Page 84 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

“They will always remember me.” His eyes turn dark, jaw set tight, not in anger but disrespect.

There he is.

The Butcher of the Spring.

“Time has passed,” I say nonchalantly. “They know you’ll never get out of here. What damage could you possibly do? They aren’t afraid of you anymore.”

Manic laughter bubbles from his mouth, hysterically high-pitched, that drips venom. My spine stiffens, fingernails digging into the palms of my hand.

All those women that died to that sound.

Their flesh strung up on meat hooks. Racked and bleeding like animals.

My mother, my sweet, kind mother.

You are in control, I repeat to myself. Inhaling through my nose, I tighten my jaw.You are in control. He does not own you. He did not make you.

“The only reason this copycat exists”—he tosses his hands in the air—“is because of me! It’s my memory that scares them, not him!”

The smell of his breath makes my throat constrict, the urge to vomit curling in my stomach. I didn’t want to be here, had not wanted to come here. Anger licks along my spine, quietly brewing.

I should never have come here.

“You gave your approval to an impotent man who wasn’t creative enough to come up with his own design?” I lick my teeth, grinning out of spite. I look down my nose at him because I want him to know that I see him as beneath me. Dust billows around my oxfords. “Prison has made you weak, Father.”

His breath fans across my face, and the smell of him has the room starting to spin.

Bleach scorching my fingers, the smell of blistered flesh.

Human corpses being slashed by metal, ground into bits.

His breath in my ear. “Not a drop of blood on this floor, Alexander. Not a drop.”

We’re two spiders spun in silk. If I was going to die in his web, he’d die with me. I have him where I want him, but I’m losing my grip. My chest burns, and my brain aches as memory after memory liberates itself.

Chains snap inside of me, the cages I’d placed my childhood self inside bending open.

He stares at me, watching. The edges of his mouth contort into the picture of a predator. I slit my eyes, refusing to be his prey.

“Well played, son. Very well played.” He nods his head, running a hand down his chin, making the shackles click together. “Did you do all of that for the sweet little Abbott girl?”

This concrete room is not big enough for the amount of rage that burns my veins. I could drown him with it. In a matter of seconds, he went from the center of my trauma to a target. He morphs into all those men I’d hunted down. Nameless faces that shrieked beneath the weight of my blade.

He has absolutely no clue what suffering is, but he’s about to find out.

“The Abbott women have a nasty habit of seeking things that are bad for them. Does she taste as sweet as Phoebe did?” He grins wickedly. The yellow tint on his teeth makes me sick.

I grab the front of his jumpsuit, fingers coiling in the material. Fury and adrenaline pump me with strength I didn’t know I had. I pick him up from the floor by his shirt, hurling him into the wall behind him.

He grunts as I hold him there, looking at me like he’s never seen me before. As if he doesn’t recognize the man in front of him, and I can’t disagree. I can’t even recognize myself.

“Who are you working with, Henry. The Halo? Sinclair?” I hiss, needing to watch him hurt.

“It’s poetic, Thatcher. A generational curse. Do you plan to repeat our history?”

I pull him, the fabric stretching, the sound of tearing echoing before I slam him back into the wall with a harrowing thud. His spine connects with the concrete, and I pray it snaps in two.

“I’m done playing games with you.” My voice is cracked, a twisted growl scratching my throat.

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