Page 188 of Wallflower

Michelle watches with wide, horrified eyes as I weigh the sharp projectile in my palm, gauging the shot.

She shakes her head back and forth as I raise my hand.

Rearing back, I use far too much strength when I send it flying across the distance.

The dart lodges itself below Sam’s shirtless shoulder blade, and his entire body tenses. Before he can rear back in pain, I send two more forcefully whistling through the air. They land close together, piercing the base of his spine right above his pasty white ass.

I pocket the other three darts as Sam’s hand leaves Michelle’s mouth, reaching around to try and feel what’s causing his agony.

However, I’m storming across the distance, plowing into the fucking couple before they can escape each other’s embrace.

Pulling handcuffs from the pocket of my tactical vest, I wrench Sam’s hands behind his back. I cinch them as tight as possible, until they are digging into his skin, threatening to slice him open and expose the inner workings of his wrists. It’s only fair I subject him to the same torment as he wrought on my bloodflower.

My left hand slams down over Sam’s mouth as I retrieve the remaining three darts, stabbing them into his back, penetrating the same spot Rose was shot. He wails against my palm, and I suck the sound into my lungs, hoping it will satiate my burning desire for retribution.

It doesn’t, and my sight tears into the vile woman before me. Her strapless dress is tugged down and bunched around her hips, tits saggy enough to tie in a knot. My cock retreats at the sight of her partially naked form, as her eyes plead for mercy.

Sam screams as I dig the darts in, twisting them as he revolts against me. He’s not going fucking anywhere until I’m done with him, and the whore still attached to him at the dick.

“What’s the matter, Sam? Can’t cum when you’re not the one in control?”

He whimpers, body starting to go limp in my hold.

Fucking pussy. What man can’t withstand a little torture?

I pull the darts free, the new wave of agony firing Sam to life once more. Curling my arm around his body, I lay my weight further into the couple.

Looking to Michelle, I growl, “Don’t fucking scream, and maybe I’ll let you live.” She nods erratically.

What a moron. Like I’d ever let her live. She’s the whole reason Rose was sold.

I remove my palm from Sam’s mouth, pinching his lips together as I drive a dart through the top. The pointed tippenetrates through the underside of his bottom lip, and he drops, trying to escape my wrath.

My knee wedges between his thighs, keeping him upright and pinned until my mission is complete.

His flailing deadweight is a bitch to hold, but I make quick work of sealing his lips shut with the other two darts.

Sam passes out cold, sagging against me. This isn’t nearly as fun if they aren’t kicking and screaming, begging for a second chance at a life I don’t give two shits about.

Unsheathing a throwing knife from my thigh, I look to Michelle as I whisper, “I wish I had time to drag this out and make you suffer, but I have somewhere I’d much rather be.”

Her gaze is puzzled.

Faster than a whip, I jam the blade into Sam’s jugular. Pulling it free just as fast in order to shower Michelle in a river of arterial spray.

Sam gurgles, slumping against Michelle as he slowly expires. His flaccid, mediocre cock slips from her as I shove him to the floor.

My gaze locks with the step-monster’s. “You said…” she starts. But I don’t give her time to finish. My blade finds its new home deep in her abdomen, over and over again, as I hold her hostage against the wall under her jaw.

“Rose sends her most insincere regards,” I snarl as I devour the sight of the light draining from her eyes.

I’m significantly worse for the wear this time around as I observe myself in the small bathroom mirror. A bruise is forming under my eye, and every time I think about Rose, a smile threatens to split the wound on my lip.

I wash the visible traces of blood from my skin. However, my shirt drips a steady stream of crimson from the heavily saturated bottom seam, and I can’t do much about it. Even when I wring it out in the sink, the drips come rushing back. This is why my kills were supposed to be clean and swift. I didn’t want to leave an easily traceable trail back to me. But I couldn’t help myself.

Before I met Rose, a thirst for violence was my driving force. I demanded loyalty or a fate worse than death would hover over a traitor’s head until judgement day. Sometimes subjectinga two-faced piece of shit to the daily neurotic urge of looking over their shoulder was punishment enough. Of course, I made a spectacle of the few bad apples, but that didn’t mean I needed to off the whole bunch. Fear is what spreads the word. Fear keeps people in line. And fear prevents the rot from infecting the whole orchard.

Leaving the bathroom, I move back to the scene of violence beneath the windows. I look over the heap at my feet. There isn’t a hope in hell that I can clean up this fucking mess. So, instead, I quickly rearrange the game room. Dragging the couch across the floor, I push it up against the bodies, crunching their mutilated carcasses between the wall and the back of the couch. It’s an effective move at hiding my crime, but eventually they’ll start to smell and someone will notice.