Page 6 of Filthy Little Fix
"Lift him."
Luca grabs the guy by the hair, his ebony strands clutched in one rough hand, and yanks him upright, forcing him to his knees. Nyx grunts. A long, low sound. Almost like a sigh. Weird.
My eyes lock on him.
Young. Shockingly young. Early twenties, maybe thirty at a stretch. Sharp jaw, pointed chin. Curly black hair, messy. Skin pale and nearly translucent under the faint beam of light slicing through the ceiling. Light scratches mark his face where the sack scraped skin. His cheeks are flushed. Warmth radiates from his face and neck where Luca's hold strains him upright.
And he's not scared.
He looks… feverish.
His eyes—unnervingly light, some shade between gray and blue—blink painfully against the light.
And then, it feels like shit is getting weird.
There's no shock. No visceral fear, no soul-deep dread I'm used to seeing in people who cross my path—justcurious, almost bored eyes. Glazed. Unfocused.
My gaze drops with a predator instinct on autopilot. And stops.
What. The.Fuck.
Pushing hard against his worn-out jeans is the unmistakable outline of an erection. Obscene. Tense.
I glance at Luca. His usual poker face is cracked, for the first time in years, with genuine confusion. He looks at the guy, then at me, like we're both stuck in the same fucked-up hallucination.
I look back at Nyx. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't try to hide it. If anything, he meets my starehead-on, that ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. Like he'srevelingin this.
A bitter taste rises in my throat,disgustcurling inside me as I stare at him, the grotesque proof of whatever twisted game he's playing. But beneath it, something nameless. Something that makes my skin crawl in ways I can't quite explain—shametwisting my insides.
This isn't how a hostage behaves. This is not how a man responds when he's face-to-face with someone who could end him with a snap of the fingers.
"Nyx, I presume," I say, keeping my voice steady, pretending I'm not seconds away from short-circuiting.
Nyx tilts his head. That smirk widens just a hair. His voice, calm and teasing, strikes a nerve—enough to make me clench my fists and doubt my grip on control. "Depends who's asking. And what you're offering."
Offering? I kidnapped him. Cuffed him. And he's here, hard as a rock, asking what I have tooffer?
I stare again at the bulge in his pants, that grotesque, confusing proof. Is this some mindfuck game? Is hemessingwith me?
If so—fuck—it's working.
Or maybe he's just insane. Utterly,irreparablyfucked in the head.
Part of me can't look away.
"You think this is funny, you little shit?"
His eyes glint. "Funny's not the word I'd use. Stimulating, maybe. Alluring."
I've dealt with all kinds of filth in my life. Killers, traitors, full-blown psychos. But never—never—someone like him. Someone who seemed toget offon being kidnapped. Someone who stared into the abyss and, instead of flinching,leanedinto it, driven by a madness of his own.
Some twisted, microscopic part of me is curious. A sick need to see how deep this madness goes. To test the edges of the riddle kneeling in front of me.
I force myself to snap out of it. I needintel. I need tobreakNyx, find out who's leaking from the inside.
This entire charade—thisgrotesque distraction—is just noise.
How do you break someone whowantsto be broken? How do you threaten a man who sees threats asforeplay?
