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“I think…I think I’m in love with you.”
Those words, even though she’s not herself right now—spoken while mumbled and groggy and directed not to any particular person, but all of us in the dim light of the room—rip my chest wide open.
Ky is quick to reply. Without hesitation, he lays his emotions out alongside hers. “Baby girl, I love you too. You’ve had my heart for a long time now.” Tilting her sleepy face to meet him with a forefinger, he kisses her softly.
His soul is too fucking good for this world.
Ven grunts. But I know she wouldn’t expect anything more, or less, from him.
And I wish I could find some sort of response, or find adequate words, or tell her how I feel.
But, like a coward, I can only press my lips to her damp forehead.
How can I tell her, when she may never forgive me for what I’ve done.
For what I’m going to do.
55
I’m in the mood for a pre-dawn massacre.
Someone thinks they can threaten what belongs to me? They’d better be prepared for the river of blood that Port Macabre is about to be fed with.
As soon as it happened, I knew exactly where I intended to start. With the man cuffed to the chair in front of me, who is currently choking behind the thick layer of tape covering his mouth.
His greasy hair is already slick with blood from where I’ve carved her name in the side of his face. The white silk pajamas he’s wearing are equally drenched where he’s pissed himself, added to the crimson free-flowing down his neck. Reminders of the last time this piece of shit dared lay hands on Foxglove Noire are still present. Stitches run up the side of his jaw, and mottled bruising hasn’t yet faded below his skin.
Massimo Ilone has been marked for death for a long time in my eyes. Looks like he’s the lucky one who will get my undivided attention today, until he starts squealing.
I run my fingertips over the tools laid out on the dining table beside me. At times like this, I prefer to get creative. Finding whatever I can use is all part of the process. Because there’s nothing quite like watching the horror play out on their faces when realization dawns that you’re about to saw off their hand with their own bread knife. In this case Massimo has quite the collection of helpful implements. A power drill. Hand saw. Kitchen blender. Any of those will do nicely.
His wild eyes follow every movement as I hover over the drill, tapping my rings against the long, thick metal attachment. It’s designed for boring holes into wood, and I’m certain his skull will crack nicely with that churning against his temple.
Thorne shifts his weight, leaning against the table behind me. Watching on.
The fucker followed me when I left the compound under the cover of darkness, but didn’t say a word.
In fact, he hasn’t said much at all since last night, and while his quiet frequency matches my own most of the time, this feels different.
There are too many secrets, and right now I want to hack open as many chests as I possibly can until I get to the bottom of them.
Most interesting in this blood-soaked scene, is that he’s not trying to stop me. But I suspect Thorne is here just in case he needs to save me from myself.
Not that I fucking care at this stage.
Seeing my girl collapse last night brought everything back. Knowing I couldn’t do anything and that they had already gotten to her was my snapping point. The only thing preventing me from doing this earlier was the need to make sure of her safety first.
I want to tattoo her flawless fucking skin and leave the undeniable truth for all to see—that girl is mine.
We left Fox sleeping off the aftereffects of the drugs and the fucking.
Ky is with her. The toxins are purging from her system. She’s locked inside the safest place I know of, with the person I trust the most in this godforsaken world. So I can focus on this asshole, and even if he doesn’t have any information that might be useful, I’ll enjoy the satisfaction of knowing there’s one less man like him left walking this earth.
Thorne remains on the other side of the table, with both palms braced flat against the glass surface. This place drips with gold finishings, white marble, and reeks of the sick empire he ran alongside Andreas Noire.
Picking up one of the short knives and the roll of tape, I cross to the man. He starts struggling and trying to scream behind the silvery gag covering his mouth. I tear off another strip and, this time, shove it over his nose.
Massimo writhes against his restraints. But his hands are cuffed behind his chair, and each leg is tied to the seat he’s in. This fucker isn’t going anywhere, and I don’t care if he chokes on his own bile; I’m content to sit back and watch him suffer.
