You Are Mine Little Sister (by Syra Tucker) novel Chapter 110

VOID

Consciousness never comes gently. It drags.

I watched the struggle ripple through him: fingers twitching first, then the shallow pull of breath against the gag of leather across his chest. His eyelids fluttered, fighting the weight of sedation.

I didn't rush him. Half the fun is in the crawl. The slow realization and dread that seeps bone-deep before words ever enter the picture.

I sat opposite him, one ankle lazily hooked over the other knee, cigar smoldering between my fingers while I let him wrestle his way back to awareness.

His head lolled forward again, chin hitting his chest with a dull thud. Then, the chair creaked as his body twitched against the straps, his wrists instinctively jerking before the rope bit down harder.

I watched as the haze began to clear from his face. His lashes fluttered, his lips parted like he was about to speak, but the only thing he managed was a wheeze.

His eyes finally lifted. Thank fuck.

I leaned back, letting the cigarette burn between my fingers while his eyes searched the room in confusion before they stopped—right on me. Right where I wanted them.

Confusion curdled in his eyes, shading them darker than fear itself. I was no mind-reader, but I could almost hear the avalanche of questions running through his head.

He wore so many shades of confusion, it was almost funny watching him try to pick one. His gaze snapped around the room with dawning clarity, freezing when it landed on the spread of steel and bone-cracking tools.

"What is this?" He finally found his words. His eyes returned to me. "What am I doing here?"

While he busied himself with the boring puzzle of 'why', I was already designing the 'how'.

His body was twitching with little giveaways: the way his pulse jumped beneath the skin of his throat, the slight hitch in his chest as he dragged in shallow breaths, the beads of sweat already collecting at his hairline. He didn't know it yet, but every tic, every swallow, every dart of his gaze was part of the blueprint I was drawing in my head.

I considered where to begin. Should I take his hands, those trembling things strapped to the chair, and introduce them to my blade, vein by vein, until he realized how fragile his flesh really was? Pain before despair, or despair before pain. Both were appetizing.

He was trying to hide his fear. If only he knew how 'adorable' that looked from where I sat.

"Zerali's acquaintance," he said, throat bobbing with a dry gulp he probably prayed I hadn't noticed "Care to explain why I'm here?"

His pupils flared when they saw what I carried.

"Come on," he forced out a chuckle, a sound so false it'd whither in shame if the real thing ever heard it. "I'm telling you, there's no need for this. We're all men, you know? We see something good and want it."

"Hm." I gave a clipped nod. "Sounds about right. Problem is, you wanted the wrong one."

I studied the plies. "You ever hear that a man's courage lives in his fingers? That's why the strong grip harder, and the weak drop everything?" I clicked the pliers once. "Makes sense, doesn't it?"

His hands struggled against the binds. To his credit, he did a good job keeping his composure.

I caught his hand, forcing his fingers apart against the armrest. He jerked, tried to twist away, but the rope cut into his wrists. His breathing grew shallow.

"What the fuck is this!?" Rage tried to bury the fear in his voice. "Are you really going to torture me over some woman? What happens when you get locked up for life, huh? She won't be in the cell with you. Some other man would still have her."

He thought he was making sense. All I saw were trembling, sweaty fingers begging to be rearranged.