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He bares his teeth at Delphine like he’s about to snap or growl at her.
“You’re expendable,” she repeats, a cruel edge to her voice. “Whoever you work for doesn’t give enough of a shit about you to rescue you. He’s left you to die. To be tortured and maimed before you die. Before you die a disfigured, lonely, pathetic, sack of shit. Why even bother protecting whoever it is? You’re lower than scum to them.”
His eyes bore into hers even from where he dangles in his chains. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you?”
“Certainly smarter than you.”
“So smart you still wound up on the dirty ground begging for mercy.”
“That’s true,” she says coolly, “but now it’s your turn. Now you’re going to be the one who’s begging for mercy—and it’s me who you’ll be begging like a little bitch.”
Pride beats inside my chest watching Delphine handle him. It’s a testament to how far she’s come from the woman who had locked herself up in her apartment and whose voice trembled when I stopped by to check on her so many weeks ago.
“I’m a bitch?” he spits out. He follows with a coarse laugh. “No, sweetheart. You’re still the bitch. Stupid, fragile, pathetic. You’re weak. Kill me tonight—do whatever the fuck you want to me—but that’s not the fact of the matter. You won’t last very much longer. You can count on it.”
For a second time, I’m darting forward to discipline Azeria myself. Delphine interjects, proving she wants to do it. Her first punch and smack were warm ups—she shuts Azeria up with another punch and another after that.
She throws out several combos. Each one hard and precise, landing on Azeria’s bruised face and his limp body. Her breaths become ragged as she attacks him like he’s an inanimate punching bag. She punches him in the gut and then smashes a fist into his throat. She knees his crotch several times.
I watch in the background, unsure if I should be turned on or concerned at the monster I’ve created.
At one point she spins and kicks him in the gut. Where the hell did she learn that?
She mentioned she wanted the time off work to train some more. I hadn’t expected her to perfect so many maneuvers. Then again, she always puts her all in everything she does—why would it be any different when learning to fight and defend herself?
Minutes go by and Delphine beats the shit out of him. The room fills with the sounds of her strikes, her heavy breaths, and Azeria’s groans of pain. When she does step back far enough to admire the damage she’s done, the expression on her dewy face is borderlineeuphoric.
Almost the same face she makes when she climaxes.
Even I’m thrown. I didn’t expect her to... enjoy the moment so much. Though I understand why she would. It feels good to make a dirtbag human suffer. For weeks Delphine has been on edge looking to regain some semblance of control.
This must feel like the ultimate form of taking it back.
Azeria’s half conscious. His head bows against his chest and blood leaks from his mouth and nose. The night’s only getting started. He’s in for a gruesome final few hours.
“Phi,” I say, putting a hand to her shoulder, “you alright?”
She draws another deep breath. “He didn’t do it.”
I raise a brow. “Am I hearing that correctly? Didn’t do what?”
“My assault.”
“Phi, you just beat the shit out of the guy.”
“It wasn’t him. His hands. His hair. His smell. I remember all of it.” She spends the next few seconds catching more of her breath and looking down at her own hands. Normally so soft and delicate-looking, they almost resemble mine—bloodied and cut up. “But he’s involved. He knows who did. And if he won’t tell us who, then he deserves to suffer. He deserves todie.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It sounds wrong. So wrong falling from her lips that I question if I’m misunderstanding. Since I’ve known her, Delphine has believed strongly in the justice system. Inpreservingit at all costs.
Now here she is advocating for Azeria to suffer, todie,when she knows he wasn’t the one who attacked her. The situation has morphed into playing judge, jury, and executioner for his other crimes. Guilt by association.
She must read my mind. She looks up at me from over her shoulder. “He deserves whatever happens. He’s earned it. We set him free, he won’t stop. His boss won’t. They’ll be coming for us anyway—why let him live after what he’s done to me?”
Everything she says is true, but it makes it no less surprising coming from her. I push that aside and turn my attention to the battered and beaten man chained to my ceiling. Then I direct my gaze to the many weapons and devices on the table, waiting for their use.
We can really make him suffer, drag what we can out of him as he screams in agony.
“Are you doing it, or am I?”
