Alena’s Revenge by K.A Knight
Chapter Thirteen
Alena
They don’t speak, and their faces are stern.
This is a reminder, a warning to behave. I don’t know if they heard us or if it’s because I pissed off that cow chick, but they are here to dole out pain and suffering. To try to break me again. I tilt my head back with a smile as one steps forward, cracking his knuckles. The other, a huge Russian covered in tats, turns and watches the door. He stands with his arms crossed, leaving the tall, blond-haired skinny man to dispense the punishment.
He wastes no time getting started, not letting me taunt or tease, knowing my smart mouth is the only weapon I have. He doesn’t even look directly at me, reminding me I’m nothing to them but a chore, a job.
He uses his hands first. I regulate my breathing and don’t tense as he methodically punches my stomach, my sides, and my face before he breaks two of my toes and then resets them. By the time he pulls out the pliers, I know this is going to be bad.
He’s a professional.
When he removes the third fingernail, I scream. It erupts out of me like a battle cry. The agony-ridden sound makes Boogeyman growl like an animal. I cut the rest off, wanting to be strong. I can’t let him think I’m weak. My head hurts from the pain, but I laugh. “Don’t worry, Boogeyman, we are just having some foreplay. Ain’t that right, blondie?” I lift my head, and he finally meets my eyes. His are cold, ice-cold, and dead inside. There’s nothing there. He doesn’t speak or blink as he turns and places the pliers on the bag he rolled out before picking up a knife.
I suck in a breath and lick my chapped, torn lips.
“Do you prefer knives or guns, Boogeyman?” I ask nervously as blondie moves towards me.
“My hands,” is his short, clipped reply, and my fucked-up body ignites with lust. My clit throbs with my heartbeat, which doesn’t go away, even when blondie stops before me and presses the knife to my stomach. I shouldn’t be turned on, I shouldn’t want the assassin. Is my body really that fucked up—
Fuck!
The agony is sudden and sharp as he digs the long blade into the tender flesh of the only unmarred patch of skin on my body, just above my belly button. His eyes roll up to me as he drags the knife down my flesh, cutting it open. I choke back bile as he licks his lips. My breathing stutters, and my heart hammers, making the blood flow faster. He methodically wipes it away, like one would with tattoo ink, but then he lifts his bloodstained hand, and his eyes flare with something other than ice.
Desire.
I do vomit this time, all over his legs and boots. He gets mad and backhands me. A moment later, I feel the blade pressing against my skin again. Nothing is going to stop him. I close my eyes and hang there as he slices. I can’t look, all I can do is breathe through the agony and try not to pass out. It feels like he’s cutting me to pieces. Short, sharp strokes carve across my stomach, and then it stops as suddenly as it began. I open my eyes, unable to look down in fear of what he’s done, even as he presses the bloody knife to his lips before dropping it.
His eyes are on his handiwork, not me, like I’m a piece of cattle. He frees his cock from his trousers and starts stroking it. My nose scrunches in disgust as I watch him caress it and the eight piercings running down its length. He tugs it in hard, sudden bursts. His chest heaves, and within a minute, he finds his release, his mouth opening on a silent moan, and that’s when I see the old, brown stump of where his tongue used to be.
It’s been burnt or cut out.
His cum splashes across my hip and leg as he wordlessly shivers before tucking his cock away. With one last look at his handiwork, he grabs his bag, rolls it up, and departs with his friend. They leave me hanging here, bleeding, as waves of burning agony wash through me. The pain becomes stronger, increasing with each breath, and I slump as tears fill my eyes.
It hurts so much that I bite my tongue, feeling blood well as I try to fight it, but it only seems to get worse as all my injuries overwhelm me. The shock is wearing off, making way for pain.
I cough before spitting some blood on the floor, then I lift my head and look through the hole. My eyes are too blurry to see, so I force my voice through my sore throat. “Did you come too?” I rasp.
He doesn’t respond, and my head drops from exhaustion, even as I smile a little through the blood in my mouth.
“I bet you did. You’re just as fucked up as I am. I bet you liked my screams—” The words cut off as my throat stops working.
“Don’t die,” is all he says, and I pass out.
