Free Hellraiser (The Devil's Own #2) by Amo Jones Page A

against the tub. I placed my hand around her cheeks and pushed the bowl from the pipe into her mouth. Her eyes didn’t move from what they were doing, though her body tensed. I slammed her mouth closed and took the needle I had threaded. I waved it in front of her eyes and she began to stir, her head swaying in slow, distant movements as I lowered the needle down to the corner of her lip. Pressing roughly, the pop of her skin breaking as I pushed that first thread through rippled throughout the silent bathroom and a groan exited her mouth as the first bead of blood trickled over her chin. I stopped, dropping the needle and walked out to the living room. Spotting the old boom box, I picked it up and took it back to the bathroom, turning on a rock station. Slipknot’s “Killpop” filled the empty silence. I cranked my neck and rolled my shoulders before returning to the tub. I ran my eyes over Genna’s body, her fingers trembling with fear with what’s to come and the fact that she can’t do shit about it. I smirked, kneeling back down and picking up the needle to continue the task. Continuing the stitching on her mouth, each time I stabbed the needle into her soft lips, the same pop would vibrate against my fingers. Sweat was trickling down my forehead, and every time the blood would slip over her lips, it reminded me of the innocent blood of a virgin, my dick hardening in my pants at the thought. Once I formed the finished knot, her tears had streamed over her cheeks through the blood that was smeared over her mouth between the thread. I pushed off the tub and walked back to the counter, picking up the scissors and walking back. I bent down, cutting her little dress off of her down the middle until it sprawled off her body. I tilted my head at the skin and bones in front of me, my lips tightening. “Lucky you’re so skinny or I’d fuck you before I kill you.”
    Her weeping was coming in silent waves and I chuckled. “I haven’t even started.” She froze, her bloodshot eyes going wide. I picked one of the knives from the counter and stared blankly at it. “There’s something about knives…” I sat down on the side of the tub and pressed the tip of it just below her sternum. Pressing down roughly, I traced the sharp point all the way down the middle of her stomach, over her belly button, until I hit the top of her pelvic bone. The thin line remained with no change until the wound split and the white tissue under her skin was replaced with thousands of beading blood spots that filled the gaping slit. A bloodcurdling scream escaped her throat and I smiled, looking down at the cut. It was decent—for a kitchen knife, anyway. I removed my hoodie and placed it on top of the closed toilet bowl before picking up the seven butter knives I found in the kitchen. I walked back to the tub and took the sharp knife again, stabbing seven holes down the inside of the cut, moving around the blood which was spilling out of her. Her skin was white, her eyes were drifting closed, and I knew I was on limited time—but I needed her to feel everything. Picking up my speed, I placed each of the butter knives into each incision I had made in the wound, stretching the cut wide, displaying her stomach and internal organs. Blood. Blood was everywhere. The pulsing of her stomach proved she was still alive. I carried on, taking the lighter fluid and Zippo. Her eyes were flicking open every two seconds, her shoulder slacking in defeat. I poured the lighter fluid onto her organs before flicking open the Zippo, her Zippo, and throwing it into her stomach. I watched as the flames grew and until the air was filled with burnt bodily fluid and contents. The smell was sickening and would stick to my skin well after I departed, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t take my eyes away from the burning light in front of me. Once the smell of burnt flesh conquered the smell of burning internal organs, I turned the faucet on the shower until the flames