A Hand in Hell

"You're not trying to sneak out the window, are you?" I called dryly through the closed bathroom door, watching absently as the amber of scotch at the bottom of my glass became a small whirlpool. "You're more likely to get stuck than you are to actually escape."

"I'm not stupid," Dexter replied in a huff, and the sound of a zipper punctuated her sentence. "I know I wouldn't be able to fit."

I smiled at my little whirlpool. "Not that I would be able to hunt you down and punish you? Just that you wouldn't fit through the window?" I heard her heave an angry sigh, but the sound of a jingling bell quickly covered it. My smile widened — was she putting her collar back on? Just for me? "Are you ready yet?" I asked when she didn't answer, and the doorknob twisted in response. "Finally," I remarked wryly, grinning at her as she appeared in the hallway, her hair damp and stringy about her shoulders. "You've been in there forever." My eyes slid along her frame, taking in the sight of her own skinny jeans and pastel pink tank top, and I nodded my approval — but she wasn't wearing the collar. We would have to remedy that later. "You look much better in your own clothes. I'm glad I decided to grab them for you."

"They're not mine, actually," she said, and if looks could kill, I would've…well, I wouldn't have been dead, but I might have been gravely wounded by the intensity of her glare. "They're Vicky's."

She pushed past me and started down the hallway, heading toward the stairs, but I caught her wrist. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Downstairs," she answered, scowling at my fingers around her arm as she tried to pull free of my grasp and failed. "I'm hungry."

"Where's your collar?" I asked, and pursed my lips.

"In the trash in the bathroom," she said, still struggling to free herself, but to no avail.

"Why?"

"Because I'm not wearing it anymore," she snapped, raising her glare to my face. "Now let me go."

I clucked my tongue in disapproval, jerking her back toward me with a tug at her wrist, and I caught her other arm in the same hand as I slammed her back against the wall. "You forget your place so soon?" I half-asked, my eyes on my half-empty glass as I swirled my alcohol once more. She tried to pull free of my hold, tugging more and more forcefully, but though I held her wrists with only one set of frail-looking fingers, she didn't manage to wiggle more than a centimeter. "I wouldn't recommend fighting me so much," I drawled, my gaze flicking to her face, twisted in frustration. "You know I can do a lot worse than make you wear a collar with a cute little bell."

She huffed but stopped struggling, though she continued to glare at me. "Come on. Please, let me go. I just want to go eat something."

"Put the collar on, and I'll make you dinner," I said, releasing her wrists with what I hoped was an incredibly infuriating smile. It felt like sugar sprinkled on sprinkles sprinkled on a pound of vanilla icing in the shape of a flower atop a sixteen-layer cake of the sweetest chocolate — it made my cheeks hurt as much as my teeth would've after taking a bite of that shit.

"You're going to try to drug me or something, aren't you?" she grumbled, rubbing at her wrists as if I'd actually hurt her.

I waved a hand dismissively and downed the remainder of my scotch in a single gulp. "Drugs are for people who can't easily overpower their victims," I said, licking my lips. "But it could also be hilarious. Thank you for the idea, Dexter dearest. I'll be sure to implement it on one of my darker days." I gripped her shoulder and pulled her away from the wall, then gave her a little shove toward the open bathroom door. "Now, go. Get your collar. I want to hear you jingling while we go down the stairs." If looks could kill…But she headed obediently into the bathroom, and at the sound of the tiny bell, I smiled a smile that was bound to give Dexter diabetes when she saw it. "Good girl!" I chirped happily, giving her a pat on the head the second she reappeared in the hallway. "Now, let's go make you some dinner." I started down the hallway toward the stairs and grinned down at my glass, though the vast empty space nearly rent my heart in two. "What would you like to eat on this fine, fine evening, baby girl?"

I was on the stairs by the time I heard the tinkling of her bell as she trailed along behind me. "I don't know," she muttered, and the top step creaked beneath her weight. "What do you have to eat here? Do demons even eat people food?"

I chuckled darkly. People food — as if she was the cognizant being and I was the cattle. "Technically, no, we don't." I shot her a bright smile, showing all of my pearly whites, when I reached the bottom of the stairs. "We eat people as our food."

