Page 103 of Kortlek

That’s enough to set him off. With a loud snarl, he runs toward me. The anger in his eyes, the trembling of his body as he focuses to hurt me is enough to force my feet to move. I’m not quick enough to grab the mace, but I manage to dodge most of his attacks.

The blade of the knife pierces through the suit, slicing my left shoulder. I hiss under my breath, blood trickling down, mixing with that of the men I killed previously. With a shaky breath, I brace myself for his next attack.

He aims straight for my throat, and my eyes widen. Momentarily, I’m shocked before my mind starts screaming at me to move, to duck, or to do anything to avoid being hit. Because if he manages to push the blade into my throat, it’s game over for me.

Without thinking, I raise my hand and grab the blade. I grit my jaw as pain shoots through my palm, the knife slicing through the leather glove and tearing my skin open. Blood coats the metal object, and I manage to push it away from me, causing Wyatt to slightly stumble backward.

Quickly, I grab the mace and head straight for him.

He’s still in good shape, dodging my attacks, whether it’s by simply moving out of the way, ducking, or using his knife to stop the mace before it hits his body. It’s pissing me off how much strength he has in one hand, how he’s able to use a small fucking knife to push away this gigantic thing.

“Is that all you have, baby?” He taunts with a sadistic gleam in his eyes. “I expected more from a trained assassin. Or are you just like me, the disappointment of the family?”

I scoff, trying to ignore the ache in my palm.

“You wish, motherfucker,’’ I grit out. “No one’s as big of a disappointment as you are.’’

Wyatt’s eyes narrowed into slits, and he darted toward me yet again. This time, I see him coming. I feel him coming before he makes the first step, and I’m prepared, both mentally and physically. With all my might, I aim the mace for his side and hit him roughly.

A scream comes from him, mixing with the sound of his ribs cracking. His eyes are widened in pain, glossy with tears that are slowly sliding down his cheeks. His body trembles, and I hit him again.

He falls down to his knees, and a feeling of satisfaction starts to bloom in my chest.

Not yet.

It’s not enough.

“This is for every time you raised your voice at me.’’ I hit his other side, the rounded tip with spikes hitting through his flesh, slowly starting to change color to a dark red one. “For every time you belittled me,’’ I hit again. “For every fucking time you dared to hit me.’’

Wyatt swallows, crying in agony, a pleading look in his pathetic eyes.

“Wait,’’ he stammered, voice shaky and cracking. “Stop—’’

“Did you?! When you’d hit me and I’d beg for you to stop, did you? No, you didn’t. You told me it was because you loved me and you had to teach me how a woman should behave. So, right now, I’m teaching how a man should behave. I’m putting you in your fucking place, motherfucker.’’

I can no longer listen to him. His pleas and cries get muffled, blending with the background. The adrenaline pumps in my veins, and I continue to hit wherever I possibly can. From his back and stomach to his legs, arms, and shoulders.

Anger inside me bursts, and there’s nothing that can stop me now.

I’m out for his blood, and I’ll stop at nothing until I can see the last breath slipping from his mouth.

With each thrust of the mace, the strength in me grows. The pain in my palm is replaced by a dull ache, the slit on my shoulder no longer hurting. I’m focused on causing him pain, trying to give him back everything he once gave me.

The metal mace turns red, and the harder I hit, the more blood drips everywhere. My face, my shirt, and the white strands of my hair that fall down my face are coated with Wyatt’s disgusting blood, and the more it falls on me, the happier I become.

There aren’t words to describe how I’m feeling.

The feeling of freedom returning to me, the power I once lost resurfacing — all of it is too good. Almost too good to be true. Through teary eyes, as they roll down my face, my hands start shaking, yet I can’t force myself to stop.

My sobs fill the room, fusing with Wyatt’s wails.

It reminds me of the time when it used to be the other way around. With me begging for him to stop. And just like he didn’t stop, I’m not stopping right now. I grip the base of the mace with both hands, swinging it around, hitting his body as if it were a doll.

He falls down entirely, lying on his back, and I just straddle him, continuing with my assault.

His face is covered with blood; his body has multiple deep wounds, blood gushing out. His breathing is uneven, slowly starting to die out. I can see it in his eyes; the fire, the need to survive, is losing its spark, turning into a dull, blank stare.

“You’ll go to hell for this,’’ he croaks out, barely audible.

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