Bloody Princess by Helen Scott
27
Lyric
"You're needed at home," Sampson had said when he came to collect me.
I'd had a half hour to pack my bag and be ready to go. Could I have argued with him? Probably. It wouldn't have done any good, though. Hell, I could have refused to go, but I had to go home at some point, and the more I fought now, the worse it would be when I finally did. Unlike Paige, Sampson is actually terrifying.
My father will always let him do whatever he wants with me because he truly meant what he said all those years ago. I am Sampson's to train, mold, and punish. If I defy him, his vindictiveness knows no bounds.
As he drives us back to the Sterling estate, I listen to my playlist. It helps me get in the right mindset for whatever is about to come at me. Some of the songs remind me of my mother. Actually, most of them. She’d loved punk female singers, everything from Pat Benatar to Joan Jett to Blondie.
The song that always seems to work the best, though, is "Here Comes the Rain Again" by Annie Lennox. There's something about the synthy eighties sound that gets me. I've listened to it so much before doing work for my father, and every time I hear it, I can feel the emotions falling from me like nothing more than discarded items of clothing. It leaves me empty and impervious to Sampson's demands and desires. He wants me to kill? Fine. He wants me to seduce an enemy? No problem. He wants me to be his own personal fuck toy? Sure.
Music is the only thing I've found that allows me to let everything just roll off me, like water on a bird's feather. Before I made my playlists, I’d been tormented by what I was doing and what was being done to me. Now, the music helps me separate the things involving my father and Sampson from the things that I truly care about and who I believe I truly am.
We stop and get out, and as Sampson walks around the car, he says, "Leave your bag. Mary will get it. We need to speak with your father."
"Shouldn't I get cleaned up first?" I ask. Even from where I'm standing, I see the rage flash in Sampson's deep-set, dark eyes and know I've messed up.
He's in front of me a second later, his hand whipping out and cracking me across the face. My lip splits, and the metallic tang of blood bursts on my tongue. "Did that school make you forget to respect me?"
"No, sir," I mumble with my head bowed.
"Good. Don't, or you'll regret it. Now, I said what I said. Your father is waiting, as is your first guest." His words are clipped, and he's turning away from me before he's even done speaking.
I follow him into the house and through the hallways until we get to my father's office. The same one he's always had—the same one my mother was killed in. Sampson knocks briefly before entering, and I follow silently behind him like a shadow, my head still bowed and my hands clasped behind my back.
"Lyric, sir," Sampson says to my father.
My father doesn't do more than glance up from his desk. His gaze washes over me like ice water before he turns back to his paperwork. "We've had a leak. The suspect is downstairs. Extract any information you can, specifically, who he shared information with. Ideally, before tomorrow night. I'm having a party, and you'll be the entertainment, so I don't want you disappointing my guests. Mister Lawrence has requested a private evening with you on Sunday, and I'm offering your services—all kinds—to my guests, as well." What he doesn't say is that it's for a fee. Always for a fee.
"Yes, Father," I reply.
"You're dismissed."
I nod and walk from the room. As soon as I'm clear, I put my earbuds back in, willing the music to do its work. I hadn't expected to feel so free at school and so trapped when I came back home. This is my life, it's how it's always been, but now, having tasted what it's like not to have to follow Sampson and my father's orders every day, I want more of that.
As Blondie sings "One Way Or Another" in my ears, I head downstairs. The rooms I work in have a passcode only a few people know, myself included. The door clicks unlocked, and I walk in, shutting it behind me. When I'm down here, the last thing I want is someone to surprise me. I might hurt them unintentionally.
I strip out of the clothes I've been wearing, half surprised that my father hadn't commented on them. Half surprised that Sampson took me in to see him while I was dressed like this. I like the outfit, though, and don't want to get blood on it.
The whole area is almost set up like a mini apartment. There's a small entryway, or rather, hallway, that splits into three areas. One is mostly a storage room, where I keep my clothes and anything we need to from my victims. The other is where I interrogate my father's enemies. And the third is for cleaning up. All of the rooms have fancy tile floors that allow me to easily wash away the evidence of my sins, and the walls have something that amounts to a thin, rigid plastic covering them that is easy to wipe down.
I duck into the storage room and change into my work clothes. As I put them on, I mentally steel myself for what's about to come. The white t-shirt and running shorts I put on are the cheapest, most generic clothing I can find. It's partly so I don't look very distinctive and partly because it's easier to destroy them when I get blood on them.
