Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
I begin with his fingers. The ones that signed trafficking orders. The ones that touched children. I take them off at the first knuckle—index, middle, ring, pinky—and his screams blend into one continuous howl of agony.
Somewhere distant, a woman is crying. Scarletta. I should check on her. I should comfort her. I should be the protector she needs.
But the knife is in my hand, and Volk's blood is warm on my skin, and my cock is so fucking hard I can barely think.
I move to his other hand.
Thumb first this time. The bone crunches under the dull blade, requires sawing, requires effort, and Volk's voice breaks into something beyond screaming—a high, thin keen that sounds almost inhuman.
Beautiful.
More fingers fall. The severed digits scattered across the platform like obscene confetti. Blood pools beneath him, black in the jungle shadows, and I stroke myself once, twice, unable to resist.
The helicopter noise has faded. Or maybe I've stopped hearing it. The world has narrowed to this platform, this body, this righteous act of destruction.
"Time for castration."
I release the wrist restraints and roll him onto his back. His face is gray, shock setting in, but his eyes are still aware. Still terrified.
Good. I want him conscious for this part.
His cock is shriveled, his balls contracted. Fear has made them small.
The blade presses against the base of his scrotum.
"Пожалуйста." Please.
I cut.
The sound he makes isn't human. It's something primal, something that comes from the deepest part of the brainstem where language doesn't exist. His body convulses so violently the blood fountains from his groin, arterial spray painting my chest and stomach crimson.
My hand finds my cock again. I'm stroking in earnest now, slicked with his blood, and it's wrong, so fucking wrong, but I can't stop.
Don't want to stop.
This is who I am.
His screaming has dissolved into wet gurgling. I've nicked the femoral artery—he'll bleed out within minutes if I don't cauterize. I could save him. Prolong this.
I choose not to.
Instead, I watch his eyes dim as I jerk myself faster, harder, my balls drawing tight against my body. His mouth moves soundlessly. Prayers, maybe. Curses. It doesn't matter.
His last breath rattles out just as my orgasm hits—a violent, full-body shudder that tears a groan from my throat. I come across his chest, across the ruin I've made of him, rope after rope of come mixing with his cooling blood.
The release empties me.
I kneel there, panting, my softening cock still in my blood-slicked hand, staring at what I've created.
Justice.
This is justice.
The jungle gradually reasserts itself. Bird calls. Insect hum. The distant thrum of a helicopter that seems to be circling rather than landing.
And behind me, barely audible over the ambient noise—
Crying.
Chapter 16
Scarletta
Blood.
There's blood on his chest. On his hands. On his—
Don't look at that. Don't look at that. Don't look at—
I look.
The thing on the platform doesn't look like a person anymore. It's pieces. Red pieces, and wet sounds, and the smell of copper and something worse, something organic and wrong, and my brain keeps trying to file it somewhere it can make sense.
He was a bad man. He hurt children. Five hundred and fifty-three children.
The number loops through my head like a broken record.
Five hundred and fifty-three.
Five hundred and fifty-three.
Five hundred and—
The unmasked man is coming toward me. His cock is soft now, blood-streaked, still visible, and I watched him—I watched him come while he—
He was protecting you. He saved you. The bad man was going to hurt you and he stopped him.
My brain scrambles for the narrative that makes this make sense. The one where the hero rescues the maiden, and the villain dies, and everything is justified, and clean, and right.
But there's nothing clean about what I just watched.
"Scarletta." His voice cuts through the static. "Scarletta, look at me. Are you hurt? Where did he cut you?"
Hands on my face. Warm. Gentle. The same hands that just—
Don't think about it.
"Your hip. There's blood. Let me see."
I can't speak. My mouth opens but nothing comes out except a sound that might be a sob or might be a scream that got stuck halfway up my throat.
"I need to get you out of here. Can you walk?"
I don't know. I don't know anything. The blonde attendant's head is still there, somewhere behind me in the mud, and the unmasked man is lifting me now, carrying me like I weigh nothing, and his skin is slick with—
Don't.
Don't think about it.
He saved you.
The jungle blurs past. Trees, and vines, and shadows. And I'm shaking so hard my teeth are chattering even though the air is warm and humid. The unmasked man is talking, asking questions I can't process, his voice tight with something that might be concern, or maybe fear.
He came while he was killing him.
The thought surfaces before I can stop it.
He was aroused. He was—