Page 78 of Rage

“This is for every woman you’ve hurt,” she snarls, voice barely recognizable.

The bat whistles through the air, connecting with Peterson’s knee with a sickening crunch.His scream echoes off the concrete walls as bone shatters beneath the impact.

Emily steps up next, her small frame trembling but chin raised in defiance.“For the nightmares,” she whispers, swinging the bat at his other knee.

Another scream.Another satisfying crack.

One by one, the women take their turns.Some swing with wild abandon, unleashing years of pent-up rage and terror.Others are more precise, targeting the spots that will cause the most pain without risking unconsciousness.

Through it all, Peterson’s pleas grow more desperate, more incoherent.But no one listens.No one cares.

I watch, a cold satisfaction settling in my chest.This man, this monster who thought he could break us, he’s the one breaking now.

After they’ve had their turn, Konrad walks over to them, startling me.He must have slipped in while the girls were busy.“Come on, ladies, you guys need to sleep,” he tells them, leading them out of the room.

As the last of the women file out, I turn to face Peterson.His face is a ruin of blood and bruises, eyes swollen nearly shut.Pitiful whimpers escape his broken lips.

Good.Let him suffer.

I approach slowly, savoring the fear that radiates from him in waves.My fingers trail over the tray of instruments beside him, a twisted parody of my usual medical tools.Scalpels glint under harsh fluorescent lights.Needles promise exquisite pain.

“Now then,” I purr, voice low and dangerous.“Where shall we begin?”

Peterson’s swollen eyes widen a fraction, darting frantically between me and the instruments.“Please,” he chokes out.“I’m sorry.I’ll do anything.Just let me go.”

A laugh bubbles up from my throat, harsh and bitter.“Let you go?Oh no, sweetheart.We’re just getting started.”

I select a scalpel, admiring how the light catches the razor-sharp edge.“You know, as a doctor, I took an oath.‘First, do no harm.’But for you?”My lips curl into a feral grin.“I think I’ll make an exception.”

The blade whispers across his skin, leaving a thin line of red in its wake.Peterson hisses, muscles tensing against his restraints.

“Tell me,” I murmur, leaning in close.“How many women begged you to stop?How many pleaded for mercy while you tortured them?”

Another cut, deeper this time.Blood wells up, staining his already filthy shirt.

“I asked you a question.”I press the tip of the scalpel against his throat.“How.Many.”

“I… I don’t know,” he sobs.“Please, I’m sorry.I’ll never do it again.I swear!”

Rage floods through me, hot and vicious.The scalpel clatters to the floor as my hands find his throat.I squeeze, watching as his face turns red, then purple.

“You’re sorry?”I snarl.“Sorry doesn’t bring back the lives you’ve ruined.Sorry doesn’t erase the nightmares, the trauma, the pain.”

Just as his eyes start to roll back, I release my grip.Peterson gasps, sucking in desperate lungfuls of air.

“No, darling,” I continue, voice deceptively soft.“Sorry isn’t good enough.But don’t worry.We have all the time in the world to make you truly understand the depth of your crimes.”

“But we do have someone else to join the party,” Mason chimes in, and he opens a side door, pulling out a man and slamming him onto a chair next to Peterson.

Peterson and the man both start screaming while looking at each other.“Who’s this?”I ask.

“Peterson’s dad, of course, but don’t worry, the others are on their way.”

Just then, members of the MC drag in men, tying them down to chairs until there’s six all together.

Mason starts pacing around the men.“I’m just glad there is enough to go around to have some fun.”

I look at the line of men, now tied to chairs, my mind reeling.Peterson’s father, uncles, brothers—the whole twisted family tree laid bare before us.The air grows thick with their fear, sharp and acrid.

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