Arrgh! The blade bit again, searing hot, icy cold. He clenched his teeth against the scream that threatened to burst from him. The smell of blood mingled with the stench of roses. Roses, always roses, whenever she was here. La Cuchilla. He’d lost track of how long it had been… “Don’t struggle, my pretty.” Her voice, so warm and caressing. “Give yourself over to the pain. Find the pleasure in it.” She leaned over him, frowning in concentration. Her breasts in the low-cut gown were inches from his face. Exquisite agony with each slow, deliberate slice of her blade, the blade for which she was named: La Cuchilla. “It’s art,” she told him. “You should thank me. Your friend was not so lucky.” She smiled as she sliced into his flesh. “Michael? What—” He bit down. The intense pain took him to the edge of fainting, but he would not… give in… Not… give… her the satis… faction… “Stubborn boy, aren’t you, my love?” The husky tones were almost seductive as she carved another slice in his flesh.