Her lip curled, and I turned from her as I crossed the soft white carpet of the living room. "So what do you have here, then?"

"A little bit of this, a little bit of that." I shrugged, my bare feet finding the cool tile of the kitchen floor now. "You'll just have to take a look in the cabinets." I clunked my tumbler down on the counter and unscrewed the cap of a bottle of Jose Cuervo to the rhythm of her fingernails drumming on the center island counter behind me.

"Just choose something," she said, and I glanced over my shoulder to find her looking around the room. "I just want to eat something, and the sooner I can, the better."

"Want an omelet?" I asked as I turned back to my glass and filled it nearly to the brim with tequila. "I've always had a bit of an affinity for eggs, so I know I have enough of those to make you a quick meal."

"I hate eggs," she said flatly, and as I turned to face her now, recapping the bottle of good ol' Jose, I found her perched on the edge of a barstool at the counter across from me.

"Good, good," I said with a wry smile. "Wouldn't want us to have anything in common, now, would we, dollface?" She rolled her eyes, and I plopped the bottle on the counter and immediately took up my glass. "I think I have some bread, butter, and cheese. Will grilled cheese work for you?" I leaned against the counter, tucking my left arm beneath my drinking arm as I paused to take a sip. "I'm not particularly fond of it, if that'll influence your decision at all."

She smiled, and the sardonic edge to it reminded me of myself. "That'll be perfect, thanks."

I put my tumbler down and opened an overheard cupboard, pulling out a barely touched loaf of bread and a plate, then crossed the room to pull a bowl of butter and a couple of slices of American cheese from the top shelf. All the while, I could feel her eyes on my back, nearly burning a hole into the back of my skull, and I finally cracked a smile as I put everything on the counter by the plate and opened a drawer to fish out a butter knife. "Have you ever considered that you might have a staring problem?" I asked teasingly, picking up my glass and taking another sip before I'd even put the knife down.

Without missing a beat, she retorted, "Have you ever considered that you might have a drinking problem?" I was a little taken aback by her boldness, but I didn't let it show on my face as I turned toward her, picking the knife up again from where I'd lain it across the plate.

"Oh, come, now, sweetie," I laughed, rounding the island counter to stand before her. She stared boldly up at me until I touched the dull edge of the butter knife to her cheek, her features tightening into what she was likely hoping she could pass off as anger but that we both knew was only fear. "I've got plenty of problems," I started in a low voice, a voice that bordered on seductive, as I drew the blade lightly across her skin, "and alcoholism is the least of them." I watched her throat shift as she swallowed, and a sick desire to watch her squirm sent a warm tingle through me, familiar and enticing.

Her body went rigid as I guided the knife down her jawline and along the side of her neck to the top of her collar, and I could almost hear it as her heart hammered in her chest, as her breath stopped, as adrenaline pulsed through her veins like the most potent drug. "I'd think you'd be a little more grateful, considering I let you out of the basement," — I maneuvered the knife over the collar and across her collarbone, my eyes on hers as the blade made its slow descent along her chest — "considering I let you shower, considering I'm even offering to make you a meal." I set my glass quietly on the counter and gripped the edge of the stool beside her thigh, the knife never leaving her skin as I turned the seat to force her to face me fully. My face was closer to hers now as I bent over her, and I could hear her trembling inhalation, feel her quavering exhalation, as the blade dipped between her breasts. "I even brought clothes for you from your apartment. Isn't that nice of me?" I murmured, guiding the knife over the top of her left breast, a twinge in my groin urging me toward darker motives.

"They're not even my clothes," she said in an airy whisper, her voice shaking along with her breath. "You've forced me into my dead friend's clothes. You're not nearly as benevolent as you seem to think you are."

I sighed and leaned away from her, pulling the knife from her cleavage and taking up my glass as I stood. "Yeah, well, benevolence has never really been my thing. Under normal circumstances, you wouldn't even be alive right now. I don't quite know what to do with you, to be honest." I dropped the knife on the counter before her with a clatter and smiled. "Make your own dinner, baby girl. I'm not feeling so generous anymore." I leaned against the counter beside her stool and held her gaze calmly, watching as she pursed her lips and scowled. "What?" I asked when she slid from her stool with more force than necessary and snatched the butter knife from the counter. "It's not like you actually wanted me to make you dinner, anyway. You don't seem to like it very much when I'm nice to you."

