Beautiful Tyrant (Enemies to Lovers - Dark Romance Book 3) Read online

  'Sorry mate,' I say unapologetically, 'but nap time is officially over. I'm cutting your fingernails off in a few minutes, from the root, and I'd like you to be awake for the experience. Normally I'd ask if you've got anything to say before then, but that would spoil all the fun.' He blinks at me stupidly, probably wondering where the hell he is and what's happening to him. He'll remember in a few seconds.

  'Oh God,' he splutters, when he finally comes back into the land of here and now. 'No, no, no, this can't be happening.' I have news for him, it is. He begins trembling like a leaf, and I wonder if he's going to throw up all over me.

  'Okay, I'll just go and find a pair of pliers, and then we can begin. I'm afraid I haven't been given very much notice for this gig, so you'll just have to bear with me.' Mal's workshop looks fairly well equipped, so I'm hoping he'll have what I need. If not, as Mal says, I'll have to improvise.

  'I didn't say anything,' scared man says to my back as I begin wondering off. 'I swear it. I haven't talked to anyone.' There's conviction in his voice, but I don't believe him. Dying men will say all sorts to save their fragile little necks.

  My eyes scan the contents of the warehouse, trying to see if I can find what I'm looking for. If I'm not mistaken, this is a cut and shut shop - or at least a front for some kind of car body repair. There are paint sprayers, panel beaters, trim and spoiler kits, pipework and heat lamps, among other things. What I can't find, however, is a pair of pliers. There must be a toolbox around somewhere.

  A thorough search of the premises reveals there are hundreds of tools stashed away in drawers under thick wooden countertops. Hammers, saws, chisels, pliers - everything the average torturer could want. If I get bored with those there is an array of battery-powered power tools that can get the job done in half the time. Let's see how much patience Mal has. While I know he'll want a show, he won't want me to take too long because Harper is waiting for him in the bedroom. It's hard to resist a beautiful, naked woman who's chained to your wall. I haven't been able to get the image of her body out of my head, so I'm pretty sure Mal hasn't. We're out here for a spot of foreplay, and then he'll get his rocks off by tormenting her. He is good at games. He keeps his empire under control by making sure all his men fear the consequences of disobeying him. So far he's doing a pretty good job if the poor bastard behind me is any example.

  Grabbing a few tools that might come in handy, I make my way back to the poor schmuck that has earned Mal's displeasure. This isn't going to be a fun day for him. But that's not my problem. Grabbing another plastic chair I sit on it sideways so I'm facing my victim, while laying out the tools I've chosen on my legs. I've collected a pair of pliers, a small handsaw, and a chisel. Torture is ninety percent intimidation, and ten percent actual effort - provided you're doing it right, of course.

  Both of the poor guy's eyes, which are almost swollen shut, open as far as they can before his body starts trembling again.

  'I've told you, I don't know anything,' he groans. He's obviously trying to protect someone. The trouble with this game is that he dies whether he tells the truth or not. He'll just die quicker if he talks. If I'm in his place, the only reason I wouldn't talk was because I really liked the other person in question - and I mean really like.

  'What's your name?' I ask him. I don't give a shit what he's called, but it's going to make talking to him easier if I have a name. That way, when he's close to passing out, I can yell at him. People generally respond to their name being yelled at top volume.

  'It's S-S-am,' he stammers. Well, that was easy enough.

  'Right, Sam,' I say, looking him square in the eye, 'do you want me to start with the pliers or the handsaw? I have no preference really, so I'll go with whatever you decide.'

  The question is a no-brainer. All I'm doing is wasting time until the main event.

  'I don't know anything,' Sam pleads. 'Please, you have to believe me, I didn't do anything.' He begins struggling on his chair, as if the thick rope binding him will suddenly magically disappear.

  'Fair enough, I'll choose for you,' I say brightly. 'I think I'll go for,' I pretend to look at the various tools on my legs, considering my options, before saying, 'the handsaw. The blade looks quite sharp. It should melt through flesh in no time at all.'

  Sam goes a rather unpleasant shade of green and tries his best to move words past his trembling lips. Meanwhile I've got the saw and I've grabbed his hand, making sure his fingers are nice and straight on the arm of the chair.

