“There.” Tomor finished carving a neat, precise cut in Otis Webb’s throat, so close to the carotid he could see the bared artery quickly pulsating in the bloody flesh. He put the razor-sharp scalpel in front of his nose, smelled the coppery blood, and turned to the teenager. “You get the honor.”
David accepted the small shard of metal and glanced at the naked man, gagged and taped to the table between them, eyes wide with terror. Sweat ran down Webb’s trembling body, and the acrid stench of urine mingled with the metallic warmth of blood. With the two cadavers on the floor, the whole place stank like a slaughterhouse.
David threw a pleading look to Larsen, but the grinning man flashed his teeth back in an uglier smirk. “Will make a man of ya.”
Excerpt from Wild Hearted.