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Chapter Eleven
Teddy
It was easy enough to take the man and drive into the bush once more. It makes me laugh to think that only forty minutes south from us are likely all the police within a hundred miles, pulling corpses and ruins of our childhood home, while we are driving around with a man in our trunk.
Despite the chill to the air, I leave the windows down, and Branson doesn’t comment. His eyes are focused on the road ahead. He seems calm and sure, and my blood thrums pleasantly in my veins in anticipation of what's to come.
When that man came at me, I saw the perfect opportunity, the chance to give Branson a guilt-free way to realize the truth. The beauty of death and pain. That he’ll see this as just, as right, as what he needs. The corner of my lip turns up at the thought of feeling bad for killing. It’s been so long, so many people.
As I got older, I learned that people are shit, the world is shit. Why should I feel bad for culling the herd in such a small way?
“Up here on the left,” Branson says, interrupting me from my thoughts.
“Okay.”
The road is quiet and dark in front of us and the only sound is the quiet thump from the trunk and the air whishing past as we move down the off-road path. Five minutes later, we pull into a small clearing, just big enough to turn the car around. I pull the key out but don’t move, putting my hands in my lap in front of me. I turn to Branson who is sitting completely still, a hand on his chin as he looks out the window into the darkness.
His face is serious, severe, and the hint of moonlight shining through the trees hit his face and make the faint scars covering him seem to glow in the night. My lips part as I watch him, drinking him in.
“Did anyone see you with him?” he asks. My eyebrows pull together and I shake my head.
“No, no one.”
He nods but doesn’t reply. Muffled cries are tuned out as the nighttime song picks back up in the forest around us, a chorus of bugs and other critters of the dark. I don’t feel in any hurry and somehow understand why we’re sitting here. I dart another glance over to Branson and smile, reaching out my hand to grasp his. His gaze falls to our hands for a moment before he sighs, pulling them up to his lips with a kiss.
“You know you’re mine, right?” he says, his mouth still pressed against our intertwined hands. “I won’t say I’d never hurt you, I have and will. But the thought of someone else, some fucking scumbag, trying to touch you….”
His voice rises as he speaks and I feel excitement course through me at his jealousy, his anger. I shift my body toward him, a fraction closer.
“Never anyone but you,” I tell him, my eyes meeting his straight on. The heat I see in his expression warms me. My other hand reaches up, placing my favorite knife above our hands. His eyes look down at the blade and back up at me, his expression never changing.
“Do it for me, baby,” I tell him and see the corner of his mouth twitch, just a hint. His hand wraps around the handle and he pauses for only an instant before his lips are on mine. I feel myself melt against his kiss, the angry possessiveness enough to take my breath away. When he pulls away, I’m in such a daze it takes me a minute to realize he’s already out of the car.
I scramble out to the trunk where Branson is waiting. I step up, lip in my teeth as I lean forward on the balls of my feet. He looks at me and raises an eyebrow before pointing a few feet back.
I pout but oblige him, stepping back while he opens the trunk. The man's cries immediately get louder, filling the clearing. A night bird screeches at the competing sound and wings flap off into the black.
I watch Branson's back, the shift of muscle as he grabs the man by the wrist and heaves him out of the car onto the forest floor.
I giggle when the man hints with a thump and groans, rolling in my direction. Without moving, I lean my head forward and down at him. His eyes bug out when he looks up at me and I wink, skipping away to give Branson room. I crouch down by the back tire, my eyes darting between Branson and the soon-to-be-dead fucker on the ground. I know most people would think I’m sick because I feel wet, horny, at the sight of all this. But yeah, there it is.
My man is pacing in the night, a fucking glorious beast of vengeance.
I’d be a fucking psycho if I wasn’t turned on right now.
“You’d hurt a helpless woman?” Branson asks, his voice low as he continues the slow pace in front of the man, only pausing to lean forward and pull the rag out of his mouth.
“Heeelll—”
The man's cry is cut off by a boot in his face and I grin, clapping happily as blood gushes from the man's nose.
“Oooh, you shouldn’t do that!” I scold the man, “Look what you got for that! A broken nose!”
I laugh, standing and skipping around them. Branson darts a look at me and I see his mouth twitch, but he keeps his attention on the matter at hand. Watching him all serious like this is incredible. In his element.
“Get up,” Branson says to the man, darting a foot out to get him moving. It takes the man a moment, but he gets to his feet, blood and snot bubbling down his face. He doesn’t scream again.
“Move.”
