Page 88 of Revenge & Ruin

If it was quiet before, my mind is deafeningly silent now.

My foot collides with his ribs, and he goes flailing into the wall.

Isabella is still breathing; I can see her chest still straining to rise and fall. That will have to be enough for now.

I approach the bar and find what I’m looking for quickly. Quick enough to return to Luis before he has time to right himself.

He’s saying something to me, I think. But I can’t hear him. And he’ll stop soon enough.

I grab him by the collar and slam him into the floor, straddling him like he’d been doing to Isabella moments before. There’s no hesitation as I grab one of his arms and pin it above his head.

The knife is too blunt for this not to be messy.

His other hand claws at my arm as I commit myself to the task. Nails scratch helplessly at my skin, leaving bloody tracks behind.

But I keep going. Keep sawing.

At some point, he stops fighting it. His skin turns grayer, and his remaining eye starts to slump closed. Maybe he passes out from the pain. I don’t really know or care.

But finally, his hand comes loose.

And there’s a soft touch on my shoulder.

“Teo.”

Her voice isn’t right. He ruined her vocal cords.

The knife slashes across his throat in one swift movement. The body beneath me goes limp in an instant.

“Where else did he touch you?”

“He’s dead.”

“Where else?”

A gentle hand covers the one that grips the knife.

For a moment, I think she’s trying to take it off me. But she’s not. She’s guiding me.

The knife point hovers over his ruined cheek. I slash his face without hesitation.

The thought of him touching her there, a gentle caress or an act of violence, I don’t know which is worse.

Did he know he was touching something that didn’t belong to him? Could he not see me marked on her skin? Could he not see the ghost of my touch from only a few hours before?

“It’s done.”

I look at her then, really look at her. I take in the quiver of her bottom lip, despite the stubborn set of her jaw, pride the only thing that keeps her standing. I look at the bruises on her neck, at the blood on her hands, at her arm, slashed deeply.

I grab it instantly, a question in my eyes.

“It wasn’t him,” she half croaks, and I want to slash his neck all over again.

Instead, I raise my hand to her neck slowly, as if she were a frightened animal.

She still flinches, though.

And I feel an anger that nearly blinds as well as deafens me.

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