"I don't like being anywhere near you," she said in a strained voice, her back to me as she opened the bag that held the bread with much rustling of the plastic. "I hate you for what you've done to me, and I just want to go home."

I cocked an eyebrow. "Well, that's a little irrelevant to dinner, don't you think?" I turned to face her, leaning my elbows against the counter as I took another swig of my tequila, and she shot me a glare over her shoulder. "Really, it's just grilled cheese. There's no reason to have so many feelings about it."

"Grah!" she shrilled, and the plate was suddenly soaring through the air toward me, the white porcelain glinting at me in the low light of the overhead lamps. I watched with little more than curiosity as it sailed over my shoulder and shattered noisily on the floor behind me, then I turned to her, my eyebrow arched in puzzlement.

"Your aim is terrible, baby girl," I said, setting my glass down on the counter with a clank and making my way toward a cupboard beside the fridge. "I take it you never played softball like your sister?" I asked, and her shocked gasp brought a smile to my face as I pulled the cabinet door open. "Carried her team to victory all through high school, didn't she? Went on to be a bit of a pro in college, too, right?" I grinned bitingly at her as I pulled a grocery bag from the sack on the cupboard's lowest shelf, and I couldn't tell if she wanted to cry or punch me in the face. "Still playing for the Akron Racers, isn't she?"

"How…How do you know that?" she breathed, the words barely audible even in the silence of the room.

I shrugged and returned to the pile of shattered porcelain on the floor, kneeling next to it. "I told you that I could find out everything I needed to know about your loved ones." I picked up the largest shard and dropped it in the bag, continuing as the pieces shrank in size. "The Internet's quite the handy tool, you know. You can find anything and everything there, given enough time."

"You said you wouldn't find them!" she yelled. "You promised that you would only kill the one!"

I sighed and rolled my eyes as I scooped up the last of the shards, nearly cutting my palm on one of them. "How many times do I have to tell you that I don't make promises?"

"You can't kill them!"

"Actually," I began, rising to my feet with the bag in hand, "I can do whatever I want. Remember, you're the captive, and I'm —" I started to turn toward her, and my words died away with a grunt as the tip of a dull blade punctured my stomach. Naturally, there she was, clutching the handle of the butter knife as blood trickled down it. There were tears in her eyes to accompany the fear, and I felt my lips tighten into a thin line. "Really?" I said flatly, and her fingers slipped from the knife as she staggered backward, likely surprised that I wasn't crumpling into a whimpering ball on the floor. "A butter knife?" I asked, wrapping my fingers around the handle, watching when her back hit the counter and she had nowhere else to go. "You tried to kill me —" I jerked the knife free with a grunt. "— with a fucking butter knife?" I tossed it aside, and it clinked and clanged as it bounced across the tile, likely smearing blood all over my sparkling-clean floors. The vague, throbbing pain in my abdomen was nothing compared to the annoyance I felt.

"Get on the counter," I all but growled.

Her brow furrowed in confusion, though fear still swam with the tears in her eyes. "W-what?"

"Get on the counter," I said again, more slowly this time, and jabbed a finger toward the center island counter, empty but for my tumbler full of tequila. "Lie flat on your back on the Goddamned counter, or you're not going to like what I decide to do to you instead."

She pressed herself into the counter's edge, no doubt wishing she had somewhere to run. "Look, I just panicked," she said, her voice trembling. "It didn't even hurt you! Can't we just…Can't we just forget about it? Or something?" I took a step toward her, and she let out a soft cry of terror, squirming against the counter. The scent of fear was heavy on the air, and it reminded me of the early morning hours, when I'd first had her in the basement, when she'd first realized how truly fucked she was…

I paused and let my eyes drift shut, taking a deep breath through my nose. Ah, there it was — hot and sweet and intoxicating, like my favorite cinnamon whiskey. My aggravation seeped away, replaced by the spicy contentment of this terror-brewed liquor, and I let my eyelids flutter open as a smirk curved my lips.

