Page 17 of Cut Deeper

The words slipped out before my brain caught up with my mouth. His lips tugged at one corner.

“Dr Ethan Hammond.”

It fell into place. The white and stainless steel room. The two beds resembling operating theatre tables. The chair Eva lay strapped into. Even the lighting above him was professional. I hadn’t given much thought to his clothing before—anyone could wear a costume to deceive.

But this man had skill.

I wanted to take it all back. This wasn’t my time to die. The need to know more about Dr Hammond took precedence over everything else.

Gareth began to sniff, and I winced at the sound.

The moment was ruined. Dr Hammond resumed his stitching. I’d never seen a curved needle used like that before—in and out of her skin, stitch by stitch.

God, it was so—

Gareth burst into tears.

“My son. I’ll never see my son again,” he sobbed.

“No one cares, Gareth,” I said flatly, turning to catch his red-rimmed eyes welling up.

Then silence. Not the uncomfortable kind—the kind where soft classical music smoothed all the cracks and lulled you into a false sense of security.

I might be curious. But Dr Hammond was a dangerous individual.

?? ?? ??

Eva looked much more cheerful with a permanent smile etched high into her cheeks. I wished I could see both sides. Her lips were naturally full, plump, and attractive.

The rush of water drew my eye across the room to where Dr Hammond was scrubbing his hands at the sink. I wondered if he’d insured them.

If things didn’t end well between us, I could picture taking a sledgehammer to those hands. Pinned down, smashed to nothing—crushed bone and mangled flesh.

I giggled to myself.

That was cruel.

He was an artist too. The medium was different, but beneath it all, we were the same.

“You’re a sick bitch,” Gareth snarled from his cage.

The water turned off.

Dr Hammond crossed to the long cabinet and retrieved a stick—two prongs at the end. A cattle prod. He practically glided past my cage, reached into Gareth’s, and delivered several sharp shocks in quick succession.

Gareth’s body convulsed. He scrambled backward, but there was nowhere to go.

The more Dr Hammond shocked him, the warmer I became. My insides throbbed—and for once it had nothing to do with acquiring body parts for my canvas.

“She is sublime, you fucking moron,” Dr Hammond growled, continuing without pause.

My eyes widened.

Sublime?

That wasn’t a word I’d ever attributed to myself. Broken, yes. Every day a burden—some lighter than others. I lived to create. But I’d always assumed I would die young, unremarkable, unmourned.

And now here was a man who knew exactly what I was.