Page 31 of Traitor

Skin splits. Bone bursts through muscle in a jagged, wet crack. It’s over before she even knows it.

Her forearm dangles, held together by nothing but flesh.

And I'm still fucking angry.

She tries to stand, tries to run. Screams, eyes frantic.

"No — NO! PLEASE—"

I stare at her.

I've never done this to a woman before.

Guess there's a first time for everything.

I release her arm and turn toward the tools table. My favorite waits for me right in the center. A long, custom-made metal baseball bat, wicked spikes embedded along its barrel. A brutal masterpiece.

Guns? They're quick. Efficient. But they don't give me what I need.

I like the sound of bones breaking.

And this bat? This bat sings when it meets flesh.

I pick it up, run my fingers along the cold metal. It calls to me, whispering, begging to be used. The rage coiled inside me surges to the surface, demanding release.

I oblige.

The first swing lands between Tisha's shoulder blades, spikes sinking deep. A sharp crack. Her spine might be shattered.

She screams. Kicks. Pleads.

I don't acknowledge any of it.

Because I don't care.

Not anymore.

I already gave all my mercy tonight.

And Tisha?

She gets none.

The final blow crashes into her skull.

She's done.

And my rage?

Still. Fucking. Roaring.

The office is dark, lit only by the dying glow of a single whiskey bottle on my desk.

I sit back in my chair, fingers dragging through my hair, the weight of the past pressing against my chest like a goddamn vice.

The brand on Ely's arm is still fresh in my mind.

The way she sobbed, begged me to listen.

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