Page 72 of Emperor of Corruption
“The blade the first one had was nice—too nice for your casual street mugger,” Locke says from the driver’s seat. “There’s something off about this, boss. Something’s not right. Those guys were organized, and they seemed to have a plan.”
I cock my head to the side, blowing out a long breath. “Do you think they were under orders?”
“I think it’s possible. Even plausible.”
That is abigfucking problem. Lyra’s too insignificant for the time, attention, and money it’d take to order a mugging—which means that, if the two idiots were told to go after her, whoever paid them was probably trying to land a blow at me.
And, considering Locke’s intervention that ended with one of them dead and another soon to die, I’ve just proven that Lyradoesmean something to me.
Which she doesn’t. Shecan’t.
And yet… the feeling of her crying in my arms as a result of pain another man inflicted on her was nearly enough to bring me to my knees. I was planning to stay with her, bathe her, feed her dinner and hold her until she fell asleep—which is beyond unheard of for me.
“You sure you want to join in on this, boss?” Locke asks. “It’s going to get ugly.”
A smile splits my cheeks. “That’s what I’m counting on.”
Locke carries the soon-to-be-dead fuck into the warehouse I have set aside for such times, down a set of staircases hidden beneath a box of crates, and into what he refers to as his personal playground. The mugger’s wrists go into a pair of manacles, and he’s completely suspended from the ceiling, tied at his feet and fully immobile. I sit on a shitty folding chair in front of him while Locke collects several tools hanging from the walls.
The mugger starts to come to when his entire bodyweight hinges on his limp wrists, but he snaps fully awake when he seesmesitting in front of him. Recognition flashes through his eyes as he looks at the blood-stained cement walls and floor with a drain, then sees Locke, who’s holding several repurposed garden tools in his hands.
“This can be quick or it can be slow,” I say, my voice distant. “I’m pissed off, so I prefer the slow route, but I’ll give you the chance to change that. I have questions that I’d like answered; you will either answer them freely, or Locke here will…persuadeyou to answer."
The man releases a pathetic, high-pitched whimper.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
He licks his lips, jerking at his chains. When he realizes they have no give, he says, “Floyd.”
“You mug people for a living, Floyd?”
He pauses, then nods frankly. “I’m sorry about the girl. I didn’t know she was yours. I—”
“She’snotmine,” I growl, holding up a hand. “But that doesn’t mean she’s anyone else’s, either. She’s certainly notyoursto fuckaround with.” I brace my elbows on my knees and lean forward. “Were you waiting for her tonight?”
He hesitates. “No.”
I flick a glance at Locke. My chief bodyguard lifts up a pair of clippers, reaches for Floyd’s hands, and neatly slices off his thumb.
Floyd releases a scream that bounces off the soundproof walls and grates against my ears. It lasts for an impressive stretch of time—enough for Locke to shoot me a bemused look, and for me to lean back with a bored sigh.
Blood streams from the stump where Floyd’s thumb was, coating his forehead, face, and neck, staining his already filthy shirt.
The sight is only mildly satisfying. Lyra was shaking like someone stuck in Antarctica without a jacket when I saw her. Only a painful, gruesome, prolonged death will make up for what was done to her.
“Try again,” I say when Floyd’s screech turns into a girlish whimper. “Were you waiting for her tonight?”
“Fuck—yes,” Floyd cries out.
Fury skitters up my spine and sets my blood ablaze. I rise from the chair so abruptly it tips over and snatch the clippers from Locke’s hand.
I want to skin Floyd alive for his crimes, but I start with clipping off his index finger. When he screams like a little bitch, I snatch his index and thumb from the ground and stuff them into his open mouth.
He spits them out and throws up; I jerk to the side just in time to avoid being covered in vomit.
“I told you what you want!” he cries. “I told you—”
“You also went after someone who’s undermy protection.” Even if it’s just a temporary arrangement. “Who told you to wait for her?”