"I wonder why you're so scared now," I murmured, taking a step forward, the grocery bag full of broken porcelain brushing against my leg, "when you were so brave just a second ago." I took another step toward her, watching her body as she writhed against the counter's edge, and said lowly, "Now, get on the counter."

"But…But I…" Her wild eyes searched mine desperately, but I only smiled and shook my head. "Come on! I thought we were past this!"

"Then you stabbed me with a butter knife," I told her, then said more sharply, "On your back on the counter. Now." She stared at me for only a moment longer before she finally turned from me to pull herself onto the counter top. I stepped closer as she lay lengthwise across it, only her feet hanging off the edge, and I watched as her chest rose and fell with quick, jerky breaths.

"What are you going to do to me?" she whimpered, watching me out of the corner of her eye as I bent over the counter.

I rested my elbow on the edge and picked up my glass of tequila, dropping the bag onto the counter beside her with the tinkling of porcelain as I took a swig of my drink. "Put this plate you've broken to good use." Her eyes darted to me as she gasped, and I grinned down at her to bear all of my pretty white teeth. "I'm big on recycling, if you haven't noticed — bags, bottles, corpses. Anything can be used twice, you know." I pulled the bag open with my free hand and fished out a particularly large chunk of porcelain, brandishing it in front of her face between my thumb and forefinger. "This is going to be fun, isn't it? Almost as fun as you stabbing me in the stomach with a butter knife." She started to sit up, terror dancing in her eyes and swirling into my nostrils with the breeze of her movement, but I shoved her down with a firm hand to the chest. "If you try to move, you'll only hurt yourself," I said smilingly, straightening from my lean against the counter, and she started to hyperventilate as I guided the jagged tip of the shard down her chest and over her stomach.

But why was she so scared, a part of me wondered? She'd been so bold lately, even when strapped to the table in the basement. Had her anger just faded enough that she could feel fear again? Did she feel more vulnerable with only her will holding her down and no leather restraints?

Humans. I'd never understand them.

"I'm sure this'll hurt less than taking a dull butter knife to the small intestine," I said as I began to draw a light circle over top of the pink fabric across her belly, quietly setting my glass down on the counter beside me. "At least, in theory."

Her shriek shattered the tense silence of the room as I plunged the tip of the shard into her stomach. Blood spurted up my arm, and I smiled wickedly as she writhed upon the counter top. I forced the piece of porcelain in deeper, more and more blood leaking out to color my skin. The more she squirmed, the more flesh was broken, and the more flesh that was broken, the louder she screamed. I released the duller end of the shard, and when she reached for it, I caught her wrists and pinned her arms above her head.

"Calm down," I whispered as her screams faded into pained sobs, her warm breath wafting over my face, only inches from her lips. "Struggling will only make things worse." Taking both of her wrists in one hand, still bending over her, I used my free hand to pull another shard from the grocery bag beneath my stomach. "Now, where do you want this one?" I ran the tip along the side of her throat, tapping the tip against the bell to set it jingling when I reached her collar. "The thigh, perhaps? The cheek?" I guided it along her collarbone, down her chest, and began to trace small ovals on the top of her right breast. "Or what about right here?"

"Stop," she breathed, tears streaking her fair cheeks as she gazed pleadingly up at me. "Please, stop. You've done enough, haven't you?"

I chuckled, dropping my gaze to where the shard kept its rhythm atop her breast. Her skin trembled as she gently sobbed, her breasts jiggling as she panted, and another sharp throb between my legs nearly pulled a groan from me. Nothing got my motor running like a little light torture — well, other than heavy torture, anyway.

"Where's the fun in that?" I asked, hooking a finger in her top and beginning to pull it down to show some more skin. She wasn't wearing a bra, I noticed almost immediately. Only an inch more, and she would be revealed to me…

"I'm sorry, Vera dear," came a familiar masculine drawl, "but I'll have to be cutting your fun a little bit short this evening." I whipped around to find myself face to face with none other than the leader of the Demon Council — alone, oddly enough — and I felt my ire rise even as the soothing scent of human blood tickled my nose. "We need to discuss some of your more recent…atrocities."

Vera dear? I would have to kill him. No doubt about that.