I grin, laughing darkly. "That’s what you think."
I tilt my head, my voice quiet and deadly.
"Anissa Laurent."
He freezes.
A beat of silence.
Somewhere behind the walls, I hear mice slithering and squeaking.
"What about her?"
"Funny thing," I murmur, stepping closer. "She’s mine now. And I know what you fucking did to her."
He blinks. His confidence wavers.
"I don’t know what the fuck?—"
"And you," I say, my voice low and cruel, my vision blurring with hatred, "are the motherfucker who hurt her."
He stands too fast. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."
Rodion snorts, pulling out his phone and flipping the screen toward him. It shows his three guards, knocked out cold and locked out of the bar.
Yaroslav's face pales. "What the fuck?"
I grab a pool cue off the table and smash it across his face.
The crack of wood against bone is deafening.
But no. That’s not enough.
I toss the broken cue aside and reach for a glass bottle instead. He tries to deflect, but it’s useless. With a swift, brutal motion, I bring it crashing down onto his skull.
Blood sprays.
He stumbles back, clutching his jaw.
I sigh, shaking my head, almost disappointed.
"You’d think they’d learn by now," I murmur to Rodion. "Just shut the fuck up."
But they never do.
They always have to say the same fucking thing.
And I always get to break them for it.
Yaroslav spits blood on the floor. His chest heaving, he tries to reach for me. “You fucking?—"
I don’t let him finish. I grab his collar and slam his face into the table. Once. Twice. Three times. And still, my need for blood is barely sated.
He fucking hurt her.
I can almost hear her crying, screaming, begging for forgiveness. This motherfucker is gonna hurt.
The wooden table is slick with blood when I finally let him go, letting him crumble to the floor, groaning and disoriented.