  Sam finally finds his voice. 'No, no!' he shrieks. 'Pliers. Can I go with the pliers?' I sigh and frown at him as if this is a major inconvenience, but then I shrug my shoulders. It's all part of the game. Replacing the handsaw, I pick up the pliers and get ready to do some damage. I think my eardrums are about to take a pummelling, so maybe it's best to ease them into the screaming gradually. Chopping fingertips off has to be far more painful than pulling out fingernails. These are assumptions, of course. I've never had to test the theory, thank God.

  'Pliers it is then.' Sam looks visibly relieved, which is almost laughable. There is no scenario under which he is getting his ass out of here alive, and although we're now starting with the pliers, we'll get to the handsaw soon enough. He's just delaying the inevitable, but I have to confess I'd do exactly the same thing in his shoes.

  Grabbing a finger and holding it steady, I watch while Sam decides what to do next. He knows he can't go anywhere and that resistance is futile, but I think this inaction will change in a few minutes. At the moment he's thinking how much can the loss of a few fingernails hurt? He has no idea.

  I let the pincers of the pliers grip the fingernail of his middle finger, and I yank hard. There's no benefit to drawing it out. The more pain I dole out, the more likely I am to get answers. While I'm in no real rush to get back to Harper, where I'm sure I'll be greeted with more nasty games, I don't want to crucify the poor bastard either. I need to look reasonably capable, or Mal will put a bullet between my eyes.

  Sam doesn't think much of my approach. Screaming for all he's worth, he begins bucking violently back and forth on the chair. I'm ready for him. Discarding the bloody nail I've just pulled out, I already have the next finger ready, and with another yank we're two down, with eight to go.

  'Still don't want to talk?' I ask. I've seen men bigger than him squeal like a baby when faced with a little pain. Everyone copes with it differently. I don't think he's going to last too long, but then, what do I know?

  'I told you, I don't know anything.' He looks at Mal pleadingly. He's well aware that I'm not the one calling the shots, but he's wasting his breath. Mal is barely human, like me. There is no compassion riding in the depths of those slate-grey eyes. It's like trying to reason with a man who only speaks Japanese. It's not going to happen.

  Yanking out the third fingernail, I don't give him a chance to talk before I begin taking fingernails four and five. The thumb gives me a little trouble, and it takes several tugs before the nail comes free. Sam is openly sobbing now, but he still makes no move to give us the name we want. He's obviously trying to protect someone - but who?

  Mal sighs. 'Move it along, Rodriguez. We haven't got all day.' What he means is that he's bored of watching the tame stuff. Now it's time to get messy.

  Sam jumps as I toss the pliers away over my shoulder, which bounce off the floor with a loud clatter. He then watches as I pick up the handsaw again, and a little sob leaves his throat.

  'I think it'll be quicker to saw them off, don't you?' Waving the tool about in the air, I watch as Sam's about to lose the contents of his lunch. He gives one dry heave, but manages to hold himself together. Unless I'm much mistaken, it isn't going to be long before he throws up everywhere. My fingers are crossed it isn't over me.

  'This is really going to hurt, Sam. You sure you don't want to talk?' Just get it over with for Christ's sake, I think, but the idiot obviously can't read minds because he shakes his head. Here we go again.

  Grabbing the other hand, hi
s left, I place the saw just below the knuckle of his little finger. I then settle the saw atop it.

  Bracing myself, I begin sawing, and things progress rather quickly once I get to bone. Sam yells every swear word under the sun at me, before screaming and struggling as violently as he can while tied to a chair. When that doesn't stop me he vomits all over me. All manner of stuff is coming out of his mouth, but none of it is what we want to hear. When the fingertip finally comes off and falls to the floor I want to tell him not to be such an idiot. But instead I grab finger number two, and that's when the guy goes into shock. He begins shaking like a damn jackhammer, making it difficult for me to hold his hand still. I'm going to be lucky not to cut myself at this rate. Sighing, I use my body weight to hold him down, before I start slicing again.

