Page 51 of Knife Thrower

I watch her go to work, captivated, and I know with absolute certainty that I will worship this woman for the rest of my life.

18

SLOANE

Itrace the serrated edge of the blade over Raymond’s cheek.

He recoils, straining against the thick industrial zip ties holding his wrists and ankles to the wooden chair. Sweat beads on his forehead, slicking his gray-streaked hair to his scalp. The halogen bulb swings gently overhead, casting harsh, ugly shadows into the hollows of his face. The polished facade of the regional director vanishes, leaving only a terrified, pathetic animal chained to a block of wood.

I flick my wrist. The steel bites into his jawline. A thin ribbon of crimson opens up, welling over the pristine skin before dripping down his neck. Raymond screams, and the sound bounces off the corrugated metal walls of the holding trailer, sharp and utterly useless.

“That one is for the first time you locked my bedroom door,” I murmur.

I drag the tip of the blade down to his collarbone, slicing straight through the crisp white cotton of his shirt. The fabric parts, revealing the pale, bleeding flesh underneath.

“This one is for the way you acted at dinner the next night. Smiling at my mother. Smiling at me.”

Another flick of my wrist. A deep, jagged slice across his bicep.

“This one is for the pills you shoved down my mother’s throat.”

I carve a deliberate, agonizing path across his chest, flaying the skin. The metal catches on his ribs. He thrashes wildly. The chair groans, the iron bolts straining. Blood spatters across the toes of my combat boots.

“I—” Raymond gasps. “She was going to turn me in. I had no choice!”

Gritting my teeth, I slash another red line over Raymond’s flesh.

My mother… She wanted to do the right thing. The knowledge further complicates what I feel for the woman who gave me life.

I glance over my shoulder.

Cole leans against the metal siding near the heavy steel door. The chaotic, teasing knife thrower is gone. His jaw ticks, the muscle jumping beneath his skin. The thick veins in his forearms bunch and strain. Pure, unadulterated fury radiates off him in waves. He isn’t angry at the blood pooling around the floor drain. He hates the man bleeding in the chair. He hates the memories I just dragged into the light, the horrors this monster inflicted on me.

But after a while, the fury melts. His eyes track my bloody blade, and a wicked, devastating pride replaces the anger. He watches me take my vengeance, completely captivated by the violence.

His gaze drops to the floor, then drags slowly back up my body. Then his hand drifts down, adjusting the rigid bulge straining against the zipper of his dark denim jeans.

I pause. The tip of my knife rests right above Raymond’s knee.

A slow grin curves my mouth as the bloodlust hums hot in my veins, mixing with an entirely different kind of hunger.

“That looks incredibly uncomfortable, Cole.”

Cole’s dark eyes snap to mine. The black pupils eclipse his irises.

“Take it out,” I command.

A raspy, filthy chuckle vibrates in his chest. His fingers catch the brass tab of his zipper, dragging it down with a harsh metallic scrape. He frees himself. His cock springs out, thick, heavy, and already weeping. His large hand wraps around the base, pumping a slow, deliberate stroke. He doesn't look away from me.

Raymond stares. His chest heaves, his breath wheezing. The shock temporarily overrides the agonizing pain of his bleeding cuts. His flat gray eyes dart between my knife and Cole’s hand.

“You people are sick,” Raymond spits, coughing on his own saliva. “You’re fucking animals.”

Cole doesn’t miss a beat. He strokes his length, his thumb dragging over the swollen head. “It’s exactly what the Prophets taught us, Ray. Purity through pain.”

I step away from the wooden chair, leaving Raymond bleeding, his pathetic insults echoing in the empty room.

I walk toward Cole and drop to my knees on the cold metal floorboards.