Page 34 of Framed Obsession

Zane perks up at the sight of me, looking relieved yet annoyed at the same time. I glance at him and Flynn, who is still struggling against his will. The rope that hugs his wrists chafes his skin raw. No sound comes from him, just muffled moans.

“It’s about fucking time!” Zane snarks at me. He's leaning against an old, large chest freezer that's been collecting dust. Other than that, there isn’t much down here, just empty space. The basement is unfinished. It’s not exactly at the top of my priority list. Especially in cases like this.

“I duct-taped him. I couldn’t take another minute of his fucking blabbering,” he follows up, watching me circle around the chair.

“Did you get any more info out of him?” I ask, hoping he did so we can end him sooner rather than later.

“As a matter of fact, I did. Took a few teeth-pulling sessions to get it out of him. Apparently, he’s been working with the feds this whole time. Taking part in this sting operation to take us down for our races,” Zane explains. I grind my teeth, fury already coursing through my veins. He's been at almost every fucking race. My face goes warm from the heat as I spit in Flynn's face, leaning in and caging him in more.

“Who’s the one who fucking vouched for you?” I ask. He leans back, trying to put distance between us with the little wiggle room he has. Not everyone can just show up and join our events. You need to know someone. Someone who can be accountable for their referrals. We trust those who have been attending for years. We’ve never had an issue until that night. Apparently, it was years in the fucking making.

I rip the tape from his mouth, and he winces. The skin underneath is red and covered in crimson, assuming from the assault on his teeth. He yells in pain as his eyes gloss over, and I just eye him. Fucking pathetic.

“I’m not telling you shit,” he bites back, lisping with the now present gaps in his teeth. I tug his head backward, grabbing onto his hair. It’s wet and matted. My other hand meets his jaw. He groans loudly.

“We can do this all fucking night. I don’t have anywhere to be right now. Do you?” I look over to Zane, dragging my words out. He shakes his head no. I grab my pocketknife that I always have tucked in my back pocket.

“Do we need to start removing fingers?” I say, pointing the tip of the blade at each finger that is pressed up against the arm of the chair.

“N–no. Please!” he begs, but I don’t give a fuck about it. I want to know who fucking vouched for him, so I can pay them a visit too. I dig the blade slightly into his thumb, drawing out a sliver of blood from the puncture. He wiggles, but it’s of no use.

“This little piggy went to the market—” I move the blade to his index finger, digging it into that one too.

“This little piggy stayed home.”

“Stop! No!” His words fall on deaf ears as I continue. The blade makes its way to the next finger. And I continue to press into each of them. Letting little prickles of blood meet the air. I move on to the next.

“This little piggy had roast beef,” I make a small cut on the top knuckle, and he cries out.

“This little piggy had none.” The lullaby comes out sinister.

“And this little piggy cried–”

“I’ll tell you! I’ll fucking tell you!”

“Wee, wee, wee. All the way,” I continue, pulling the knife off ‌his last digit before coming down with force.

“Home.” His finger from the knuckle up comes clean off. Cries of pain fill the air as he bounces in the chair. My blade is embedded in the wooden armrest where his pinky once was, and I leave it. Rivers of tears fall from his eyes.

Like I said, pathetic.

“I used a fake name to get in,” he says, slouching over.

“You couldn't have gotten in with a fake name,” I counter.

“I promise. I don’t know how it worked, but it did. P–Please, my hand.”

His head moves from side to side, dizzy from the amount of blood he’s lost. His open finger spurting crimson everywhere. I don’t give two shits about his hand and neither should he. He won’t be breathing in a few minutes, anyway.

I look over to Zane, furrowing my brows in question. He is in charge of all ‌the organizers of our events. He doesn't co-host with me; he just helps. He looks from side to side, bracing how I’ll react. I turn to him and meet him face to face.

“Did you let this slip through the fucking cracks?” I point my finger in his face, and he swats it away. He stands straight, looking ‌me straight in my eyes. I know Zane can handle his own, but he knows not to fuck with me.

“Someone fucking did. I’ll find out who, and don’t ever put your fucking finger in my face, ever again.”

“That responsibility is on you, you fucking asshole. Don’t go blaming someone else. Are you fucking kidding me?” I'm infuriated that it’s his fault; he had a part in this. He is never fucking careful. He brings a hand up and runs it down his face in disbelief.

“I’m fucking sorry, okay? Look. I made it up to you by bringing Flynn to you, didn’t I?” he says, trying to save himself from my loose fuse. I can’t fucking believe him. I spent two years in prison, time I can’t get back, all because he was careless? I could tie him to this fucking chair right now and beat the shit out of him too.