Page 179 of Chasing Ruin
Their gazes drop, eyes widening. Horrified, raw screams filling the basement.
They’re going paler by the second, staring at cocks. Or more specifically, where their cocks used to be.
Music to my fucking ears.
I exhale slowly. “You always see this shit online, y’know,” I say casually, lowering myself properly to the ground beside Scar. Healer mirrors me next to Hellfire. “How people like you deserve to have their cocks chopped off,” I continue, voice almost conversational—like we’re discussing the weather instead of their fate.
Their screams are weaker now. Ragged.
I ignore them.
With my knife, I hook into the torn fabric of Scar’s jeans and rip it open the rest of the way, exposing blood, grime, and slack muscle beneath.
“Honestly, brother,” Healer adds dryly, not even glancing up from Hellfire, “no one wanted a look at their nasty dicks anyway. Bullet was the right call. Efficient, really.”
“Right?” I grin, flashing him a look. “Exactly what I was thinking.”
We chuckle like this is normal. Like we’re sitting at a fucking picnic instead of sitting in filth and blood.
Only instead of jam or butter, we’re carving through skin.
My blade drags through Scar’s thigh. Skin parts easily under the pressure, a clean line opening up as dark blood wells and spills. I watch it for a second—almost admiring the precision.
No twitch. No recoil. The paralytic was a brilliant idea.
I’m even starting to tune out the frantic, choking sobs tearing out of Scar.
He can’t feel a goddamn thing. And I’m deliriously excited to see when the anesthesia fades…slowly.
“Beautiful,” I murmur under my breath, examining my handiwork once I’m done with the thigh.
“You wanna try this?” Healer asks, holding out his scalpel—already slick with blood.
“Fuck yeah,” I laugh, taking it from him.
The weight is lighter. The angling precise.
I test it with a shallow drag across Scar’s knee—that’s always tricky.
Then I watch the blade glide across the wrinkling skin, like it was made for this. “Oh, that’s smooth, brother,” I hum.
Across from me, Healer switches to a fresh one without missing a beat, turning his attention back to Hellfire, who’s gone from defiant silence to broken, wet heaving that barely resembles anything.
They’re not the sounds that I’ve ever heard from a human. And isn’tthatincredibly accurate?
Time blurs.
Minutes stretch into something thicker, heavier. The air reeks of blood and rot and fear so dense it feels like it’s coating the back of my throat.
At some point, Ryder yawns.
I glance over, brows lifting. “Oh? We boring you?”
He leans back in the rusted chair, stretching his legs out casually. “Nah, brother. Their screams are practically lullabies.” He rubs at his jaw. “And I didn’t sleep much last night.”
I snort.
Hound lets out a sharp bark of laughter from the corner. Shaking his head, he mutters. “Fucking psychopaths.”
