Page 7 of Beautiful Things Obey
I pull a chair over and sit down in front of him.
I don’t say anything for a while because I want to make him sweat, and it works. Sweat pours down his ruddy face, and his eyes are wild with fear.
He knows what’s coming.
No point rushing it.
In fact, I want to savor this moment.
I’m probably what some would call asick fuckbecause I relish this moment. The lead up to when the sinner finally regrets all the things he did that led to this moment. There’s a raw beauty in retribution.
And retribution is exactly what this piece of shit is going to get.
Tonight, he had my uncle killed.
And now, I am going to kill him.
I don’t waste time exchanging conversation. We both know why he is here.
He had my uncle killed in a bold move to shake the fragile peace that exists between all the crews in this city. He tried to make it look like the Hayes had broken their truce, hoping I would go to war in retaliation. But he’s an idiot and didn’t know I have eyes and ears all over this goddamn city. One of his men talked. He talked a lot.
I take Jacob’s right hand. He fights me by jerking and twisting away, but I’m stronger and after a few seconds his resistance collapses, and I’m able to hold him steady.
I grab his ring finger.
“No … no … no … Silas…”
With my free hand I place a finger over his lips. “Shhhhh…”
Unfortunately for Jacob, the gardening secateurs I take from the table beside us are not sharp.
And this is going to hurt.
I could’ve chosen to use something sharp like a knife or a scalpel, but where would the fun be in that? I mean, if you’re going to give retribution …give retribution.
Am I right?
He screams, and the sound fills the warehouse and bounces back at us from every wall.
It’s not an easy amputation. I really have to put some effort behind it. It tears the skin, the muscle, and the surrounding tendons before the bone finally pops.
Ahhhhhhh…
I hold the finger up.
Valen would disapprove. He says that collecting trophies is indicative of being a serial killer.
Like that’s a bad thing.
I don’t bother explaining to him that every trophy I take is proof of a promise I made and kept.
Is it so wrong to want something to remember it by?
Is it wrong that they hold immeasurable value to me?
I take a handkerchief from my pocket and wrap the finger in it before sliding it back into my coat.
Jacob is sobbing, and his ruined hand is tucked against his stomach, the blood spreading across his shirt.
