Chapter 45 "Who the fuck is stalking my kitten?"
The best part of being me was the blood. The dark, sad song it sang as it bled out of its host was everything.
The next best thing was the scream...the fear, the palpable, obvious pain etched on the faces of my victims.
The feeling that I caused that, or more properly, that they brought it on themselves, and that I, the executor, got the blessed opportunity to mete out punishment to the offenders. It was an honor I didn’t take for granted.
This position, this rank, this chance to be judge and jury, to be power and law only to myself, was a name earned by blood and sweat.
I stared at the limp man in the chair in front of me. I hadn’t really begun my ministrations yet, just a few punches here and there to get the blood flowing.
I tapped the man awake, watching his eyes roll open.
His bloody mouth formed around the word fuck, and it didn’t take a genius to know what word was going to come out next. I punched him in the nose before he could even get the first syllable out.
The crunch of bone beneath my fist was nearly orgasmic, fucking therapeutic even. By the time I pulled my fist away, crimson blood was squirting, flowing freely from his broken nose. He spat, and a tooth flew out of his mouth and onto the already bloodied floor.
He squirmed like a worm on a hook as I walked closer to him, and I could tell by the panicked look on his face that he had that feeling, the sinking realization that his life was balancing on an edge, and that I was about to fucking Sparta-kick him off it.
“You aren’t very sleek, you know,” I said. “I’ve still got a long list of people to punish for letting you slip past them and join the workers for Cee’s mother’s birthday remembrance. I’ll get along to that soon enough. But you… you I’ll take my time with.”
I stopped in front of him and grabbed him by the chin.
“Do I need to ask again, or are you going to tell me who sent you to fling a full, fucking metal beam at my girl?”
He didn’t answer, instead he just wiggled and struggled against the restraints. A useless effort, really. Only I had ever broken out of those restraints, and that was because I had years of practice tying myself up and learning how to escape different ropes and bindings.
If only I had the time and patience, I would’ve sat down to watch the worm perform. But I had other plans for him.
Despite his struggles, I grabbed him by the shirt and wrangled him onto the surgical table. I systematically untied specific ropes so I could strap him down while keeping him immobile. It was an art form, working like this, in my own space, inhaling the iron from the blood... feeling the rush.
“You know, the last time somebody came that close to hurting Celene,” I said nonchalantly as I worked, “it was at a club.”
“It took all my willpower and divine strength, I might add not to put a bullet in every man’s head that ground their dick against her ass in any way, shape, or form.”
Once he was secured, I paused to admire my work before continuing casually.
“It was a full club. Mistakes happen. You’re bound to brush against someone eventually. But all it took was the thought of her seeing someone die to stop me. I don’t want to soil her innocence like that just yet. I like the light she is… in its purest form.”
I leaned closer.
“I guess all I’m trying to say is...she’s not here right now. You are. And you’re alone… with me.”
Next to the table was a tray of utensils lined up neatly—Swiss Army knives, surgical scissors, and several very shiny, very sharp blades I’d acquired to broaden my collection. Without looking away from the writhing worm’s eyes, I grabbed the first tool my hand landed on.
A scalpel.
“Well,” I said lightly, “I guess we’re going into surgery today, son.”
“You lucky bastard. I wanted it to be the screwdriver. Oh well. Scalpel it is.”
As I interrogated the worm, my eyes kept sliding back to the small tablet on the desk. I’d already set up the monitors and cameras so I could keep an eye on Celene...just to make sure she was safe, I reminded myself.
I saw her dressed in the blue top I’d gotten for her, directly ordered from the factory in France. My icy demeanor slowly began to dissipate. She was safe. She was fine. And she was wearing something I’d chosen for her unknowingly.
I leaned against the desk, the sniffling man on the table completely forgotten, as I watched her walk out of the house. She looked radiant. My cold heart beat a hundred miles an hour. I couldn’t see my own eyes, but I was sure they were dilated. I was an addict, and she was the sweetest, rarest form of heroin.
The screen switched to the outside cameras. My eyes followed her steps, and then my glare returned.
There was a shadow following her.
Who the fuck is following my kitten?