Kings of Chaos (Dirty Broken Savages #1)(33)

“Something funny?” That same flat voice he always uses just makes me smile more.

“Nah. Just looking forward to this.”

Priest stands up and brushes his hands off on his pants, eyeing the guy. “You can handle this?” he asks me.

I roll my eyes. “Don’t I always?”

He nods, his cool blue eyes blank. “I guess so. Should I say have fun?”

I grin at him, and I know it’s sharp edged and feral. “Aww, thanks, Priest. You know I will.”

He nods again and leaves, shutting the door firmly before his footsteps retreat upstairs.

I don’t mind being down here alone, left to do my work with no one around. I know Priest doesn’t get off on this shit like I do, so I take point on things like this when they need to get done. It’s the way it’s always worked.

None of the other guys shy away from violence when it’s necessary, but I’m the one who finds joy and passion in it. It makes that excited feeling dance under my skin, and I already feel more alive just looking at the guy chained to the wall like he’s a canvas waiting for me to make some goddamn art.

I cross to the cabinet where I keep my tools and unlock it with a key I keep on me at all times. There’s so much to choose from. Knives and scalpels. Pliers and hammers. Lighters and tasers and ice packs. There are so many different ways to break a person. Some people respond to pain, some to discomfort. Some people are determined not to respond at all, and then you have to really get in there and get creative.

But there’s always a way. Everybody has a breaking point, and finding it is like an art. It’s like sex, when you’re trying to find all the places that make a person scream in pleasure—only instead, it’s pain.

But it brings me pleasure, and I shiver with excitement as I take my selections back to where the fucker is still out cold, head lolling to one side.

I’ve got what I like to call a sampler platter. A little bit of everything so I can see what he responds to best. Or worst, I guess.

A few minutes later, his eyes flutter open, and he shifts in the chains. I watch the realization come over him, his face going from groggy and confused to pissed and panicked in one second flat.

“What the fuck?” he demands, thrashing in the chains and making a whole lot of racket as they bang against the wall. “Where the fuck am I? What the fuck?”

“One punch in the face and you’ve already forgotten what you did?” I ask. “That’s kinda fucked up.”

“You,” he says, zeroing in on my face.

I grin and wave at him. “Me.”

“Fuck you,” he spits. “Let me go. You can’t do this.”

I laugh, and it’s not a happy sound. I’ve definitely seen people get freaked out when I laugh like that, and the guy stops struggling for a second, staring at me in silence.

I pick up one of the scalpels in my hand, rolling it between my fingers.

“See, that’s the thing,” I say, voice low as I step closer to him. “I can do whatever the fuck I want down here. This is my domain. My little playground, kinda. If you end up down here, there’s no one who can save you.”

I say all of it with a smile on my face, and before he can curse back, I draw the scalpel down his arm, cutting through the fabric of his shirt sleeve and the first layer of his skin at the same time.

The blade is sharp enough that it takes a second for the blood to start flowing. And for the pain to set in. When it does, the dude howls with it, like he’s never been hurt before.

I just laugh in his face. If he’s already screaming from that, then it’s going to be a long night for him.

I cut again, close to the same place as before. The guy jerks in the chains, but I don’t slip, cutting only as deep as I want to.

He’s shaking like a leaf, but my hands are steady. I’m good at this. It’s one of the only things I really am good at, and he’s about to see that first hand.

“See, here’s the thing. If you want to do business with the Kings, Reggie, then you should deal with us directly.” I move on to the other arm, giving it the same treatment. “You shouldn’t go bribing and threatening our fucking cage dancers. That’s fucked up.”

I don’t know his name. Didn’t bother to find out before we hauled him in. Knowing shit like that is Gage’s deal. So I just decide to call him Reggie while he’s here because he seems like the kind of asshole who’d have a name like that. Smug as shit when he’s on top and then crying like a bitch when he’s in trouble. Just like a Reggie.

“I didn’t—” he starts to say, but he can’t get more out than that.

I cut him off by stabbing the scalpel into his armpit, letting it stick there while I go to get another tool. The hammer this time.

Reggie screams in pain, and the sound echoes around us. Fucking beautiful.

“Don’t lie to me, Reggie. We caught you with your hand in the cookie jar. Only it wasn’t your hand, and the cookie jar was one of our girls. We don’t let shit like that stand.”

I grab his arm, digging my fingers into the cuts I left. My hand gets slippery with his blood, but I don’t mind that. It’s warm and slick, but it doesn’t affect my grip when I pin his wrist to the wall.

I can feel him straining, trying to break my hold, but that just makes him bleed more, and judging from his harsh breathing, it hurts a whole lot too.