The only thing I'm really picky about when it comes to my work outfits is my bra and panties. After years of experimenting, I found that push up bras that make my already large breasts look like they are about to bust through my t-shirt help, along with a thong, and if both are black, it's a double win.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I reach for it, checking that it's not something urgent from Mel. It's Evie saying that she hopes everything is okay. The note I left her said that I'd been called home for a family emergency. I text back a heart emoji since I don't know what else to say and I can't open that side of myself up right now.
As I put my phone down, I remember that I'm supposed to be attending a pledge event this weekend, where we're supposed to be serving dinner to the APT guys. I know I'll lose points for missing it, but I don't really have a choice. I'm just lucky I was done with classes for the day, though I might end up missing Monday with all the activities my father has planned for me.
My stomach clenches at the thought of what I'm going to be doing this weekend. Mister Lawrence is one of the biggest creeps I've ever met, and that's saying something, considering I'm my family's enforcer, and dealing with assholes is kind of my job.
I grab my brass knuckles and my butterfly knife and slide them into the pockets of my shorts. It's not obvious what I'm carrying at first, and no one suspects me to have weapons like these on me. When they first see me, they think I'll be merciful, that I don't have the heart to do what it takes to get the answers I seek, and they are right in a way...I don't have a heart, but that just makes this easier.
Before I'm completely ready, I scan through the file that was left in the room for me. Sampson, or one of his minions, puts files together on each of my subjects. It's usually just basics: a photo, name, age, height, usual hangouts, and if they are a member of the family, it will include how long they've been working for us and what their role is—that kind of thing.
The last thing I do before leaving is muss up my hair and play with the cut on my lip, making fresh blood seep from it and roll down my chin.
Once I'm ready, I cross the hall and open the door to the other room, shutting it behind me after I enter. When I turn, I give the man tied to the chair my best innocent face. He is tied up the way they usually are, hands bound behind the back of the chair, legs bound to the legs of the chair, and gagged. Sometimes there's a blindfold as well. I like to think that it’s Sampson’s way of getting fancy.
"Help me!" he cries, though it's muffled by the gag in his mouth.
I hurry over to him and lean down, whispering, "I've just come from across the hall. Who are you working with? The O’Sullivans? Or the Leonardis? The Sidorovs?" My fingers work quickly as I untie the gag that was keeping him from speaking. I'm always surprised by how many people just tell me what I want to know right away since they assume I'm there to help them.
I'm not.
"What?" he splutters as I get the gag out of his mouth and toss the soggy piece of material off to the side. Never leave anything loose where someone might be able to get it and use it as a weapon. I mean, yeah, he'd have to get free first, but it's happened before. They have to be willing to break their arm or dislocate their shoulder, though, which most aren't prepared for.
There's always a couple who think they are, but they don't know how to handle the pain, so once they are down, they just stay there. Then I have to haul their asses, and the chair, which they are probably still attached to, upright again. They are usually screaming bloody murder the whole time as well, given that they've generally at least fractured their arm.
"Who did you sell the information to?" I ask again as I pretend to untie his wrists, which are currently bound behind his back around the wood of the chair. The knots that Sampson ties are legendary among our family, so if this guy actually believes I'm capable of untying them, he's an idiot.
"No one, I didn't sell nothin'," he mumbles, but it's easy to see that he's lying. Anyone with even basic interrogation training would be able to tell, and I have a little more than basic training.
"What's your name?" I whisper, pretending like I'm still trying to help him.
"Frankie," he whispers.
"Well, Frankie, I've got some bad news for you," I say as I push to my feet and come around to the front of the chair so I can look this asshole in the eye. "Those knots aren't able to be untied, and, unfortunately, even if they were, I wouldn't untie them. I'm here to talk to you."
His mouth starts working as though he's trying to get words out, and his gaze goes up and down my body, lingering on my breasts, where the bra is visible through the t-shirt. The thin white material doesn't do anything to hide the black bra underneath. "You?" he asks finally. "But you're just a girl."
I pull a chair from the other side of the room and sit down in front of him. "Looks can be deceiving, Frankie. Now, I want us to have a nice chat. I don't particularly want to use any of the tools over there, but if I have to, I will. I also brought along my favorites. This is Sebastian, my butterfly knife," I say as I pull it from my pocket and set it on my lap before doing the same with my brass knuckles. "And these are Thelma and Louise. They don't like liars, so if you're honest with me, you won't have to meet them, but if you lie to me, then they'll get up close and personal. Understand?"
