Page 108 of Killing Me Softly

“Ah, ah,” Mable tutted, moving around him to shove her knee into his chest for leverage and yanked his arms behind the chair. “You sit down. You’ve probably still got all those drugs in your system, no?”

Aaron thrashed wildly, wrists burning against the ropes.No, no, no.

Kenny should have won this. If he’d been at full strength, he would have had her on the fucking ground, bloodied and broken.But Mable knew exactly what she was doing. She’d planned for this. Who’d dosed him?Weakenedhim?

Dr Fucking Pryce!

It didn’t matter. Mable now had them both tied, helpless, exactly where she wanted him.

Aaron could have cried.

Mable clapped her hands together, vibrating with excitement. “Right, you know what we need?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She skipped off, boots clunking on the concrete floor, bloodstained knife swinging from her fingertips as she disappeared into the shadows of the warehouse. Aaron’s stomach twisted. The casualgleein her rummaging was worse than the violence. It meant she wasn’t acting on impulse. She was enjoying this.

Kenny twisted his hands against the ropes, testing them, but Mable had tied them well. Too well. He turned his attention to Aaron. “You hurt?”

All Aaron could do was shake his head. Then nod to him.

Kenny exhaled, forcing himself to still, to focus. “I’m okay.” He wasn’t. He was fucked. “Mel? Talk to me! Stay with us.”

Silence.

Then came a heavy, scraping noise, setting Aaron’s teeth on edge. Mable reappeared, pushing an antique wind-up gramophone across the floor, its wooden body scratched and worn with age. The brass horn, tarnished but still striking, gleaming under the weak overhead lights. She positioned it near the centre of the space, directly in front of them, then crouched beside it, winding the crank.

Click. Click. Click.

The spring inside tightened.

Kenny, ever the psychologist, read the room. He adjusted, recalibrated, and tried again. Calm but not placating. A subtle challenge laced in restraint. And his voice, when he finallyspoke, wasthoughtful. Measured. No false placation, no empty attempts at reason. Just quiet observation probing Mable to keep talking.

“Does that hold a special meaning for you, Mable?”

Aaron was just as captivated bythisKenny—the one who wielded words like scalpels—as he was by the Kenny who held him in the dark. He didn’t justseepeople; heunravelledthem, pulling apart their thoughts, their fears, their deepest wants with surgical precision.

God, Aaron hoped this worked. Hoped Kenny could talk them out of this, pull the right thread, say the right thing. Because if he did—if they made it out of this—Aaron was going to kiss him like he never had before.

Mable stilled. She didn’t answer his question, but they all knew the answer.

“You chose this for a reason.” Kenny’s gaze traced the gramophone, noting its worn edges, the care with which she positioned it. His gaze lifted, locking onto hers. Not a challenge. An invitation. “The setting. The atmosphere. The song you’re about to play. It’s all deliberate, isn’t it? You want this to mean something?”

A beat of silence.

Then, slowly, Mable’s lips curled. “Of course I do.”

Aaron held his breath. Kenny didn’t react. He just kept going, keeping the reins of control loose but present, leading without forcing.

“Then why rush it?” He tilted his head, reading the micro expressions flickering across her face. “You’ve put all this together. The effort, the preparation, it’s intricate. Purposeful. You don’t just want a reaction. You want an experience. A performance worth remembering.”

He let the words sit. Settle.

Then,gently, added,“And experiences like that… they take time.”

Mable paused for a fraction of a second. Then she lifted a finger and wagged it at him as if he were a naughty student. “Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re trying to not let me enjoy this. You’re putting a time pressure on me.” Her tone dripped with sweetness. “See,youunderstand the mind, right? The little neurons firing, the trauma responses, the whys of everything. You dissect people. Cut them open with words, label their wounds, put them inlittle boxes.”

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