Page 80 of Rage

I lean in close, my voice a low rumble.“That’s just the beginning, sweetheart.We’ve got all night.”

Hours pass in a haze of blood and screams.We work methodically, alternating between brutal efficiency and drawn-out torment.By the time we finish with his hands, Peterson’s fingers are a mangled ruin.

But we’re far from done.

I select a scalpel from the nearby tray, admiring how the light glints off the razor-sharp edge.“You know,” I muse, trailing the blade along Peterson’s cheek.“I’ve always been curious about human anatomy.What do you say we do a little exploring?”

Peterson’s whimpers turn to howls as I carve into him, peeling back layers of skin and muscle.Liam works alongside me, his own blade dancing across flesh.

“Fascinating,” Liam comments, voice clinically detached.“Look how the muscle fibers separate.”

We continue our grisly work, reducing Peterson to a canvas of pain and blood.His screams have long since faded to hoarse whimpers, consciousness slipping away.

But we can’t let him escape that easily.

I grab a bucket of ice water, dumping it over his head.

Peterson gasps awake, sputtering and choking as the ice water shocks his system.His eyes are wild with pain and terror as he comes back to the nightmare.

“Welcome back,” I say, grabbing his jaw roughly.“Can’t have you checking out on us just yet.”

Liam circles behind him, a cattle prod crackling with electricity in his hand.“We’re just getting started, aren’t we, boys?”

The other men nod grimly, eyes dark with promised violence.

I lean in close, my voice a low rumble in Peterson’s ear.“You know what your biggest mistake was?Thinking you could touch what’s mine.Meadow is off-limits.And now?Now you’re going to pay for every sick fantasy you ever had about her.”

The cattle prod connects with Peterson’s exposed flesh.His body arches off the chair, a scream tearing from his raw throat.The scent of burning skin fills the air.

“That’s it,” Liam snarls.“Scream for us.Like all those women screamed for you.”

We work in tandem, alternating between brutality and finesse.Bones crack under the swing of a hammer.Skin blisters and peels from the kiss of a blowtorch.Blood flows freely, staining the concrete floor crimson.

Through it all, Peterson’s pleas grow weaker, more incoherent.But we’re relentless.This isn’t just about punishment anymore.It’s about sending a message.To anyone who might think of crossing us in the future.

Hours pass in a haze of blood and pain.By the time we finish, Peterson is barely recognizable as a human.What’s left of him twitches weakly in the chair, more dead than alive.

I step back, surveying our handiwork.Satisfaction settles in my chest, cold and vicious.

“Time to wrap this up,” Lane says, voice grim.

I nod, drawing my gun.As I level it at Peterson’s head, his one remaining eye focuses on me.In that moment, I see the fear.The understanding that this is the end.

“This is for Meadow.”

The gunshot echoes in the small room.Peterson’s body goes limp, finally still.

It’s done.

As we clean up, disposing of evidence and preparing the body for disposal, a sense of peace washes over me.Meadow is safe.The women he hurt have justice.And anyone who might think of coming after what’s mine in the future?

Well, they will think twice now.

eighteen

Meadow

I wake up to the sound of footsteps.The heavy tread of Mason’s boots echoes down the hallway, growing louder as he approaches.I turn toward the sound, my heart racing with a mix of anticipation.

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