheeks.

I repeat, “Chew.”

He does as instructed, with some force from Nate.

Then promptly throws up, narrowly missing me with his vomit spew.

“Well, that’s disgusting,” I say, wrinkling my nose up in disgust.

The door to the cabin slams and I look around to see that Kai is now missing.

Guess he has a weak stomach.

I hold my knife out to Nate, a silent invitation. The grin that spreads across his face is wickedly captivating, sparking a rush of butterflies in my stomach. Seeing him so alive in his element makes it impossible to look away.

He doesn't hesitate, taking the blade from my hand and stepping forward. He moves like an artist at work, slashing and stabbing Simon's skin with precision, never hitting anywhere fatal—yet. His joy is unnerving and enthralling all at once.

Simon's screams echo through the cabin, raw and guttural, but they don't faze Nate. He only stops when Simon's head slumps forward, his body now a grotesque canvas of crimson streaks and splatters.

With satisfaction carved into his face, Nate turns back to me, pressing the knife into my palm. His fingers linger a beat too long, a silent reminder of the power in my hands.

"Don't want to lose this again," he murmurs, his voice rich with something unspoken.

I step closer to Simon, gripping his bloodied chin and forcing his head up with firm fingers. His skin is clammy, and his breath comes in shallow gasps. His eyes flutter open, clouded with pain and fear.