Encore of the Avenging Muse (Sylvia and Rupert)

Sylvia stared at Mark as he approached, her body heavy as lead. She tried to push herself off the chair, but couldn't so much as twitch a finger.

Mark stopped in front of her, taking his sweet time. He crouched down, his fingers brushing over her cheek and tracing down her back.

"Damn, what a perfect complexion. No wonder you fetch a higher price than the rest. Don't worry, I'll be careful."

Price? Skin? The words rattled in Sylvia's foggy mind.

She managed to force her lips apart, her voice shaky and slow. "W-what do you mean, price? What... skin?"

Just saying that felt like it drained every last drop of her energy. Her limbs went limp, sprawled uselessly on the floor.

Mark's lips curled into a grin, as if he'd just remembered something delicious. His hands twitched with excitement.

He leaned in closer, his breath reeking of whiskey. "You've been sold, sweetheart."

Sylvia's brain reeled. She tried to twist away, her teeth grit with effort. "No! Stop! Don't you'll bruise me! You'll ruin the look!"

Mark only laughed, then drove his boot down on her desperately scrabbling fingers.

Pain shot up her arm, sharp enough to make her gasp-but her voice barely made it out.

He hoisted her onto the long oak dining table with disturbing ease, then pulled out a length of bright red rope-something he'd probably picked up at a hardware store, though it looked custom-made for this. He tied her wrists and ankles to the table legs, every knot secure and practiced.

When everything was set, Mark poured himself a glass of bourbon, swirling it slowly as he looked her over from head to toe.

the sedative. You won't feel any pain- actually, you might

toast, then dropped

deeply. When he opened them again, there was nothing but wild, feverish

pulled a plastic coverall from his bag and slipped it on, his fingers grazing over an array of gleaming knives. He finally

table, her limbs bound

watch as Mark brought the scalpel to her cheek, his voice a low, chilling

throw up. Now she understood—his “inspiration” had always come from

he was just private, maybe even romantic. But his muses had never

then paused at the

Rip.

split open

over her skin, making appreciative

"You'll be my masterpiece."

time... you'll

touched her

's

get

violently, a o

out of her very

felt like

by