  Another fingertip hits the dirt, and we are no further forward than before. There is blood everywhere, and if I'm not careful the guy will bleed out before we get our answers. Feeling Mal's stare burning into me from behind, I wonder what I should do next. And when Mal begins to tap his foot impatiently I know I need to do something pretty drastic. What will get Sam to spill the info in the quickest possible time? It doesn't take long for an idea to form.

  'Wait there, Sam,' I say, smiling brightly as I decide to go for a little walk. What I need is a half-decent power tool. The circular saw I spotted earlier will be just the job.

  'Hurry up, Rodriguez, you're running out of time,' Mal says to my retreating back. Charming bloke, Mal. Here I am doing his dirty work for him and he's giving me abuse about it.

  Retrieving the saw I test it works. Nothing worse than looking like an amateur in front of your victim. Walking back to Sam, who I'm sure has heard the rattle of the saw, I parade it in front of his eyes. Revving it a couple of times for effect, I watch as he shrinks back on the seat, his eyes wide as he takes in the whirring metal of my little beast. I think it's a bit more intimidating than the pathetic little handsaw, but what do I know?

  'We're on a schedule here, Sam,' I remark, not unkindly. 'We have people to see, places to go. You, on the other hand, only need to worry yourself about one thing. Do you want to die fast or slow? Fast is generally preferable. Slow is messy and unpredictable, and very painful.' I allow him a moment or two to process this.

  'If you want to go down the slow route, that's really inconvenient if I'm completely honest, but I'll make an exception for you, just this once.' Sam nods, but I'm not sure he's really hearing what I'm trying to say. I think he'll hear my next sentence just fine, though. 'So, Sam, here's what's going to happen next. I'm going to saw through your chair, which will melt like butter under this baby, mostly because it's the easiest way to reach your balls. Then I'll hack through your cock, and I'll keep going, severing as many internal organs as I can, until you decide you want to talk, and I'm pretty sure it won't take too fucking long.' I give him my scariest face as I say it, the one that has death written all over it, and without any further warning I begin sawing away at the thin plastic. I get no more than two inches before Sam goes nuts.

  'Stop, stop! I'll talk! I'll talk! Please stop!' I decide to go another inch for good measure, watching him freak out big time, before stopping about a centimetre shy of his balls. I don't want him to change his mind, do I?

  Pulling the saw away and setting it down beside me, I say, 'Talk, and remember this is your last chance. Next time my saw isn't stopping until I've chopped you in two.' I sit back, cross my legs and wait to see what will happen. The bastard had better talk. I have no desire to get soaked in blood from top to toe, but once you've made a threat you have to go through with it, else no one will respect you. Mal needs to see I'm not a fucking pussy.

  'It was my brother, Tommy. He snitched. He's working for the police department. They got him on a drugs bust, and if he doesn't snitch he's going down for life.' This explains why Sam was so reluctant to talk. It's never nice to drop family members in it.

  'Foolish boy,' Mal comments slowly behind me. 'Life imprisonment is a picnic compared to what happens when you annoy me.' He passes me his gun. Very trusting is our Mal. 'Shoot him,' he says.

  There's no point pissing about, so I do. I shoot him right between the eyes and put the poor bloke out of his misery. He doesn't get the chance to utter a word before his face goes slack. Poor bastard. I don't even want to think about what's going to happen to his brother. Sighing, I wipe my blood-spattered hands down my jeans and try to ignore that I smell like an abattoir. And there will be worse smells around than me in a few minutes.

  'Good work; you pass with flying colours,' Mal remarks dryly, holding his hand out for the gun. I wonder what's to stop me from shooting him right here and now. Oh, I know I'll die shortly afterwards as the men behind me come running, but it might almost be worth it.

  'I wouldn't try it if I were you,' He says, intercepting my thoughts. 'There was only one bullet in that gun, and it would be a shame to put an end to such a promising relationship.' See? I knew there was a reason I should just hand the thing back.

  Placing the pistol carefully in Mal's hands, I watch as he reloads it and places it back in his waistband.

  'You need a shower before we continue,' he remarks, pointing to the small bedroom where Harper remains tied to the wall. 'Oh, and take the pliers and saw with you. They have possibilities.'

  They have what? Now I really don't want to know what's going to happen later this evening. If I have to use them on Harper, Brandt is going to take me apart piece by piece. Jesus Christ, what is wrong with this man?

