The Auction Block (Agents of Interpol 1)

Page 79

"Good evening, ladies," a high, sinister voice says.
He moves his hands over my body, digging his fingers into each bruise covering me. My back holds the open wounds from last night. Thankfully, this one uses a beaded flogger.
"You know I don't like it when you make so much noise, though I must say, your cries turn me on."
He traces the welts on my sides, stomach, and breasts caused by a cane. His hand moves down to my sex, slipping two fingers inside me. I attempt to jerk away, but it's a futile effort. Disgust burns in my throat as he circles his fingers around, trying to coax a response from me. I stare into his eyes, deadpan, emotionless.
"You're a defiant bitch," he mutters, removing his finger. He grabs the chain attached to my collar, jerks it forward, bringing a backhand swing against my face. The taste of salt and copper stings my tongue as blood fills the corner of my mouth. He turns his back on me, and I wiggle my wrists. He hasn't noticed how loose I've managed to work the straps. A little further and I'll be able to slip my hands free.
I keep my eyes on him, still urging my wrists free, as he moves to Shannon. Her body tenses as he trails his fingers over her breasts. She cries out as he pinches her nipples harshly. The rope gives a little, and I drop enough for my heels to touch the floor. I flex my ankles, pain radiating through my left knee.
Just a little more.
The belt sounds off Shannon's back, her screams pounding in my ears. He circles back, standing in front of her, his back to me again— my wrists slip from the rope and I drop, noiselessly, from the hanging chains, gritting my teeth against the pain.
You're already dead, sir.
He raises the belt and as his arm comes all the way back, adrenaline courses through my body, giving me false strength as I grab it and yank down hard. He yelps, losing his balance, falling on his back. He turns his head, and I bring my fist down into his nose. He screams, blood pouring from his nostrils.
I move as quickly as possible with my knee swollen beyond all hell, to the chest a few feet away. Retrieving cable ties, I hurry back to him, binding his wrists together.
"Get up," I hiss, pulling him to his feet.
I yank the chains down, forcing his arms onto the hook. Staring into his eyes, I reach up and break the key's chain from his neck. I grin, slipping it into the lock of my collar. The
click of it opening is music to my ears, and I throw the damn thing across the room.
I pull the knife from his pocket and rush to Shannon. In one swift movement, I cut her ropes and put my free arm around her. She steadies herself, holding onto my shoulder. I gently tilt her head back and unlock her collar as well. She rubs her hands against the side of her neck, wincing.
"What’re you going to do?"
"What I do best," I say letting her go.
"Which is?"
"Kill him." I turn toward the piece of shit, hanging, bloody faced, in the center of this torture chamber. "Unless you'd like to do it."
"Yes. I killed my first person at the age of seventeen in a fit of rage. It felt wonderful. I've killed plenty of these fuckers since then. If you want revenge, I'll let you have it."
"I can't." Her eyes, wild with fear and disbelief, lock on me as she shakes her head back and forth.
"Fine. If you don't want to watch, I suggest you go stand by the door. This isn't going to be pleasant."
A sinister pull creeps into my mind. I haven't gone into this mode in a long time. Control forgotten, replaced by need . . . a compulsion to make him hurt, make him feel our pain. It's hell— I lived in it for years before Jax found me— the evil that caused me to kill in the first place taking over.
Shannon moves past me, stopping next to the door.
"You're a dead bitch when I get down."
"Oh, no," I whisper in a deadly voice. "I'm going home, but first . . ." I walk to the chest again, pulling out a roll of duct tape. "I'm going to give you a taste of your own medicine. Then, I'm going to slit your throat."
Pulling off a piece of tape, I put it over his mouth. Picking up the belt, I twist it back and forth, moving toward him. It's heavy in my hand. I cut his shirt from his body, the tape muffling his screams, and a smile finds its way onto my lips. I bring the belt down on his back in rapid succession.
"Doesn't feel good, does it, asshole?"
Dropping the belt, I walk over and pick up a cane. His eyes widen, laced with fear. I crack it across his chest, his face, unrelenting. He screams, thrashing, trying to free himself from the cable ties holding him in place.