Page 65 of God of War

“You touch her and I’ll kill you, Flores. You’re a dead man, you hear me, you piece of shit? Dead!”

“It’s okay,” I mouth to him, just before Aaron steps in front of me and blocks my view.

“Lie back, Del.”

I hear the thunk of his gun as he places it on the top of the patrol car, along with his utility belt. He flicks the button on his pants and I turn my head. I don’t want to see his dick. Feeling it inside me will be enough.

I shuffle back on the seat until the top of my head hits the opposite door. Aaron crawls on top of me. He digs his hips down, forcing the entire length of his body against mine. This isn’t like the other times with… with Dad. Those are like a heavy weight, an endless rolling fog. Aaron’s body is sharp and biting, pure violence under a sheen of clean skin and white teeth. He doesn’t smell like anything. Not mouthwash or cologne or even cheap gas station coffee. He is emptiness. A void where a man should be.

He tries to wrestle my shorts off and fails.

“The sooner you play your part, the faster you’ll be out of here,” he grumbles.

I’m already drifting off into a numb, distant place when I put my foot up on the seat and lift my hips. I roll my head away as he starts to pull my shorts down.

Then I see it.

The slender, narrow shape in the side of my sock. I’d forgotten all about it. When did I put it there? When Aaron woke me up, ordered me to dress. He was so focused on the real threat — Ares — that he didn’t see me slip it into my sock.

The switchblade. The fucking switchblade.

There are no options that need to be weighed. No back-and-forth in my head. The decision is made even before I wriggle deeper under Aaron. Before I bring my arms around him to trace along his back. Before I drop one to his hip, the backs of my fingers brushing against my sneaker still propped on the seat.

“Oh, yeah, there she is,” Aaron smirks. He lifts up, his face level with mine, and I stare into the hollow nothing of his eyes. “I’ve been wanting to do this ever since I first laid eyes on you.”

I tilt my face to brush my smiling lips against his. “Me too,” I reply.

I stab him. A lot. Aaron howls and thrashes and I keep stabbing, the blade plunging into his back and his side. He tries to get off me, but I wrap my legs around his waist and move with him as he bucks. I’m a leech draining the blood from his body.

He brings his arm up to hit me but I tuck my chin to my chest and drive the knife between his ribs. I twist it hard and feel the scrape of bone as his screams turn to rattling rasps. Then, when I’m starting to wonder how long it takes for someone to die, he makes one final effort to get up. I let him, but just enough that I can carve the knife across his throat.

Blood rains down on me, hot and slick and stinking, and then his body collapses on top of me and I can finally rest.

24

Ares

Delaney is dead. She has to be. The screams coming from that backseat, the blood… I can’t see it, I’m too far away, but I can smell it. Sharp and metallic. A bitter tang in the air.

“Delaney!” I scream it like I’m in pain. Because I am. He’s fucking killed her. Delaney. Fierce, perfect, Delaney.

I yank harder on the cuffs, pain spiking up my arm from the fucking bullet hole through my palm. The shot obliterated the bones there — It’ll probably never work right again — but that’s not a concern right now. Right now, I’m thankful that my hand has been shattered beyond repair. Half my job has been done for me.

I wrap my other hand around the broken one and squeeze. Blood, along with a fresh wave of pain that makes me retch, oozes from the wound. I clench my eyes shut and think of her. I squeeze harder.

Crack. Crack. Crunch.

My bones fold in on themselves, the size of my hand shrinking enough that I can slip it from the loop of the cuffs. I use the gate to pull myself up.

“Delaney,” I rasp.

Cradling my hand to my chest, I stumble through the dirt, my vision shrinking to the back of the patrol car. That shithead deputy is still on top of her, probably taking in what he’s done. Fucking enjoying it.

“Gonna kill you, son of a bitch. It’s gonna last, and it’s gonna fucking hurt.”

I drag him, one-handed, out of the car. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t respond at all, and as he sags off the seat and hits the ground, I can see why.

Deputy Aaron Flores is dead.

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