Criminal Affinity [18+]

Chapter 27

  Is this what it feels like to be lonely?

| Finding Hope - Without you (ft. Holly Drummond) |

x  

Her lungs deflate in a hiss. She can't process what her eyes see. She doesn't want to see what is happening.

But that voice. No. No, it can't be.

Neil Leo's grinning face stares back from the projection.

"I present to you, Ava Steele. You may know her, hate her, fear her, want to fuck her—" He winks at the camera he's holding. "I know I do."

She doesn't recall walking again, but she stands right before the wall until it's consuming her.

His golden eyes wink hell back at her now, even though the projection.

Please please please.

"All of you have heard of her. This notorious cunt sneaks into places and kills people like it's a hobby. Takes pride in it. Doing 'good'. Evoking fear in every man's chest." A malicious, derisive smile accompanies his theatrical voice. "Stupid fucking bitch."

William's hall is sinking in silence, every eye watching. But the ringing in her ears could deafen a man.

"So I decided to do everyone a favor." Neil tips his head to the side, revealing a trace of blood down his neck. Her blood.

Oh god oh god oh god.

"I decided to tear her apart." He gives the same grin he'd given her that midnight in the cold room where he had...he had—"Quite literally."

Another wink before he grants the entire crowd a full view of her battered body—tied to the floor among cold dead bodies of children.

The hall flares with ruckus, zoning in on Ava. Vicious, cutting whispers as they pick apart her identity bit by bit. Everything she built up crumbles slowly as she watches and burns. Ava's face has been broadcasted so recklessly. A violent pulse comes alive under her skin like it did that night as she helplessly laid there.

As she helplessly stands now.

The atmosphere goes putrid with realization. Little noises of horror and shock fly completely past Ava. But some stay soundless as her.

Only staring.

"Look at her," Neil drags his words out as the camera zooms on her naked chest—down her stomach. Blood. So much blood. He'd slashed her flesh relentlessly, every scar a reminder on her skin. She did not have the guts to go under the knife again, so plastic surgery was out of question. "Not so much the femme fatale now, eh?"

"Fuck you," Her voice is a pathetic gurgle to her own ears. She had screamed so much the doctors took three months to get her to speak properly again. Yet her voice was never the same.

He'd filmed her that wretched night. He somehow found her and sent this to her as a poke, a threat. He wants her to know that none of this is over.

She had been too far gone to the pain and the loss of blood to notice his camera. She could've done nothing. Her arms were bound to the floor. A puddle of blood against her shoulder—where he had shot her. And a puddle beneath her midriff—where he had ripped her apart with his blades.

"Oh, baby," He crouches to get a better shot of her face. There is an angry bite mark on her left cheek. She recalls his habit. He'd always loved to bite her cheek when she talked. That time he'd made sure his teeth had broken skin and drawn blood. "You have no idea how much it turns me on to see you like this."