When I wake up, I’m shivering, cold, and still exhausted. My head pounds and my body aches, but at least I didn’t die like he ordered. I hang here, listening, but his breathing is even. Is he asleep? I doubt it. I can almost feel his eyes staring through the small hole.
Is he disgusted?
Do I care?
I shiver harder when I feel cum slowly dripping down my thigh. I must not have passed out for too long. It slithers down my leg and then drops to the floor, and for some reason, my stomach heaves. I guess you never get used to it. The horrors surge in my head, of the first time, of every time. My screams and struggles flow through my mind.
I begin to fight against my restraints, twisting my hands, trying to force my eyes open to forget, to not think about it. Otherwise, I might break. But for the first time, the pain of the cuffs cutting into my skin doesn’t push it back.
I need something more, I need an anchor, so I do the only thing I can…
I reach for him.
“Tell me a story?” I whisper through the pain. He doesn’t respond, and I squeeze my eyes together, hating the feeling of my dripping blood and the agony ripping through me, making me weak.
Defenceless.
Alone.
“Please, distract me. Talk to me at least?” I plead, feeling vulnerable. I hate the quiver in my voice. I hate that I’m reaching out to this stranger and asking him. But there is nothing like shared trauma and torture to bring strangers closer… right?
He doesn’t respond, and my tears fall. I think he’s going to let me suffer, but then his voice rings out hesitantly. “When I’m free, I’ll start at the bottom with the bodyguards. They won’t stand a chance. I’ll kill them quickly. Once they are out of the way, I’ll hunt down the handlers. They will suffer more. After they are dead, I will find those who run this operation. Each person who bought from them, each silent investor or person who looked the other way. And then those who are the shadow partners.”
Step by step, he tells me how he’s going to kill them. From breaking bones and ripping out throats, to slowly dissecting organs and filleting skin. He gives me each excruciating, painful detail. His voice starts calm, but as he goes on, it gets deeper, gravellier, and his breathing picks up a bit. I find my heart racing, my own breathing matching his as something akin to… to desire flares within me.
Not just for him, but for his words. For the pain he’s promising.
I want that. I want the beautiful agony he’s voicing.
The oblivion, the assurance of vengeance.
He may be a monster, but for some reason, I like that. My body does too. I don’t know if it’s the strength there, the darkness and bloodlust, but I feel something for this killer—a low fire igniting in my already aching stomach.
I want to watch the blood run across him, across us both. My pussy clenches as I imagine him killing them in front of me and offering me their heads, their hearts, as he cuts them to pieces like they did me.
I’m going to fuck Boogeyman, and then I’m going to hunt with him.
He just doesn’t know it yet.
* * *
They leaveme there all night and most of the next day. I speak to Boogeyman, telling him random shit to keep my mind off my stomach. I won’t even look at it, knowing somehow, deep down, it will cut that last thread of humanity I have left.
It’s bad, I know it.
He doesn’t always respond, but he listens. I see him through the hole. He even smirks when I tell him tales or random shit that comes into my mind. I’m so busy spinning a story about breaking a boy’s nose as a kid that I don’t hear them until it’s too late.
My door is ripped open, and the man standing there smirks. Bessie is behind him, how lovely. “Get the dog.” She grins. “Let’s toss her to the assassin and let him have some fun with her.”
The guard grins at me. He’s a usual visitor to my cell. Fuck. “Can I have some fun with her first? She tastes so sweet.” I almost gag. The fucking sick bastard likes to drink my blood. One time when I had my period, they just let it drip down my legs and beat me for it, calling me dirty and disgusting… but him? He drank it down while I cried and screamed.
He likes my blood? I’ll make him choke on it when I’m free.
“Fine,” Bessie snaps, and then she grins as she looks me over. “Why not play with her in front of him and let him see what happens to those we don’t like? Show him something he can’t stop. He has a soft spot for women and innocents. Make him angry.” She laughs and walks away as he smiles and steps closer.
“Hear that, dog? We get to have some fun.”
“Amazing,” I rasp and then tense, flicking my eyes around. They are going to unchain me and put us in the same cell. This is my chance. They think they are torturing us, but instead, they are giving me what I wanted… and him?
They are providing him with an opportunity to escape.
