Page 63 of Dead By Dusk

Especially since he has nothing left to fight for, pushed forward only by the grief forced upon him.

“He’s in the dining hall. The one right next tohisoffice.” His muscled body pushes forward, determined to reach our destination just as much as I am. Mr. Delgado’s life is not mine alone for the taking.

As we turn the last corner, he holds his hand up in a clenched fist, halting me in my tracks. Pulling a gun from his waistband, one I realize he had picked up from where I discarded it earlier. He releases the magazine, checking the bullets, before pulling out a spare from his pocket. Before I can question what he’s doing, he’s angling his body around the corner and emptying the first magazine.

The sound of gunshots echo around us as he pulls back and reloads the weapon. He waits for a second, when it sounds like the gunfire is slowing down, then turns the corner and empties it again.

“There are two more,” he says as he drops the second magazine to the ground, throwing the weapon into the middle of the hallway where the shouts and gunfire are loudest. We each grab a dagger before he looks back around the corner as quickly as possible.

“Against this wall, not too much taller than you. That’s where you aim,” he says before counting down from three. Then, we’re both throwing our bodies around the corner, flinging our weapons out, hoping that they hit their mark.

When both bodies hit the ground, we quickly move to stand, but no sooner than we’re on our feet, another gunshot sounds from behind us. I turn around, flinging one of my axes toward the noise, and watch as it makes contact. But not before the bullet makes itself a home within Adonis’ shoulder.

He grips the exit wound tightly, trying to minimize his blood loss as he leans against the wall. “You okay there, big guy?” I question as I approach him, reaching to take a look at the damage, but he slaps my hand away.

“I’ll be fine. I just need a minute, but you should go ahead. I don’t know how much more he has in him.” My brows furrow as I turn toward the door ahead, and as I take a step forward, I hear a scream of agony pierce the air, catapulting me forward in sheer panic.

When I step inside though, I’m unsure if what I said earlier was correct. Maybe him being alive isn’t best. Perhaps, at this point, death would be much kinder.

32

Who Did This: Silene

The first thing I notice is the sharp coppery scent that permeates the air. The long dining table has been removed, and in its place is Ronan’s limp, bloody body, bound to a wooden chair. The sight of him feels as if the ground tilts beneath my feet. Everything is unstable, as if the world unraveled and wrapped itself around my legs, bringing me to my knees. The blood—mine mixed with his—mingles as I trace the wounds on his mangled body.

“Who did this to you?” I whisper, but he doesn’t answer me. His head hangs low as his lashes kiss pale, freckled cheeks. A broken sob leaves my body as my mind conjures up the comparison of him to his brother who lays dead on the other side of the building. A brother who he doesn’t realize died a traitor and liar.

His heartbeat is weak under the pads of my fingers, body damp with not just blood, but the sweat that drips from hispores. Lashes whip across his back in jagged lines, tearing through layers of skin. Multiple bruises cover his face and abdomen, and lacerations cover his chest. Patches of skin here and there have been peeled from his body, including the area where there used to be black ink covering his thumb.

Even if he lives, there may be no coming back from the torture he’s been subjected to.

A door opens further into the room, and when I flick my gaze toward the sound, I watch as four more men enter, followed closely by a dead man walking. His laugh sends waves of fury prickling through every bone in my body as the sound of my metal axe dragging across the tile flooring fills the dining hall. His laughter eases down before he scratches his chin as if observing a piece of artwork that had been delicately created.

“Do you like what I’ve done with him?” he asks, taking note of my trembling hands and scowl etched onto my features.

“Don’t feed me that bullshit. You and I both know you’re too much of a bitch to have done this yourself,” I retort, watching as his smile drops.

“You wound me, Ms. Dimitriou. I could have easily done this. It honestly would have been my pleasure after all the trouble you’ve caused me this week. Burning the house down, smoking out my tunnels, killing most of my men.” He sighs as if it’s been a great pain, but the boredom in his voice and body language is clearly feigned. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, shrugging before looking at the men around him.

I can’t help but think about how exhausting it must be to keep up the facade, pretending to not be terrified of what awaits you when he is nothing but a byproduct of his own fear.

“But you didn’t do it,” I state plainly, gaze traveling over each man currently in the way of my target. “So, which one of your little bitch boys did?”

The two men to his right pale as a toothy grin appears on my face knowing their association alone has marked them with a death sentence, and I commend them for their willingness to show how they really feel. A feral type of joy fills me as their acknowledgment of what I signify to the two of them. The one who stands to the left smirks right back at me though, an undermining and arrogant gesture that only has me more excited to continue.

Bringing one of my hands up, I aim my weapon at the man on the far left. “You.” His smirk widens just a hair, and I know I’m correct. It’s always the arrogant assholes that make the easiest targets. Only the narcissistic feel as if their size makes them a predator to fear.

As I begin my approach, they all grab machetes and daggers, readying for the fight. I keep my eyes on the one man who I know inflicted all the damage that will never fully heal upon Ronan’s body. He will not die first, but he will hurt worse than he ever thought imaginable. However, unlike the man who sits unconscious behind me, no one will come to save him. He will burn with everything else and be nothing more than a forgotten memory.

A scream tears through my throat as I begin to fight the three men in front of me. More skilled than the other fighters I’ve been through, it takes far more effort than I’d like to admit keeping track of each and every one of their movements. I suppose it makes sense though, keeping the best nearby in the off chance I make it through everyone else. A last ditch effort to survive. I get one knocked to the ground at the same time as two swing their blades at me. One aims for my head in front of me while the other aims at my lower back. I throw my body to the side in order to dodge both blows at the same time.

They realize far too late just how much momentum has been put behind their swings as their blades lodge into each other’sbodies. The one that had been behind me dies instantly as the blade slides right through his throat. The one in front of me looks down at the blade that pierces his abdomen. He goes to grab the handle with shaky hands, removing it from himself. Dropping to his knees, he watches the blood that pours from the wound before looking back to where I stand.

“Please,” he whispers, and in that one word I know what he’s asking of me.

Mercy. A swift, easy death. I offer a small tilt of my lips, and he closes his eyes. His head tips back as shaky breaths escape him. Swiftly, I swing an axe back, and it slices through his neck with butter like ease. His body remains upright for a second before falling to the ground, his head rolling several feet away.

I’ve taken too much time focusing on him though, and I forgot there was one last man standing until I hear the sound of his long machete swinging through the air. My body turns on instinct, an ill attempt to dodge at the last second as his blade slices through the side of my waist, just above the hip bone, and I immediately drop one of my weapons in favor of clutching my side. Hot liquid steadily flows through my fingertips as I look down at the clean cut wound that is sure to scar. Slowly, I raise my head, staring at the man in front of me. His ego seems to have inflated at the fact he was able to get a single hit in despite the fact I had been out numbered at the start.

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