Page 49 of Wreck Me

More pain, more blood, more dominance.

“Tap out!” I heard people start to yell to him.

“Do it, Vicars!”

“Shit, she’s killing him!”

“Tap out!”

Killing him?

Caught up in my swirling, euphoric thoughts, in that savage headspace, it took all that screaming for me to notice that my opponent was turning blue, barely struggling now.

I wasn’t just incapacitating him, I was choking the life out of him.

About to fucking well end him.

One less sicko on the streets. Do it. It’s justice. Your mission. You’re back. This is who you are. Fucking do it!

The next thing I knew, I was zeroing in on the knife he’d slashed me with.

I snatched it up, spun it in my hand, then brought it down toward his chest.

But it never made contact.

A strong hand wrapped around my wrist, pulling me up short.

My hand shook with determination and furor that somebody was interfering in my fight, in my deliverance of fucking justice.

Just as the ref ran into the ring, along with some supporters of Vicars, the knife was wrenched from my hand. I heard a clang of it hitting the rough floor, and then I was dragged out of the way, my back smacking against a wall of hard muscle. A hand wrapped around my arms, confining them down at my sides, another hooked around my throat, forcing my head back and stealing away my ability to draw in a full, unencumbered breath.

The shock of it enabled my captor to drag me out of the ring and through the crowds.

Everything was a haze of blazing red.

No! I’m not done! I’m not fucking done!

I was bucking and screaming. Shrieking and snarling like a wild thing, really.

I caught sight of Damien coming toward us, just as a door opened and I was dragged through, but then I saw Caleb shoving him back and getting up in his space as I was pulled in there.

I heard the rough clang of a lock a moment before I was spun around and shoved up against the wall, a hand wrapping around my throat again in a split second.

Flaming amber eyes blazed back at me.

Sebastian fucking Thorn.

I bucked against him, digging my nails into his hand wrapped around my throat, my other hand clawing at his chest through his partially opened shirt. “I wasn’t done. I’m not done. How fucking dare you try to—”

“I know.” He grasped my jaw. “I know.” He swiped his thumb over my bloodied lip, spreading the blood all over. “I know you haven’t gotten it all out of your system.”

I hissed at him. How dare he try to connect with me, try to placate me? “I fucking hate you.”

“Then hate me, beautiful.” He swiped my arm, the blood from the stabbing coating his fingers. “Hurt me.” He spread them all over my chest, slicking the skin with my own blood, spreading up to my chin, then wiping it across my cheeks and mouth. “Unleash all over me.”

The familiar coppery tang hit my tongue as I parted my lips and slicked them clean.

The depravity of it, of him making me taste the results of that violence, just ramped up all the rest. It collided with that invigorating woodsy scent of his, the heat radiating off him, the hellfire blazing in his eyes, trapping me in a swirling vortex of intensity and desperate, animalistic need.

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