Anger. Guilt. Vengeance.
Those are the only emotions I have felt all these years.
Everyday is a battle to keep myself from losing a piece of me...what's left of me, anyway.
One moment, eleven years ago, is all it took.
They should have killed me w...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
A sickening crack echoes in the empty room, joining the uneven breaths and pained groans. The hand in my hold goes limp, shaking uncontrollably akin to its owner and the finger sticks outward in a way it definitely shouldn't.
"P-please..." A cry for help that falls on deaf ears.
I tilt my head, regarding the tied up man in front of me with a pout and furrowed brows, my expression almost innocent, not that he can see it. I have my hood pulled down and a red scarf covering my mouth and nose.
"Are you asking me to stop? But we just started having fun, Micah." My voice drips with mocking disappointment and I caress the back of his hand with my fingertips. He flinches, making me smile. I can smell the fear emanating off of him and it only adds to the thrill.
"I-I am sorry, p-please," he cries out. He doesn't even know exactly what put him here, in front of me or that I won't stop. I push back the dislocated finger and he wails loudly when I snap it back in place.
"Didn't we agree on no begging?"
I sigh audibly and settle comfortably in my chair, swinging the butterfly knife in between my knuckles lazily, smiling when I see his gaze flick down to my hand.
He can't see me. The only source of light in the room is the single lightbulb hanging above his head and the only way for him to see him is if I step into the light myself.
Micah Romanov is probably in his early 30s and if his face wasn't turning black and blue from all the hits he has taken, he can be somewhat good-looking with his generic brown eyes and blond hair.
The hair that is now matted with dirt and dried blood, eyes that are too swollen to open, and the side of his face which has turned an ugly shade of purple.
Looks like Alexia wasn't in the mood to fuck around tonight.
Tracking him down was easy. Catching him? Not so much. He put a chameleon to shame when it came to hiding in plain sight.
"Let's try again," I say, pushing the tip of the blade under his fingernail and pressing enough to make it sting and draw blood.
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't burn you alive?"
I have no intention of letting him leave this room alive, but he doesn't need to know that for the time being. No reason will be good enough for me to even consider sparing his life.
Nothing matters when you work for a sex trafficking ring and ruin the lives of innocent people along with racketeering, fraudulent drug export–I am talking low quality stuff that you con people with to make some money, organ trafficking. I can keep going on. The list is endless.
If I am being honest, he put himself up for an early death when he stirred things up at Nox.
And punched me. That really was the tipping point.
