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The dead-eyed psychotic killing machine.
I’ve seen violence. I’ve dealt violence. For sport, for money, sometimes for my own satisfaction.
Being in his presence is like standing with a knife at my throat, and I find myself settling very slowly into my seat so that I don’t risk his attention slicing my skin open.
The scent of amber and musk tickles my nose, faint, but rich.
“We are not planning a mutiny on our day off.”
“If I turn up dead, you know who to hunt in your dramatic quest for revenge,”
“I will never lie to you,” he says, voice somber, and the words dig down deep into my bones, carving themselves into my very marrow.
He’s a broker of pain.
“The only thing I believe in with any certainty is death. It comes for us all.”
“Give me the word and I’ll tear out his throat. All the lives I’ve ever taken were just training for this moment, my queen. Make me your instrument of vengeance. Let my hands act out your every savage, depraved thought. Use me. I’m yours.”
I bite my lip, suddenly self-conscious. “You’re worried?” He scoffs. “Never. You are the danger. Any person who doesn’t see that deserves what’s coming to them.”
