Page 4 of Cut Deeper

“Harder, you bastard. Is that all you’ve got?”

He pumped furiously, enraged by her words. I almost chuckled.

“I can barely feel you,” she said.

He grunted with effort.

“Bitch,” he hissed.

I looked past them. It was the perfect backdrop—the ancient church rising dark and silent behind them, its stones older than anyone buried beneath our feet.

She came with a long moan, hands white-knuckled on the stone, pushing herself back onto him. The ache behind my own zip was becoming difficult to ignore, but I wasn’t about to miss a second of tonight.

He pulled out and finished himself with his hand, spilling onto her bare flesh. Anne reached for him again before he’d even caught his breath.

She didn’t let him rest.

This time he took her up against the church wall. It wasn’t long before she began to berate him again, andthis time he slapped her face. I almost stepped out—but she laughed.

“You’re fucking crazy,” he said.

He was wrong. She was perfectly sane.

I wanted to watch her take that maggot’s life. But I could leave now and go to her house instead. The plan formed cleanly in my mind and I felt myself relax.

She wouldn’t like being cornered.

A slow smile crept along my lips.

Chapter 3

Anne

I woke to the high ceiling and pale wooden beams above me, a reminder of the quaint B&B I’d booked into. It was a travesty that they’d painted over the original wood. The more I stared at the unusual design, the more I found myself imagining how nice it would be to see someone hanged from one.

I sighed and pushed the covers off.

There was no way I could pull that off here. Shifting body parts required chopping them down first, and dragging a fully grown man around was not easy work. I had a rhythm now—almost like a production line. Kill, chainsaw down the middle, pack into the freezer, chop mess-free, dispose. Efficient. Clean. Nothing wasted.

I thought of Gareth, or Garrett, from last night and glanced at the beams again. He’d been almost double my size. There was no realistic way I’d have managed to string him up alone.

I reached for my phone.

Zero messages.

Interesting. After a night like that, they were usually begging for more by morning.

I stretched and groaned as several places ached at once—good aches, the kind that meant the night had been thorough. His lungs would come in useful in a couple of weeks. I could alreadypicture the soft, spongy texture, the unique pattern it would leave once pressed and dried against the canvas.

It would need to be acrylic to get the base effect right. My eyes closed as I pictured the colours building in layers. A fine grind of testicles beneath the horizon line, barely visible, just enough texture to catch the light at certain angles.

First Breath Born.

The name of the new painting arrived fully formed, the way they always did when the concept was right.

I climbed out of bed and opened the heavy blackout curtains, letting the morning light tear its way into the room. The lighting was perfect—it reminded me of my studio. I glanced at the beams one last time before heading to take a shower.

Someone should shoot the owner for that travesty.