  Picking up the tools I begin walking away, trying to put as much distance between me and Mal as I can.

  'I didn't mean the handsaw,' he says to my retreating back.

  Chapter Eleven - Brandt

  Helena doesn't make it to the door before I'm on her. Whipping one hand around her neck I crush her to my body, so she can feel the weight of my erection against her naked body. She started this. Now she can have a taste of her own medicine.

  'Let me go!' she shrieks, pounding her fists again my chest. Grabbing them both with one hand I twist them to the side, gripping her chin with my other hand so she has to face me.

  'There is no baby, is there?' I whisper. Now that I'm beginning to calm down my brain is once again trying to function. It's not the easiest with a beautiful naked body pressed against me, but it's a challenge I feel sure I can overcome. When Helena doesn't answer I shake her so hard that strands of her elaborate hair-do unravel.

  'Answer me!' I bark when the room goes silent. But she does no such thing. Instead she looks at me with venom and shakes her head. So, the woman has secrets. This should be interesting.

  'Do you really want to go down this route?' I ask. It's a pointless question. I already know the answer because I can see the excitement in her eyes. The woman wants to know what I'm made of, and I'm about to show her.

  Not bothering to give her an opportunity to answer I pick her up and throw her on the bed. I sling her over my knees and press the back of her head into the champagne rose-covered bedspread. She starts struggling, but when I press her face into the soft mattress she stops almost as quickly. I could smother her with virtually no effort, and she knows it.

  'Want to die, Helena?' I push her face harder into the mattress. I want to scare her - not too much, but enough.

  'You wouldn't hurt me,' she pants, when I let her up for air. She's wrong. I'm quite happy to hurt her, and I'm almost looking forward to it.

  Raising my hand I let it swoop down hard on her ass cheeks. There is no warm-up. I want to let her know exactly what she is dealing with. Another ten swats follow, all in quick succession. I'm not feeling very patient. It takes another ten before I know I'm getting somewhere. That's when her ass starts to redden, and her little squeaks of displeasure turn to groans of pain.

  'Let me know when you're ready to talk,' I say amiably. 'I'm in no hurry. I can quite happily do this all night.' I'm not lying. I could do this all night, but I won't have to. Harper's fragile body is far s
tronger than this one will ever be. Helena isn't used to pain. She hasn't had a proper taste of it, but I'm about to give her one.

  'Fuck off, Browning,' she shrieks. 'You have no idea what you're dealing with. When I tell Mal he'll cut your pretty little princess in two. Don't think I don't know you've got the hots for her. Anyone with half a brain could see you looking. She's white trash, Browning, and soon enough she'll be right back where she belongs. Mal has plans for her.' The last sentence ends on a squeak as I pummel the hell out of her ass. My hand slams down so hard the bed shudders.

  'So what am I dealing with? Why don't you enlighten me, darling?'

  Unfortunately for Helena, she can barely speak at the minute. Until I let up on the demanding rhythm of spanks I'm hammering down on her ass, she's going to find it rather difficult to concentrate, and I'm damned if I'm going to do that for the next five minutes at least. I'm enjoying myself far too much to stop now.

  The redder her ass gets the more frantic her struggles become. It doesn't bother me. She can struggle as much as she wants; there's no way she's getting away from me. She earned this, and she is going to feel my displeasure. When the tears come a few minutes later, just as I expected they would, I don't feel an ounce of guilt. Anyone who can sell me out to Mal Adley is not to be pitied. If you're in league with the devil, you need to make damn sure you can handle the heat.

  'Stop, stop,' she whimpers, mewling and snuffling and clawing at the sheets. But I'm not stopping; not until I'm good and ready. 'I'll talk. I'll talk. Please stop.' This doesn't sway me either.

  Eventually, when she gives up pleading with me, and when my hand stings like a bastard, I end on a catastrophic smack that sends her whole body reeling. She shrieks like a banshee but says nothing further. At this moment in time she couldn't string two sentences together, even if she wanted to.

  She tries to get up immediately, of course, but I don't let her. I'm going to keep her right here, with all her juicy little bits exposed, until she gives me what I want. I'm not entirely sure what that is, but I'll figure it out as I go along.