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So if Ethan was dead, then it seemed to go without saying that Pagan had killed him.
Killed him.
It was maybe the first time I realized as well that it was more than likely that most of the people I had been mostly living with inside the compound were killers as well.
"Oh, God," I said, every inch of me seemingly frozen as I sat there, trying to absorb that information, trying to reconcile it against the kind of people I knew those men to be.
And women, a voice inside my head whispered.
I couldn't discount the likes of Lo and Janie in talks of violence. They worked at a paramilitary camp. Janie was a bomb expert. Of course they had killed. Maybe it was a bit close-minded and naive of me to have not thought about that before, but a part of me maybe just didn't want to critically think something that would make me see a person I actually liked as a killer.
"I know you don't live in the same world that we do, pet. I get that there are very defined lines between right and wrong in a normal society. But in your world, rich, good-looking, white men like Ethan Criss almost always get away with assault, almost never go away for rape. And if they do, it's time served or some other bullshit like that. In my world, that's not fucking good enough. Maybe that's because we live in this underbelly where all the shits like him fester. And because we smell it every goddamn day, we know that there is no such thing as a 'one-time thing,' a 'mistake,' a 'lapse in judgment,' or whatever the fuck defense attorneys want to spew. Sexual predators are just like a man who hits his wife, if it happens once, it will happen again. And again. And a-fucking-gain. You can't cure a rabid dog, Kennedy. You have to take him out to the barn and shoot him."
He was right; I did live in a world of rights and wrongs, of laws and lawbreakers, of crime and justice. But that being said, literally everything he said was right. I did believe there were kinds of sick that could not be fixed- sexual predators of all kinds at the very top of that list. And I was pretty sure all the news stories I had seen over the past several years also reinforced what he said about the justice system failing women and protecting predators.
Maybe there was something to be said for street justice.
Maybe, in some situations, it was the only justice to be found.
It was still hard, though, to imagine those around me were capable of something as brutal as murder.
But wasn't every single person capable of killing another human being if the circumstances were right? As much as I liked to think of myself as a peaceful person, I knew that if it came down to Ethan and me in a dark alley and he had bad intentions and I had a gun, well, he'd be sporting a bunch of new holes.
"Look at me, pet," Pagan demanded, tone still as casual as ever. "Whether or not you agree with what I did, it's done. It can't be undone unless you know some voodoo magic shit. So, what this comes down to right now is- can you accept it and move on? If not, can't say I won't be disappointed as fuck, but I would respect that."
"Can I just... ask why?" I asked, feeling like I needed to know what drove him to that.
"Meant to rough him up," he said, shrugging, curling a hand into a fist, and pretending to hit my jaw with it. "Then force him to sign over the building. But then the mother fucker started running his mouth, telling me things you left out of your side of the story."
I had glossed it over when I told him, uncomfortable with the idea of getting into the details like his hands on me, things I didn't even want to think about, let alone say.
Had Ethan really been stupid enough to throw that in Pagan's face?
Well, he was a dick, so I guess he could have been.
"He put his hands on what was mine, Kennedy. Then he fucking boasted about it to my mother fucking face? That bastard couldn't go on breathing. Not on my fucking watch."
I should have been horrified at that. But, instead, I felt a swelling sort of sensation inside. Maybe it was as simple some primal, neanderthal appreciation for being valued and protected. Maybe it went deeper than that. Regardless of what it was, I found myself oddly accepting of the screwed up situation.
I swallowed hard. "I'm yours, huh?"
He smirked at that, reaching out, and pulling me onto his lap. "Killed a man for you," he said, hand going to my jaw. "Would kill a hundred more to keep you safe." Oh, lord, the butterflies. There was an entire swarm of them inside me right then. "Damn fucking right you're mine. And as scarred and fucked-up as I am, I'm yours too."
