Page 60

Time stretches, and the strain of waiting shows in the way his shoulders tremble and shake.

He opens his mouth, but I cut him off before he gets started. “You had a choice.” This is my show even if I’m only a spectator and can’t join in for any actual fun.

“No, I⁠—”

“You had a fucking choice, Des, and you made really piss-poor ones.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I swear. Let me go and I’ll never bother you again. Never⁠—”

“And the only way to learn the lesson here is biblical. An eye-for-an-eye, you know?”

Desmond sighs, relief settling in his shoulders. “Thank Christ. I-I can do that.” His head bounces in a series of short nods. He’s obviously talking himself into this. “One for one.”

I cock my head and relax into the chair, tilting the seat back so I can get comfortable for watching this show. “We’ll start with that,” I tell him, then turn to address Gaufre. “Might want to suit up, this is going to get messy.”

Christophe’s enforcer shakes out a pair of Tyvek coveralls and shoves his feet into the pant legs. “On it,” he grumbles.

The man is serious about his work, and this project is special to him. Not for personal reasons, but because he prefers to stay underground, out of sight, and saving my sorry ass required him to come up out of his hideaway.

“What do you… You don’t need that, right, Tig? He doesn’t need…fuck.” Desmond swears under his breath as Gaufre zips his clean suit and flips the hood up to cover his hair.

He pulls a blade from the table and tests the edge, asking, “You got a count for me?”

Do I fucking ever.

I spent a lot of time between Truie’s thighs last night. Sure, I fucked her good, but I also counted. Every single cut was kissed and cataloged, accounted for so the strict adherence to the Code of Hammurabi could be met. Every slice in Truie’s skin will be scored into Desmond’s, that’s our first order of business.

I give Gaufre the number. “Might want to grab a second blade, I don’t have all day.”

Desmond stiffens. “What? I never cut you, man. Actually, I didn’t do nothin’. Never laid a finger on you, that was the kid and…”

I laugh. “You don’t get it.”

“No. I fucking don’t.” Panic rings high in his voice. “Hit me. Slash at me, break my fucking hands. That sure as fuck won’t take all day. And if you had a proper drain in the floor for your wet work⁠—”

As he’s flapping his gums, I lift my chin to Gaufre and give him the go ahead to get started. The first handful of cuts are clean, the skin fresh, so the pain doesn’t hit immediately. But when it does, Desmond stops his blathering and swears.

“Again,” I say, not giving him any time to recover.

Gaufre works quickly, adding to his canvas every time I mutter Again.

With each series of cuts, I remind my cousin of the shit he did. Of all his heinous deeds. Of the way he touched my woman when he had no fucking right.

I keep the panic she felt at the forefront.

The constant fear.

The filth and neglect she suffered over the months she was in his grips.

And he just whines and whimpers like the piece of shit he is. She was there because her father gave her up to Alain, and that bastard was more than happy to keep her tucked away in the dark. But they’re gone and retribution still has to be served. So here we are.

The numbers are adding up, but Desmond’s sagging, exhausted from the constant bite of pain, and probably from the way I’ve recounted all the horrible things he did to Truie. His thighs are a mess of blood, the skin peeling back. “Looks like shit,” Gaufre observes as Desmond pants and moans. “I take pride in my work, Teague. This is sloppy. Fucking amateur looking.”

He glances at me over his shoulder, his blade paused in its arc.

“Yeah. Honestly, I’m getting bored.” I shrug, the stripes on my shoulder tugging from the beat-down Desmond granted me. My knee bounces as I stare at the bloody mess, weighing how much time and effort he’s worth. I’ve been away from Truie for a couple of hours, and that’s long enough for me.

I push to my feet and walk to the edge of the blood splatter, careful not to step over the line.