Page 91 of Vicious Butterfly
No, you can’t, Tate.
You hate his constant refusals.
Okay fine. Yes. He needs to be tied to me. I want finite hooks in him, so he’s mine forever.
A tremor moves through my pinky. It travels up my wrist. Then my arm. I contract the muscles all the way up to my shoulder, setting my jaw, gritting my teeth. The only way to reroute my faulty wiring is through dominance.
My gaze zeros in on Kline.
He pales, which is a feat considering he hasn’t seen the sun for weeks. “J-J-Just kidding, VanCourt. I didn’t mean it. It was the equivalent of a schoolyard taunt. Here, let me tell you another story. I could tell you more about Henry?—”
I’m fast, swinging around him, gripping under his chin from behind. The chains tug his tired shoulder joints. He screams a fucking awesome sound that hits all the right places inside me, amplified by the crisp acoustics of this room.
“I’m going to tellyoua story, you fucking worm. Your life belongs to me now. That’s the payment for touching my man. I can torture you or kill you or both. Whatever I want. You like being pretty, Kline. Maybe I maim this gorgeous face of yours, feed it to the pigs, and make you live the rest of your life looking like the monster you are on the inside.”
“No. No, please,” he sobs.
The knife pierces his skin, the serrated blade tearing a jagged line, the edges of his flesh ripping like paper. Blood oozes. More screams, but this time the deep, guttural sound of raw pain. I carve from his jawline to the outer tip of his eye.
“That’s deep. You’ll need stitches, Kline,” I say, letting go of his worthless neck. He’s shaking, breathing erratically.
Sheathing my knife, I finally release him. He’s still chained, but he’s no longer hanging, face bleeding, crimson seeping into my nice stone floor.
So much for no blood.
I stare for a minute, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. He’s already asleep, despite the pain he must be in. We’ve been pushing him, and he’s been trying to show us that he’s not human.
That was close. I almost lost the game.
Fuck.
Maybe I already did.
I don’t mean with Kline. After I have him stitched up, his room’s about to get cold. Kline’s going to be miserable. He’ll learn not to say stupid shit.
But … Ryan. Unfortunately, Kline’s right. I can’t cage something I can’t control. Whatever I’m not in control of can get control of me.
I was under Uncle Jasper’s thumb, literally. I’d find ways to break free from time to time, only to be caught again. I made it my mission never to let someone have that kind of power over me ever again.
Am I going to wake up in another cage?
I laugh out loud as I walk down the hallway and up the steps that will lead me to the hockey rink and then the main part of the brewery. Fuck that. I’ll never end up in another cage. That’s an impossibility. So maybe I’ve come to give a few fucks about Ryan. Enough that I’m actuallywaitingfor him to say yes. I care about all my things to some degree.
Like Pearl.
I give her a wink as I pass through the armory. My precious girl. I keep her cleaned and protected in her case until I use her. I’ve just never had this kind of obsession for a human before. I have to adjust my methods.
Something bores at my skull. Another burrowing screwworm, but this one’s got fangs. Ryan’s never tried to lock me up; he’s never even hinted he wants control. If a cage is being built—and I’m not saying there is—it’s not one Ryan’s constructed.
It’s a cage of my own making.
Ihave a shower. Change clothes. But the feeling doesn’t leave me. It’s an old one that lives under my skin. Something choking, drowning, flailing.
Destabilizing.
I need to feel that strong and steady thump of his heartbeat under my hand as his chest rises and falls.
This is all fucking Kline’s fault.
