Scarred (Never After #2)(56)

His screams are even more delicious with the second blow, tears running down his face and mixing with his snot, every piece of the man he was draining away as he suffocates in his pain.

I throw the hammer to the side, leaning forward and running my fingertip along the gash in his throat; the one left behind by Sara, pride shooting through my chest like fireworks.

Standing up, I walk around his mangled legs until I’m by his head and grip him by the shoulders. His screams turn to whimpers as I drag him across the floor to the back of the cabin where two large pieces of wood are affixed to the wall.

A cross, with leather cuffs attached to the bottom piece and both of the sides.

Grunting as I hoist up Claudius’s limp frame, I push him against the beams, leaning my body weight into his to hold him in place as I grab one of his arms and lock him inside the leather restraint.

He sucks in a breath, blood trickling down his forehead. “Tristan,” he whispers, hiccuping around his words. “Please.”

I smile at his pleading, working on attaching his other wrist. “Do you not want to play anymore?”

“No,” he whispers, his voice hoarse.

I squat down, wrenching his legs together, causing him to scream out again as I bind his ankles to the bottom of the cross.

Standing back up, I look him in the eyes, revulsion bleeding from my gaze. “I didn’t want you to play with Lady Beatreaux either. Yet here we are, with you having done it.”

“I don’t—”

“Shhh.” I press my fingers against his mouth. “No more speaking, or I’ll chop off your cock and make you choke on it.”

I step back, looking over my handiwork, ensuring that he’s bound tightly. “I have to admit, I prefer fire.” Moving across the small room to the cupboards, I rummage around the shelves until I find a carving knife, holding it in front of my face to inspect the sharp edge. “But the punishment must fit the crime.”

“I’ve committed no crime,” he rasps, his voice weak and pathetic.

“You’ve touched something that isn’t yours to touch. In fact, I’ve recently concluded that she’s mine to touch.” Making my way back toward him, I skim the blade up his arm until I reach the forefinger of his left hand. “So, the fact you know what her skin feels like? Well… that’s unacceptable to me.”

I press the curved part of the knife into the tip of his finger, and drag it down the underside, feeling his flesh peel away from his bone like the skin of an apple. He screams, his body thrashing against the tight leather bindings.

“Does it hurt already?” I ask, tilting my head. Once the thin sliver is to his palm, I tear it from his hand, dangling it in front of his face. “Rather ghastly looking, isn’t it?”

Claudius’s body shakes so hard, the wood of the cross trembles.

“One down, nine to go!” I drop my voice. “You know… this is so much fun. Reminds me of when we were kids… when you’d help my brother as he beat me black and blue.”

Rage curdles my stomach and billows through my chest, and I drop the piece of skin, moving even closer to his arm.

“Please, God,” he cries.

Chuckling, I grip his second finger. “I’m your god now. And I don’t hear your pleas.”





CHAPTER 32





Sara B.





My eyes scan the ballroom. Over and over, they flick from one corner to the next, waiting for the stumpy frame of Lord Claudius, but he’s nowhere to be found. It doesn’t ease my anxiety or calm the embers of anger glowing in my chest.

Regret is already settling in thick that I didn’t kill him when I had the chance; fear whispering that maybe he’s found someone else to prey on, someone who isn’t hiding daggers on their thigh.

Michael sits next to me as we stare out at the dance floor, his mother and my uncle both having retired for the night. The shiny tile reflects people’s smiling faces as they drink and dance the night away, and I can’t help but feel like I’m watching a show. Hundreds of people who live in an alternate reality, so different from what I know to be the truth.

But isn’t that the case with almost everything? We spin tales and weave stories, creating a narrative that dictates how we’re perceived. Or in some cases, how others live.

“Are you having a good time?” Michael asks, engaging me in conversation for the first time all night.

I grin. “It’s lovely.”

He stands, reaching out a hand. “Shall we dance?”

My brows rise, nausea teasing my esophagus, but I place my palm in his and let him lead me to the dance floor, hoping that nobody can see the slight tearing near the hem of my dress.

The ballroom clears, people moving to the outskirts to make room for us, and I feel sick.

I feel sick when his arm wraps around my waist, pulling me in close.

I feel sick when his hand grips mine.

And I feel sick when he smiles.

“You are quite the prize, Lady Beatreaux.”

Bile climbs up my throat.

I’m no one’s prize.

The musicians end the song, immediately starting up another, and I groan at the thought of having to continue this dance. My feet are aching, and my soul is sore.

“Your Majesty.” Xander’s voice breaks through the fog. “May I cut in?”