Page 82 of Vengeful Rotten Casualties

“Then why haven’t you done it yet?”

I grit my teeth. Because his death isn’t enough. I want him to suffer. I want him to lose his sanity. I want the whole world to know what he did. I want his reputation fucking ruined. I want more than a quick death for him. I want to drive him to the brink, the very same way he did to me.

“Death is too good for a man like you,” I say.

“Or perhaps you know the truth.” Thomas takes a step forward. I bite my tongue, tasting blood, and reach forward, both hands now on the gun. “You were always meant to bow before your betters.”

“You’re no better than a vile animal.” I seethe.

My mind races as he inches ever closer and then, suddenly, a calm descends. The moonlight filtering in through the windows crosses his face and I’m face to face with not his shadow, but his true image. Dark eyes, a slightly sagging jawline, drooping lips. He’s not particularly ugly, but neither is he particularly handsome. He’s just… average. That’s what’s truly terrifying.

The real monsters of the world are neither handsome nor ugly. They’re average. They look like everyone else. I release a slow breath and direct the gun to the side, and I pull the trigger.

Thomas dives forward, grunting as the bullet makes impact. I’d expected more of a response from him—but he doesn’t stop. His meaty fist barrels straight for my face and I’m slammed backwards against the wall as pain explodes in the side of my face.

“Fucking bitch!” he hisses.

The world spins and then flips onto its side. The gun clatters against the hardwood floor and I go down hard, sliding along the wall as Thomas’ hand grips my throat and he goes down over me. Air tries to squeeze past the fingers tightening around my neck. It fails.

I react instinctively. Gripping Thomas’ wrist, I twist and turn, throwing my hips up into his until we’re spinning—flipping over and over. My shirt rips open, buttons pinging against the wood. We only come to a halt when Thomas’ back slams into the opposite wall and he grunts. I gasp for breath, ripping myself out of his hold by finding the weakness in his thumb.

My head spins, blood trickles down my cheek. A cut? Maybe. I shake my head, but it doesn’t do any good. With a hand on the wall, I crawl to my feet, only to have them kicked out from beneath me once more. My elbow slams into a table and a lamp goes crashing to the floor. Glass shatters around me, raining down.

Shards slice into my arm. I slide against the floor and they dig into me.

Fuck.

Panting, heaving, I feel the adrenaline pouring into my bloodstream. It pumps faster and faster until the world slows down. Each breath saws in and out of my chest, little bites of pain cutting me deeply. I barely feel it at all.

There’s blood in my teeth. I can feel it coating my tongue with a nasty, coppery taste. Out of habit, I lick my lips and regret it almost immediately because of the sting from one of my many cuts, and well, you aren’t supposed to get blood in your wounds, right? Or does it even matter if it’s your own blood?

I lift my eyes and stare into an empty black void of the gaze that lands on mine. My face hurts. My side hurts. My whole body freakinghurts. But just because this asshole thinks I’m broken doesn’t mean shit.

I’m not, and I never will be. I hadn’t broken forhim, and I certainly won’t break for this asshole either. My hand slides back, over the cold tile until my fingers hit something sharp. A long shard of a glass edge cuts into my fingers—but I don’t care. I grab hold of it, slide down to the larger end and grip it hard.

If it scars, all the better. It’ll be a war wound. A reminder of my own strength.

A long, dark shadow shifts over me.

“I’ve wanted to do this for a real long time,” he says, hovering close. “So long…” His eyes dip to where he’d ripped my shirt and it now gapes open.

“Funny…” I hold the shard of glass even tighter. I leverage up, closer to him and his gaze snaps back to my face as I grin, feeling a new kind of cruelty invade my mind. “So have I,” I say.

And then I strike.

Blood sprays into my face and for a moment, I want to open my mouth. I want to let it rain down my throat. Like some Viking of old, I wanted to relish in my kill and walk out covered in what once kept this monster alive. But I don’t. Letting his foul blood fill me up in any way would contaminate me even more than I already am. This man has already taken too much from me. My willpower. My virginity. My very soul.

He can’t take this.

Not my vengeance.

33

LUC

Ice cold watersplashes into my face, drenching the entirety of my chest as it slaps me awake. Right out of a dead sleep. No. Not sleep. It wakes me out of a drugged stupor. My eyes shoot open, and I gasp for breath. A man stands in front of me with a now empty bucket and laughs as he drops it.

Plastic hits concrete and a rough hand grabs my face, tipping it back even as the water runs down my jaw and onto my naked chest. It’s then that I manage to catch a glimpse of where I am. My body hangs from the ceiling of what looks like an old garage. A professional one—if the long length of counter across the side of the space and the rivets in the ground are anything to go by.

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