Page 149 of Traitor

I scan the room, my gaze locking onto the metal table near the wall. Tools. They line the surface, glinting under the dim light. Tools for pain. Tools for justice. More hang from the wall — blades, pliers, spikes. But one catches my eye.

A long, serrated knife.

I lift it, the weight solid in my palm. Run my thumb over the jagged edge, feeling the bite of the steel. A slow exhale escapes me.

I know what I want to do.

"Where's your bat?" My voice is calm.

Bones doesn't hesitate. He steps into the corner and retrieves it. The familiar metal gleams under the light, the wicked spikes along the barrel sharp as hell. He places it on the table beside me. Perfect.

I turn back to the monster, walking slowly, savoring the way his body tenses as I approach. His garbled attempts at speech are pointless. The ropes creak under his straining muscles, but he's going nowhere.

He's at my mercy.

There's silence inside me. No anger clawing at my mind. No pain cutting into my soul. No memories plaguing me. Just silence.

I tighten my grip on the knife, my hand moves—

"Temper." Bones' voice halts me, void of any hint of emotion. "If you start with that, you'll have about ten minutes left before he bleeds out. Unless you stop the bleeding."

I tilt my head, considering. Then I give him a small, curious smile. "You've done this before?"

His lips curve into something dark. Dangerous. "It's effective. Depending on the situation."

A slow shiver rolls down my spine. I like the way he says that. The darkness in his eyes. In his voice. Like violence is just another language he speaks fluently. If I were normal, I'd be horrified. But I'm not normal. I was forged in blood and pain.

"I don't need him to live for long," I murmur, turning my gaze back to my monster. "He doesn't deserve to take any more of my time."

Bones nods once, silent approval.

The monster in the chair is still thrashing, still trying to move, to fight. Pathetic.

I step in closer, bending until I'm inches from his face. I want him to hear me clearly.

"You deserve this," I whisper, my voice calm, measured. Deadly. "You spent years poisoning the world with your filth. You spread your disease over countless innocent women. You stole something from me I can never get back. You took a young, hopeful girl and buried her in hell. You stained my soul and now your blood will stain this room. And that's where this ends. You will disappear. Become nothing. Your remains will never be found. No one will ever cry for you. Miss you. Remember you. It will be like you never existed. Because after this, you will never occupy even one thought in my mind. I will turn the memories of you into ashes. I will live while your soul rots into oblivion. I will find peace. Happiness. And you will find only the darkness you created. Rot in hell."

His eyes widen, a frantic shake of his head. Now he feels true fear.

Good.

My grip tightens on the knife. My other hand — strong, steady — grips his dick.

And I start cutting.

The serrated blade tears through flesh, through muscle, through the disgusting thing he used as a weapon. His scream rips through the room, muffled by the gag, a raw, animalistic sound. His body jerks, but there's nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide from what he did, from the girl he tortured now becoming his executioner.

One final slice. I straighten. Breathe deep. Feel nothing.

I drop the knife. The blood-slicked handle slips from my fingers, hitting the ground with a sharp clink. I don't hear it.

I don't hear anything but the roar in my ears.

I rip the gag from his mouth before he can even register what's happening. His lips part, ready to spit out some pathetic plea, some last-ditch effort to slither his way out of this. Or to curse me. I don't care.

I don't give him the chance.

I shove his severed dick straight into his mouth.

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