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“Drake,” I said again, steadier now. I needed him focused, not lost to the abyss of his anguish. “We have to deal with this.”
“Deal with it?” He turned to me, his eyes blazing fury and torment. “How the fuck do we deal with this?”
He no longer looked at the wall where his parents had been nailed, he was making a conscious effort not to look at them, and I couldn’t blame him.
I swallowed the knot in my throat, my resolve hardening. “We survive. We make them pay.” I put my hands on his cheeks, forcing him to look into my eyes. “We do worse to them. We make them beg us for death, and even then we don’t let them go over. We drive them mad with agony, and we make damn fucking sure they know they screwed with the wrong person.”
The walls of the safehouse seemed to contract, pressing in with the weight of dread and death. Drake stood rigid, a portrait of anguish, his eyes reflecting a torment that went beyond the carnage before us.
I reached down to touch his arm, feeling the muscle beneath tense like coiled wire. “I’m so sorry. This is... it’s unforgivable.”
He didn’t seem to hear me, his gaze slid over, not to his parents but on the grotesque pile of flesh on the floor that had been his mother’s breasts. The same breasts that had nursed Drake as a baby, had nourished him and given him life. His chest heaved, every breath a shudder that threatened to break him apart.
“Whoever did this,” I said, my voice a low growl, “Owen and Bri and whoever else... we’ll make them pay. I swear it.”
Drake’s response was a choked sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Pay?” he echoed, a bitter edge cutting through the grief. Tears slid down his cheeks. “How can he ever pay enough for this?”
A silence hung heavy, punctuated only by the soft drip of blood from the wall. Then, without warning, Drake’s sorrow metamorphosed into fury again. His hands clenched into fists, and he grabbed a nearby chair, slinging it across the room, sending it crashing against the opposite wall with a violence that made my heart leap.
“Fuck this place!” he roared, his voice breaking as he kicked at the debris, splinters flying. The room became a whirlwind of destruction, Drake its merciless eye.
I stood back, watching as he tore into the safehouse with sadistic abandon. He smashed a lamp against the floor, glass shattering, glittering like diamonds in the dim light. His boots crunched over the remains, each step an act of annihilation.
“Drake, let it out,” I encouraged, the chaos around us stoking the embers of my own dark thrill. “Destroy it all.”
He found a vase, hurling it against the wall where it exploded, glass cascading everywhere. A picture frame followed, the smiling faces of his family now just shards amidst the ruin.
“Everything!” Drake screamed, his voice ragged with pain and pleasure as well. The agony of it all still tickled that twisted part of his brain that I too shared. The hurt and pain was giving way to a small bit of sexual satisfaction. He ripped curtains from their rods, the fabric tearing with a satisfying rip that echoed my own twisted gratification.
Drake’s eyes met mine, and for a moment, there was a silent understanding—a shared darkness that bound us more tightly than any vow could, than any action we’d committed thus far could have. He gave a curt nod, breathing heavily, and then turned back to his rampage.
Tables overturned, cushions torn open, their stuffing spilling out like entrails. Every smash, every crash, was a note in a symphony of rage, and its music resonated within me. The sight of him, so lost in his vengeance, sent a shiver of anticipation down my spine.
“Make them regret,” I whispered, the words slipping from me like a caress. “Make them fear you as they never have before.”
Amidst the cacophony of destruction, I slinked away from Drake’s wrathful symphony, my senses sharp and predatory. The sounds of his explosive fury dulled as I ventured deeper into the house. My fingers danced over the surfaces, probing for secrets in the shadows of the ransacked safehouse. Drawers were yanked open with a force that matched the chaos around me; cabinets were scoured with a voracity that mirrored the hunger in my veins.
I was methodical amidst the madness, each movement deliberate and precise. Searching. For what? I had no idea. It wasn’t until I made my way into a bedroom and inspected an armoire on the wall facing the bed that I found something. The back panel had a half inch gap that caught my eye. Pulling it away revealed a false back in the otherwise nondescript furniture, my hand brushed against paper—the unmistakable texture of cash.
I yanked the armoire down, sending it crashing to the floor, and then dug my fingers under the panel that covered the back. Inside I found several manila envelopes. One hung open, the glue having given way, and a stack of American hundred-dollar bills stared out from the yellow sleeve.
“Drake?” I yelled.
The noise in the other rooms paused. He stalked down the hall and entered the bedroom panting like a beast, eyes wild and red-rimmed. I displayed the bundle of bills, the green of American currency stark against the bloodied backdrop.
“Look what I found,” I said. “Seems like a waste to leave it here, don’t you think?”
His gaze locked onto the cash and envelopes, a brief flicker of confusion crossing his features before being swallowed by the inferno of his emotions.
“Fuck the money,” he spat, venom lacing his words.
I stepped forward, the thrill of the hunt surging within me. “Let’s not just fuck the money. Let’s fuck this entire place. Burn it all down. Erase every trace. Set your parents free.”
His body stiffened, the suggestion igniting something dark within him. I stepped closer, lowering my voice to a sinful whisper.
“Imagine the flames, Drake. The heat consuming everything... every memory, every piece of evidence.” My breath was hot on his skin, my eyes glinting with sadistic delight. “Let’s give Owen a taste of his own medicine. Show him that we play by our own rules.”
The corner of Drake’s mouth twitched, a spark of shared malevolence flaring between us.
