He steps to the side, opens the shears, and closes them so fast that I don’t realize four of Carter’s fingers are severed until his high-pitched screams pierce the air. Blood spurts, spraying Demarcus and the soldiers standing beside him.
Just a couple of days ago, I made a man bleed out of his ears and eyes, but that was in the name of science. This… I stareat the appendages on the floor next to Carter’s feet. This is pure grisly art. And Asad is a macabre Picasso.
In this moment, he has never been more fascinating to me. More savage.
More beautiful.
“Jesus, Prince! Jesus Christ,” Demarcus shouts, surging forward, but he’s held back. “Please, not my brother.”
“Now, Carter, you can tell me who you working with, and I can end this now and your brother can make sure Ms. Rachel has most of you to bury. Or you can keep quiet like the disloyal bitch you are and go back to them in jigsaw-puzzle pieces. Makes no difference to me. Your choice, bruh,” Asad says to a whimpering Carter, ignoring his brother’s cries.
When Carter only continues to groan, Asad nods, and the chandelier’s light glints off the shears once more as Asad takes Carter’s thumb.
Screams assault my ears, and I close my eyes, hold my breath. Block out everything but that sound. In this dining room, surrounded by some of the underworld’s worst, the man I consider my biggest, worst enemy is unlocking something inside of me. Introducing me to a side of myself that I’d hidden behind the cold, detached wall of science and sterility. But this… this is personal. Personal, intimate, and messy.
And I’m utterly captivated.
“Cauterize it.” The words leap out of me before I realize they even formed on my tongue.
I feel the weight of gazes on me, but mine is fixed on the reaper that stands behind the bound and bleeding Cross soldier.
Asad studies me, the silver depths impenetrable.
“If you don’t want him to bleed out too soon, cauterize his wounds,” I say again.
“I’m not new to this, ma.” He peers at me for several more seconds, then nods his head toward the sideboard. “But come here and get that blowtorch.”
I don’t mistake the order for anything other than what it is—a taunt, a challenge.
Standing from the chair, I barely pause before striding over to the tray of his tools and picking up the handheld torch. Asad doesn’t say a word, but his silver eyes gleam, daring me.
Excitement sparking through me, I move closer, not caring about the blood smearing the toes and bottoms of my House of Cross pink-and-black stilettoes. I bend down and twist the gas cylinder before clicking the igniter. Blue fire flashes out, as does the hiss of gas, and without hesitation, I apply the flame to the open wounds where Carter’s fingers and thumb used to be.
He writhes in the heavy armchair, his feet scrambling against the tarp-covered floor as if trying to get away from the pain. His screams bounce off the walls, echoing in the dining room in an agonized crescendo.
“Bellissima,” Julian murmurs. I’m not sure if he’s referring to the piercing screams or my technique.
Dimitri chuckles, and straightening, I glance in the direction of the table and catch the Russian Mafia head’s wide smile, as well as Naoki’s subtle nod. I don’t miss the disgust painting their wives’ faces or the hatred twisting Demarcus’s.
“That’s disappointing.” Asad tsks. “He’s passed out. Guess he couldn’t take the heat. Literally. Wake him up, ma.”
I shouldn’t feel like we’re on our Bonnie and Clyde shit… That hint of pride in his voice shouldn’t send a tingle down my spine like a warm, big hand sliding a caress straight to the small of my back. Neither of those should have my feet instantly moving toward the table before my brain gets the message.
But they are. And I am.
I bypass the goblets of water sitting toward the center. Instead, I nab two half-filled tumblers of whiskey and retrace my steps. Reaching Carter, I stare at his face, slack in his faint, but it’s the wounds that get doused in the alcohol.
His eyes fly open, black with pain, his mouth stretched wideon a silent scream. His back arches, looking like a tautly pulled bow until his body shudders and slams back into the chair.
“Oh good. You’re back with us.” Asad roughly pats Carter on the shoulder. “I was worried you were crashing out on me for a minute there. Where were we?” He rounds the chair and lays the shears on the tray, then crosses his arms over his chest. “Who gave you the order to come after me? Who you working with?”
Carter’s labored breathing punctuates the air, and he shakes as if great blasts of wind buffet his body, but he remains silent.
Asad chuckles, and it’s mean, ugly.
My nipples harden, the rings going through them pinching my flesh.
“A’ight, muthafucka. Play it your way.” He looks over Carter’s head and says, “Bring them in.”