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The only way I’ll ever get free is to kill my dad and his psycho sons.
She continues slicing something on the chopping board, using the precision of a sushi chef. I glance over her shoulder to see what she’s cutting, and my heart stops. It’s a severed penis.
“You’re making a sandwich?” I ask, incredulous. She nods. My stomach churns. “Why?” “They need to know I’m not afraid.”
“The voices in your head?” I whisper, my pulse quickening.
As Seraphine continues to slice Billy Blue’s penis into wafer-thin pieces, my patience cracks. I can handle a room full of dead poker players, or even a castrated creep, but I can’t stand by and watch a girl make a sandwich out of a cock.
She’s like a cat that’s eaten the proverbial canary and gives no fucks that it has feathers sticking out of its jaw. At the third bite, something inside me snaps. I close the distance between us and pry the shit out of her hand. “You are not eating a cock sandwich,” I snarl. “Not in this house.”
“You can’t go around stabbing every man who shows you disrespect,” I say.
With a nod, Seraphine heads to the exit. I follow, already planning on sleeping with one eye open and a loaded gun under my pillow.
This reaction to nearly killing him is unexpectedly arousing. I want to do it again.
If she were any other woman, I would treat her with a little more tenderness, but Seraphine is a potential trip to the electric chair wrapped up in an innocent little package.
“Fuck. You look so pretty when you’re taking this dagger. Pretty enough to draw blood.”
“And I told you to lose the attitude.” Wrapping a hand around her throat, I run the pad of my thumb over the line of her jaw, where her skin is the softest velvet.
It’s just one kiss. Just one taste. “Fuck it.” I lean down and press my lips to hers, and instantly regret it. Kissing Seraphine is like finding home. As I pull back, she loops the tape measure around the back of my neck and holds me in place.
She looks like an angel. A dark angel. A fallen angel. An avenging angel. My angel.
“You’re mine,” he says, his voice dangerously low. “Who do you belong to?” “L-Leroi,” I reply with a whimper. “Good girl. See how well you’re gripping my cock? That’s your cunt inviting me in, welcoming its new owner.”
I’ve just made my punishment worse, and I don’t care.
Some men give their lovers flowers, others give them chocolates or even jewelry, but Leroi gives me the satisfaction of revenge and vigilante justice. It’s one of the many reasons I love him so much.