He unlocks my cuffs, and I drop to the floor. My arms and legs are dead, and my stomach pulses in pain along with my fingers and toes. I groan, my face pressed to the wet floor as I scrabble at the stone. He laughs and kicks me, and I roll across the floor from the force. I hit the back wall, and something sharp stabs into my palm. My eyes fly open. Sticking out from the rock is a bent, rusted piece of metal. I’ve never been this far into the cell, tied up as I was.
My back is to the room, so he can’t see what I’ve found. I grab it and begin to pull with my blood-soaked fingers, but they slip and I cut myself, hissing as I hear him moving closer. I don’t have long, but I need to get it free and fast. It’s my only weapon. Maybe I can use it to escape.
It’s better than nothing.
“Get up, dog,” he barks. “Hiding won’t stop this.” He laughs, but I ignore him and grit my teeth, disregarding the pain from my ruined fingers to grip the rusted metal, twist, and yank it. My heart slams as he gets closer. When he’s above me, I curl around it so he can’t see what I’m doing, pretending like I’m crying or hiding. He kicks me softly, teasingly, as he laughs. I pull and pull, and when he reaches down and grabs me, throwing me across the space, the metal comes with me.
I roll, and when I stop, I conceal it in my palm, clenching my fingers around it like I’m creating a fist with both hands. Victory! I almost grin before closing my eyes and feigning agony, going limp. He picks me up and tosses me over his shoulder and leaves my cell.
He takes me where I want to be—with the assassin. The door opens, then there are footsteps, and another door opens as the guard who was waiting outside the cell speaks. “I’ll go wait at the end. Have your fun, but don’t be too long,” he orders, and the door shuts behind us once more. I crack open my eyes and get my first look at the assassin. My breath catches in my throat at the beauty and power of the chained man.
His arms are extended above him, and his feet barely touch the floor. Muscles upon muscles are corded across his body. He’s a weapon, wielding such strength, such power. His head lifts, and his dark eyes lock on me. They’re filled with something, a darkness, a fire, and such strength, it stops my heart. His full lips are flat, his chiselled cheeks are clenched, and his strong jaw is sharp enough to cut glass. His neck strains, causing his veins to pop.
He looks like a demon, a chained Lucifer. He’s calm, collected, and in control, even chained like an animal.
He’s not just good-looking, he’s breathtaking.
Covered in scars, he will never be traditionally attractive, but each raised, bevelled line intersecting across his tanned skin only makes me stare harder. We match. His thick thighs are encased in jeans, which are covered in blood, and his long limbs lead to bare, bloody, huge feet. He’s a fucking giant. Big everywhere. Enormous, actually.
I’ve never seen a man like him in real life. In porn and films sure, but before my own eyes? Never. He’s what poets talk about, what Greek gods were based on. He’s a being to be reckoned with, but it’s more than the scars, the body, and the dark and dangerous vibe pumping through him that stills me.
It’s those eyes.
I know why they fear him. In those depths, I see such death, such need for violence, it awakens my desire again. I could lose myself forever in his darkness, and I would die with a smile on my face with those hands wrapped around my neck as he snaps it.
He’s a killer, a murderer. Even though he already told me, I can see it in his gaze and in the anger coating him like a second skin.
My ogling is cut short as I’m dropped to the floor. “Ready to have some fun for our audience, dog?” The guard grins down at me as I hide my hand by my side, staring up at him from my back, the wind knocked out of me. “Don’t worry, assassin, I’ll leave what’s left of her for you. We know you like to rip them up.”
Boogeyman growls, “Don’t.”
The guard ignores him, kneeling on either side of my hips as he grins, his hard cock pressed against his trousers. His hands dart out and wrap around my neck. He likes to choke me until I almost die, then fuck me while I struggle to breathe. He likes my pain, my blood, but it seems he wants this to last so he can put on a show like he said.
He isn’t playing. He squeezes hard. I feel my eyes bug out as I scratch his hand with my empty one, half fighting. I need to, or he’ll wonder what’s going on. I kick and twist as he laughs, faking it even as I grip the metal shard tighter.
A plan comes to mind.
My revenge starts here while Boogeyman watches.
