Page 22 of Love Her Ruin
But finally, after I’ve cleaned her pussy with my tongue and lapped up her shadowy cum, I follow her down. Daddy and Eddie are already here, watching while our prisoner cries.
The basement smells of Prayer. Of us. Of old blood and older stone and the sweet rot of power that's taken root here. It's a better chapel than the one Vincent hid inside. The pews are shadows, the altar's the stain on the floor over the scratched-out Seal of Dissolution, where Red Hands stopped being a philosopher and started being leftovers.
Now the congregation's all here.
Vincent’s on his knees. Shadows bind his wrists, feet, and neck. He's lost the last of his dignity now, down to his slimywhite chest beneath his rumpled shirt and trousers gone dark at the crotch.
Och, but he smells fine to me now, nice and ripe for a wee bit of torture.
Sera sits on her throne, the old living room armchair dragged down. She curls in it like a cat, wearing black satin pajamas, her eyes bruised pools in the dim light. Her focus is so sharp it could flay on its own.
Eddie leans against the workbench, arms crossed, face a mask of calm interest. And Daddy's the air, a pressure in the corners, a gleam of ember where no fire burns. He's holding the space, keeping the world from knocking.
"He looks smaller than he used to," I say, rolling my shoulders. The bones in my back pop a greeting. "Is he shrinking?"
Sera's chin lifts a fraction. "Small men often do. See what's left. See what’s breakable."
That's my call to worship.
I crack my knuckles, and Vincent flinches.
"Right, then," I say, cheerful as ye like. "Let's see what your foundation's made of."
I circle him slow, boots scraping the grit. He tracks me with his eyes, head turning, tendons standing out in his neck.
I drop to a crouch in front of his kneeling form, then shove him onto his ass and yank him so his legs are splayed on the cold concrete. The soles of his bare feet are pale, soft. A man who's never walked a day in his life, who's had others carry his weight.
I pick up his right foot by the ankle. He jerks, tries to pull it back, but the shadows on his ankles yank him straight again. I lock him in my grip, his heel cradled in my palm.
"What are you going to—"
"Shhh," I soothe, turning his foot to catch the overhead light. "You've got twenty-six bones in here. Did ye know that? Twenty-six wee miracles in your foot, all designed to keep a manupright." I look up at him, my smile wide. "Let's see how ye manage without 'em."
I take the smallest toe between my thumb and forefinger. The pinky of the foot. A useless little nub, really. Evolutionary leftovers, but it's a start.
I squeeze.
The bone crunches with a sound like stepping on a dry twig. It's not a clean snap; it’s too small for that. It's a grind, a collapse, the delicate structure of it giving way under pressure.
Vincent gasps, high and thin, his whole body going rigid.
"One bone out of 206 in the human body," I say and move to the next. “This is going to take a while.”
The second toe goes the same way, but I take my time. I roll the bone between my fingers before I crush it, feeling the tiny facets grind against each other, the cartilage popping like blisters.
He's moaning now, a low, keening sound that builds in his chest.
"That’s two."
I bend the third toe, hyperextending the joint until the ligament tears with a wet snap and the toe points backward at an angle god never intended. The scream that rips out of him is wet, ragged, a sound that's been waiting in his throat since he first realized he was a dead man.
"Three. That's the one that keeps ye balanced, that is."
He's breathing hard now, chest heaving, tears cutting tracks through the grime on his face.
I go for the fourth, and I snap that one too.
Shouting nonsense, he tries to kick, but I catch his ankle and twist. The joint pops, not broken, just reminded of its place. He goes still, trembling.
