Chapter-9,part-2

CONTINUE

Next to me is a tray of utensils lined up neatly. Without looking

away, I grab the first tool my hand lands on.

A serrated screwdriver. Specially made for torturing. The

military uses shit like this, unbeknownst to the public. Not that the

government would ever willingly tell the country that they torture

war criminals often and use pretty fucked up methods to do so.

The public isn’t ignorant by any means, but they sure as fuck

don’t know the extent of the depravity of our government either.

His eyes widen comically when he catches sight of the

screwdriver.

I smile. “Haven’t gotten to use this one yet,” I observe, twisting

the screwdriver and giving us both a good view of each sharp

point. Once this sucker goes in, it’s going to hurt even worse

taking it out.

I can’t fucking wait.

“Bro, let’s talk about this. That girl is not worth you killing me

over. Do you realize what my family will do to you? To her?”

“Did you really think I was going to kill just you?” I volley back,

quirking a brow to show how unimpressed I am with his warning.

His face turns beet red, like the apples my mother used to

pluck for me from the orchard as a kid. Always loved those things.

Threats spill from his mouth, fueled by rage from his family’s

untimely fate.

“You’re doing this because I almost fucked a girl?! I didn’t even

fucking know she was yours,” he bellows, veins popping from his

forehead.

Not a pretty sight.

In response, I stab the screwdriver straight into his stomach.

He gapes at me, his mouth parted in shock. A moment passes,

and then he’s coughing up blood. An array of emotions filter

through his eyes. Pretty sure I see the five stages of grief in there,

too.

I

bend down and grit out through my teeth, “What you and

every sad motherfucker that even looks in her direction will learn

is no one is safe when it comes to her. I don’t care if you only

breathed in her direction the wrong way, you will fucking die.”

“You’re fucking crazy,” he chokes out, looking down at the

screwdriver sticking out of his abdomen in disbelief. Definitely hit

vital organs this time.

Slowly, I pull the screwdriver out, the suctioning noise quiet

against the backdrop of his scream.

The unbridled anger pulsating through me is relentless—

unstoppable. And the image of his hand in her pants, kissing her,

whispering shit into her ear, and making her come. It all fuels the

violent storm in my head. I plunge the screwdriver back in when

the image flickers of her face. Wanting him back. Climaxing for a

shitstain like him. I’ll have to erase his touch from her.

And soon.

I

rip out the screwdriver and take a deep breath. I have to

remind myself she doesn’t know me yet. She doesn’t understand

what true need is. Not yet, but she will. Because she’s going to

hate the way she needs me. She’s going to fight it, rebel against

the craving and attempt to search for something else that makes

her feel even a fraction of what I will.

She’ll never find it.

And I won’t let her try.

Cracking my neck, I take another deep, calming breath. My

temper got the best of me. I’m not usually a reactive person, but

I’ve already accepted the fact that my little mouse brings out new

feelings in me, too.

“How many women have you hurt, Archie?” I ask, licking my

lips and circling his body until I disappear from view.

It’s an intimidation tactic for the weak-minded. Makes them

nervous when I vanish behind them for that brief moment. Their

minds get away from them as they anticipate what I’m going to do.

And then they get a little relief when they see me again.

Just to repeat the process.

It’s torture in itself. Not knowing if I’m going to strike. Or when.

“Do not call me Archie,” he snaps, seething as I stand behind

him. He’s tense.

I circle back to the front and his shoulders loosen, just an inch.

“You’re evading the question, Archie,” I point out, deliberately

using the name. He snarls at my defiance but doesn’t reply.

His mother always called him Archie. Up until she died of

breast cancer when he was ten years old. That’s when his father

lost it and started dealing drugs to make money to pay off all the

medical bills and funeral expenses.

He raised his children to be cold and ruthless, and Archie here

never let anyone call him by his mother’s nickname without

stabbing them.

He’s stabbed a lot of people for calling him that name, including

his best friend Max. His buddy complained about it a time or two

in a bar Jay frequents.

“Don’t make me ask again,” I warn, my voice lowering to

convey just how serious I am.

“I don’t know,” he shouts, frustrated. “A couple, I guess. The

fuck does it matter?”

“I read up on your ex-wife,” I say, ignoring the stupid fucking

question. “You beat her so badly, she was barely recognizable

when she was taken to the hospital. Evidence indicated that you

broke a tequila bottle against her face and then stabbed her with

it. Not to mention the countless broken bones and bruises. You

nearly killed her.”

Archie sniffs, not the slightest bit of remorse reflecting in his

cold eyes. The narcissistic assholes never are. Somehow, they

twist it in their head that the victim deserved it and whatever

injuries inflicted upon them were their own fault.

“She was cheating on me,” he replies petulantly. Pouting like a

child that didn’t get a birthday cake.

“Did you cheat on her first?”

“That doesn’t matter,” he snaps back. “She’s the wife and I

make the money. If I feel like buying a stripper for a night, that’s

my goddamn right. All she ever did was sit at home on her lazy

ass and spend my money.”

I nod, accepting his answer for what it is.

“Would you have hurt Addie?” I ask after a pregnant pause.

He scoffs. “I would’ve fucked her how I like to fuck. If she ends

up with a couple of bruises, so what? Bitches like that shit. They

like it rough.”

Renewed anger punches me in the chest. And it takes all my

self-control not to plunge this screwdriver in his eye right then and

there.

Archie wouldn’t know how to have proper rough sex if he was

given a fucking manual for it. He hurts women because he enjoys

it. He doesn’t know how to push women to the edge of pain and

pleasure, balancing between the two and making them desperate

for more.

He just hurts them. By the time he’s done, the girl is thoroughly

bruised and traumatized—maybe even bleeding. And he’s walking

away with a satisfied smirk on his face, as if he was the first man

to prove a woman orgasming isn’t actually a myth.

“You didn’t hurt Addie,” I observe, waiting for the answer I know

he’ll give. He isn’t desperate enough yet—scared enough. He’s

still attempting to put on a false bravado act and die with dignity.

But that will change very soon.

He smirks. “You gotta relax them first. The plans I had for

her…” he trails off, licking his lips vulgarly. “Her cries would’ve

been such a beautiful song.”

Again, I nod my head in acceptance of the answer. I accept it

because it fuels exactly what I have planned for him.

And I’m very much going to embody his method for sex. I will

enjoy hurting him and making him bleed, and him? He will wish he

had never met Adeline Reilly.

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