Page 20 of Ravage
She's preparing for something that requires cash purchases and battle armor in the form of a fuck-me dress.
She's coming to Hell.
The thought shouldn't excite me.
This is dangerous—having her in my space, so close to the truth.
But I'm curious.
What does trauma look like when it grows up?
What kind of woman does violence create?
I'm about to find out.
Present Night…
Purgatory thrums with its usual Friday night energy.
I sit in my seat in the corner of the club, watching how Hell is particularly busy tonight.
A senator who likes to watch his wife get fucked by other men while he cries.
A CEO who pays to be tortured by women who remind him of his mother.
A federal prosecutor who likes to be choked until he passes out, then revived, then choked again.
The usual depravity of the powerful.
My phone buzzes.
Lucian:
Heard you're in Hell tonight. Try not to make too much of a ruckus.
I don't respond.
Lucian owns Purgatory, but Hell is my domain.
We have an understanding—he provides the venue, I provide the protection and many of the "special" participants.
The ones who aren't here by choice, who owe debts that can only be paid in flesh and humiliation.
Speaking of which?—
"Bring her in," I tell Lionel through my earpiece.
The woman who betrayed me is dragged in crying.
She sold information about my shipping routes to the Covenant—a rival organization trying to move into my territory.
The man she sold to is already dead, shot three times in the face and left in his apartment for his wife to find.
But she requires a different kind of punishment.
Public. Memorable.
She's sobbing, begging, but I'm only half-listening.