I wait, and eventually Frankie nods.
"Now, Frankie, we know that you sold some information about the family business. We just want to know who you sold it to. So, if you tell me, then we'll be all done here, okay? Why don't we start from the beginning? I know your name is Frankie, but how long have you been with the family?"
"Uh, three years," he says.
True, based on the file in the other room.
"That's a long time. What do you do for us?" I ask as I start playing with my butterfly knife, doing all the same tricks the man who killed my mother could do. For some reason, it calms me, centers me in the violence of the moment, or the violence that I know is coming.
"I help run protection for some of the businesses downtown."
Also true. We're on a good streak right now, but somehow I don't think it's going to last. "And who did you sell information to?"
He glances to the side before he says, "N-no one."
I slip the brass knuckles over my fingers and flex my hand, reminding myself of the feeling of the metal in my grip. "I had these made just for me. There's a little crown right here," I say as I point to the engraved crown in each knuckle curve. It doesn't damage the bone but it does leave an imprint on the person's face, which is always fun, like a calling card of sorts.
My father and Sampson started calling me their bloody princess when they saw how vicious I could be. No one expects it, but the darkness that they've created in me is something that can be hard to contain, especially if it's been poked at, and that's all Paige has been doing. It's not that she's getting to me—okay, maybe that's a bit of a lie—but I don't like having to wear a mask all the time, and that's all I do at Welhurst. At least when I'm here, the staff and family members know to stay the fuck out of my way. I don't have to play the peppy teen girl right now, which is a relief.
"Frankie, I need you to be honest with me," I say with a sigh as I look from my weapons to him. "Who did you sell information to?"
"No one, I-I-I swear. You have to believe me," he begs.
The problem is that, by coming in with the nice girl routine, he doesn't believe that I have the capability to hurt him. He's wrong, of course, but I need to show him that. "Now Frankie, we know you sent information out. Schedules. Plans. Drop points. Lying about it is only going to make this worse for you. So here's what's going to happen: I'm going to hit you twice across the face, once for each time you've lied to me, and then I'm going to ask you again. After that, Sebastian will get to play, and I doubt you want that. Seems like you probably enjoy walking, and if I cut that tendon at the back of your heel, that's going to make walking a lot more difficult for you."
I stand and walk toward him, shaking my arm out at my side. Ever since I started at Welhurst, I haven't been able to throw a punch that wasn't at a bag, so this will be refreshing. This time, when Frankie looks up into my face, he sees the truth of who I am. I see it in the way the color drains from his face.
Once I've made sufficient eye contact with him, enough that he knows there's no way out of this, I haul back and let my fist fly. I connect with his jaw, right where it connects with his cheekbone, and his head snaps to the side. If he hadn't already been moving, I would have just hit his cheekbone, but the fucker tried to dodge.
"One." I pull my arm in tight to my body before sending out a jab that pops him right in the nose, making it crunch under the impact. Blood gets on my hand before I can pull it away. "And two."
His head drops to his chest, and for a moment, I worry that I've knocked him out, but then I see his shoulders shaking, and I can't decide whether I think he's laughing or crying. Either way, it makes my anger flare. I feel like the floodgates are flung open within me, and the darkness comes pouring out.
I smile down at him as I grip his jaw and force him to look at me. "Do you know what the Lingering Death is, Frankie? You might know it better as Death by One Thousand Cuts. Do you know how long that would take? How much pain you'd be in by the end? Is that what you want? Do you want me to take my time with you? To teach you new levels of pain? For it to be the traditional version, I'd tie you up naked outside so you were humiliated at the same time, but I think we can make an exception since that tends to upset the police."
"Trust me, little lady, if you got me naked, no one would be humiliated except you," he says before turning his head to the side and spitting some blood out. He doesn't do a very good job, though, because it dribbles down his chin, making him look like some kind of inept vampire.
"Is that right? You packing down there? Maybe I should take a look?" I give him flirtatious eyes and trail my fingers down his chest, my bloody knuckles looking bright against his pale t-shirt. With my free hand, I reach for Sebastian and flick him open. "Don't struggle. I'd hate to accidentally hurt you," I purr as I slide the tip of the blade through his belt, cutting it off, before working on his pants. Fortunately, the guy has chicken legs hidden under baggy jeans, so there's plenty of fabric to work with.
