Chapter one
"Shut it, Fucker!"
The sickening stench of rotting flesh assaults my senses as I drag the rusted metal cart across the cold concrete floor. My latest prize cowers in the corner, his trembling limbs rattling the chains that bind his wrists and ankles.
Fucker has been screaming at me for the past ten minutes, spitting venom and curses in a pathetic attempt to rile me. That’s what I’ve decided to name him. Fucker. As if a few empty threats and insults can undo the damage he's done.
The rage simmers in my gut, clawing up my throat in a roar.
I slam the cart to a stop, sending a violent clatter through the basement. Fucker flinches but that insolent sneer stays plastered on his face.
My hands curl into fists, knuckles cracking. "You think this is a fucking joke?" Each word is punctuated by a slam of my fist against the metal tray.
He jerks against the chains. "Go to hell!"
I grab a wicked knife from the tray, testing the edge with my thumb. A thin line of red wells up, the sting sharp and sweet.
"I've already been." My lips twist in a humorless grin as I stalk toward my prey.
He tries to scramble away on the cold floor but the chains won't give.
"Now, you get to see what hell really looks like."
The knife flashes under the dim light as I bring it down in a graceful arc. A strangled scream fills the air, echoing off the basement walls.
This is just the beginning, and I can already tell it's going to be fun.
A floorboard creaks behindme. I glance over my shoulder to find Devon descending the stairs, a wicked gleam in her eye.
"Can I join in?" she asks, practically purring.
My lips curl up. "By all means."
Devon strides over to the cart, surveying the array of tools with a calculating gaze. She selects a small blowtorch, the flames dancing in her eyes as she tests it. “I’ve been wanting to check this out for a while now.”
Fucker’s eyes widen in terror, flitting between us. But instead of accepting his fate, he renews his struggles against the chains, spouting off curses and empty threats. As if he has any say in what's about to happen.You'd think my little trick with the knife would have given him a clue. Some people just aren't very smart.
Devon saunters over, the blowtorch in hand. "Now, now. There's no need for that kind of language." She clicks her tongue, and then glances over at me. "We're going to have so much fun together. Aren't we, Brick?"
"Absolutely." I hand her a knife, watching in dark delight as she drags the tip down the bastard's cheek. His screams fill the air, high-pitched and desperate.
She laughs, the sound light and airy. "Music to my ears."
The blowtorch ignites with a roar, casting an orange glow over Devon's face. She wields it with expert precision, searing the bastard's skin inch by agonizing inch.
His shrieks pierce my skull but I relish every moment.
Devon is a vision of beauty and death, embodying cold perfection. Together, we'll make this bastard suffer in ways he's never imagined.
Because he deserves it, and because we want to.
Devon withdraws the blowtorch, tilting her head as she regards our victim. He's sobbing and trembling, reduced to a whimpering mess. Pathetic.
"Why have we chosen this guy, anyway?" Devon asks, curiosity etched into her tone. "He seems rather unremarkable."
"You would think, based on his appearance." I fold my arms, admiring her handiwork. The bastard's torso is a ruin of burns and blisters, the acrid stench of charred flesh hanging in the air. "He's been drugging women at the island's nightclubs, including ours, and assaultingthem. Left the last few in hospital, and from the way he’s escalating, it’s not long before he’ll begin to murder."
Devon's eyes narrow, flickering with cold rage. "Is that so?"