His Honored GuestMature

Thriller/Horror. Mr. Peterson entertains a guest. (I'm a newbie, but I hope you decide to collaborate! :D)

"There's nothing quite like cold sparkling water to quench one's thirst," Mr. Peterson said to his companion across the table as he set his tall glass down. "It's crisp, you know? And the bubbles, when they burn and fizzle in the throat!" He smiled, showing sharp, wolfish canines. "It's delightful."

He raised the glass for another sip, but froze halfway, the smile melting off his face as he caught sight of something unpalatable in his periphery. His eyebrows knitted together in a frown as his eyes fixated on a corner of the dining table.

"Tsk," he murmured with impatience. He leaned over, adjusted the tablecloth a fraction-of-an-inch to the right (moving the small bloodstain from view) then settled back into his chair. "There, that's much better."

He tipped the glass in his guest's direction. "Only the very best for you after all. All the details must be ab. so. lute. ly perfect." An amused grin tugged at the corner of his mouth and he took a long drink.

"Tell me, darling," he said, once the glass was empty, "is there anything you'd like to drink before we continue the night's festivities?" His tone was playful, almost nonchalant, though his eyes sparked with a near-feverish intensity. "We're nearing the end of our time together, and I wouldn't want you to be more uncomfortable than necessary."

The woman seated at the other end of the table loosed a feeble whimper through her duct-tape gag. Her head hung limp, moist tendrils of hair clinging to her sweat-drenched forehead and neck. Through the curtain of brunette locks, her white t-shirt (stained dark with something very much resembling dried blood) pulsed with each uneven breath. Her hands, wrapped around the back of the chair and chained together with multiple flex ties, were immobilized, useless.

"No? Very well then." Mr. Peterson unleashed an unsettling, wide smile, showcasing two rows of gleaming white teeth. He stood, taking slow, deliberate steps towards the woman, pulling on thick leather gloves in the process. He slid one hand across the hilt of an ornate silver dagger, itself lying innocuously on the dining table in front of the woman where the place setting might have been on a more typical night.

The woman managed to lift her head, eyes widening as she watched Mr. Peterson's delicate fingers caress the serrated blade. She had just enough energy left in her to let out a sob before the knife was at her throat and sawing, sawing away.

The End

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