To throw a bucket of paint on the Mona Lisa would be a sacrilege. This is no different. It’s a sin to spoil something so utterly perfect. After having lived in filthy, stinking conditions for all my childhood and most of my adolescent life, I’ve cultivated a taste for beauty and everything aesthetically appealing to the eye. I prefer dress shirts to casual wear, designer brands over no-name labels. And I can’t stomach seeing a priceless portrait vandalized.
Tearing my gaze away from the disturbing sight of her injured midriff, I go higher and am rewarded with those plump breasts. Her nipples are pink and delicate, like icing on a cake. The memory of how they tasted makes my mouth water.
I drag my gaze back to her face. She watches me quietly, accepting the inevitable law of our kind even as a fresh layer of sweat shines on her forehead. Most captives are tortured naked. Not only does it make it easier to access all the body parts, but it also adds an element of psychological vulnerability.
Dunking a sponge in the bucket, I soap it well. Her lips part slightly as I crouch down in front of her and bring the wet sponge to her foot. She jerks at the first contact, then gasps. The water is cold, but it’ll be a welcome relief once she gets used to it. It’s as hot as a furnace in here.
“What are you doing, Yan?”
Fuck. The way she says my name makes me harder than I already am. As strange as it is, touching her feels like a homecoming—not that I’d know what that feels like. I’ve never had a home, at least not in the safe, comfortable sense. “What does it look like?”
“Why are you doing it, then?” Her voice is soft, as soft as her smooth skin under the palm I glide up her calf.
Why indeed? Because she’s a Mona Lisa, and I’m fascinated with this strange woman who’s smaller than most, but does the job of big, merciless men like me. Because she’s pretty, and I can’t stop looking at her. Because maybe, just maybe, I still want to believe in her. Something about her touches a nerve of humanity I didn’t know I still had. Or maybe it’s because seeing her dirty brings back unwelcome, deep-buried memories of being filthy and hungry. I can still taste that misery. It tastes too much like stale bread and despair.
“Because I want to lay your body out in your coffin like the piece of art you are.” I say the last part like an insult, but honestly, she deserves a glass coffin like Snow White, so everyone can admire her as much in death as in life.
Her throat moves as she swallows, but I can’t make myself regret my cruel words.
The pain of her betrayal is too fresh, too raw.
“How are you going to do it?” she asks hoarsely.
“Do what?”
“Kill me.”
I imagine her lifeless body on the ground. Not by knife. Too messy for her paper-white skin. Not by strangling. It’ll leave bruises on her slender neck. Poison, maybe. A cruel death, but it would leave her unmarred.
“Cooperate,” I say, “and we may consider letting you go.”
Empty words. Meaningless. And her silence says she knows that.
Meticulously, I sponge her down, working my way down from her waist. I wash away the sweat and dirt. I wash away the smell of the men who captured her, even if said smell is only a concept in my mind. I trail the soapy sponge up the inside of her thigh, watching her face as I drag it over the delicate petals of her sex.
Memories of how hard her pussy worked to take my cock, of how beautifully she stretched for me and how tightly she gripped me when she climaxed, work me into a frenzy. Her lips part, the swollen bottom one stirring something fiercely protective in my chest. She squirms in the chair as I part her folds with two fingers and drag the sponge down her slit. Her chest rises and falls faster. I circle her clit twice before I stop the cruel teasing and move to her other leg.
I wash her stomach and sides, trailing my hands extra gently over the bruised skin to assess the damage to her ribs. Nothing seems to be broken, but she sucks in a breath as I poke around her flesh. Finally, I have a chance to study her tattoo. Tilting my head, I read the script.
In aeternum vivi. Adéla & Johan.
I’m mostly self-educated, which means I’ve taught myself all sorts of nonstandard stuff—like basic Latin. So I know what her tattoo says.
Forever alive.
What’s that about? I’ll have to ask her about it later.
Dipping the sponge in the bucket, I soak up a good deal of water and dribble it between her breasts. Mesmerized, I watch the rivulets run into the hollow of her navel, over the belly ring and her mound, and between her folds. Her nipples tighten, and I pay them extra attention with the sponge, as well as the under-curves of her breasts.
When I’m done playing with her breasts, I move to her neck. The arch of that column is elegant, delicate like the intricate detail of the hummingbird tattooed there. I looked it up after that night in Budapest. The pretty little bird is a symbol of life. A strange symbol for a killer to wear.
My attention moves to her beautiful face. My palm would easily cover all four of the senses situated there. If I stretch my hand just so, I could seal her eyes, nose, mouth, and block her ears with my fingers. Such a delicate thing. Maybe smothering would be the perfect way for her to go.
I carefully wash the dried blood from her split lip and confirm it’s the only cut on her body.