I'm leaning over, giving him a nice long look at my tits through the t-shirt as I cut his pants away. When the denim is no longer blocking him, I'm disgusted to find dirty tighty whities. From what I can see, his dick is nothing to brag about. Still, to be thorough I cut his underwear off as well, letting it flap down from his body, bearing his bushy dick to the world. It twitches under my gaze and I do my best to hide my revulsion.
"See something you like?" he asks, trying to be smooth and failing.
I sigh and drop to my knees in front of him before touching the tip of his dick with my knife. Ugh. I'm going to have to clean this thing so well when I'm done with this asshole. He looks like he thinks he's won the jackpot even though it’s my knife that’s touching him right now. "I do not see a single thing I like. What am I supposed to think this is, a snail? Is half of it hiding? Where's your manhood, Frankie? Or do you just not have any? Is that why you were a little testicle and sold information?"
"Did you just call me a testicle?" he asks with genuine surprise.
"What, did you expect me to call you a bitch or a pussy? Why the fuck would I do that, when both of those things can take a beating and give life. Testicles are about as strong as grapes. Would you like me to demonstrate?" I move the tip of my blade to his ballsack, ready to castrate the motherfucker if he so much as grins at me again.
He gulps as I watch him. When I pull the blade away, he visibly relaxes.
"Tell you what, you tell me who you sold the information to and I can make you feel real good. How does that sound?" I ask as I trail the tip of the knife down my chest all the way to the front of my shorts.
The asshole in front of me actually starts to get hard, like he thinks I'll go anywhere near his cock.
Delusional. That's what he is.
"It can be our secret," I say as I turn around and wiggle my ass at him. I squat down slightly, so my ass is hovering just above his crotch, and I know he can see the top of my thong because I made sure it stuck out from my shorts. "Would you like that?" I ask breathily.
"Fuck yeah," he murmurs.
"You've got to tell me who you sold the information to first, though," I reply with another wiggle that makes my ass cheeks bounce up and down.
"One of the O’Sullivan boys," he says with a groan as he thrusts his hips up trying to make contact with me.
"Which one?" I ask. When he doesn't reply I add a moan and say, "Please, I really need it."
"Liam. Liam O’Sullivan." He's panting beneath me.
"Is he the only one?" I ask.
Frankie doesn't respond, and I wonder if he's realized what he told me.
"Don't leave me hanging, Frankie. Give it to me," I add for good measure.
"Give me that pussy first, then we'll talk."
Without straightening I flick the blade behind his ankle, slicing his Achilles tendon on one foot, and then before he's even had the chance to scream, I do the other.
He does scream then, long and loud. Once he's got himself under control again, he yells, "You fucking bitch! When I get free from here I'm going to fuck you up. Me and my boys will run a train on you until you're begging us to put you out of your misery."
I laugh. "Is that what you think you're going to do? What if I cut your pathetic dick off? Then what?"
"Then I'll fuck you with whatever I can find," he growls.
I tut at him. "None of that is very nice. Maybe you need to be taught some manners?" Without waiting for his response I run the tip of the blade down his thigh parting the skin like it was a scalpel rather than a butterfly knife.
He screams again, but now the sound brings me peace. I've got most of the information from him, I just need to make sure I've got it all. Something that's easily accomplished with a few well-placed cuts. The more he screams, the more I want to cut him, and the more I want to hear him scream as the darkness within me seems to feed on his pain and suffering.
I have a brief moment of wondering if Keats has this same darkness in him. I thought I'd seen it a couple of times, but maybe that was just wishful thinking. As I look down at the damage I've already caused to Frankie, I doubt that Keats does. I shut thoughts of him out of my head. I don't need him confusing things right now.
“That’s only four cuts, Frankie. It’s going to take us a long time to get to a thousand.”
There's only one way this will end, and that's with Frankie’s death, it's just up to him how long it takes. Well, that and how long it takes me to get my own demons out. This weekend, not only am I doing wetwork, but my father is whoring me out. Again.
If I'm going to survive and not let my darkness out to play with his so-called friends, then I need to get as much of it out now as I can. Unfortunately, that means that Frankie is probably going to suffer more than is strictly necessary, but then so am I, just in a different way.
I don't know how I'm going to go back to school after this. How can I look at Evie and be her partying sorority pledge roommate when I’ve just tortured a man to death and stripped for my father’s friends before fucking whichever was willing to pay the most?
