Page 82 of His to Destroy

Stark is a bloody, broken heap on the ground—his face barely recognizable, one eye swollen shut, his jaw hanging slack.

But he’s breathing.

Barely.

And that’s exactly how I want him.

Because death would be too easy.

Death would let him escape the weight of what he’s done.

No.

He’ll live.

He’ll wake up every day and remember that the boy he betrayed, the brother he spat on, is the one who crushed him.

Slowly, methodically, I pull a length of heavy zip ties from my jacket pocket and wrench his wrists behind his back, securing them tightly enough to bite into his torn skin.

He groans weakly.

I haul him to his feet, slinging his ruined body over my shoulder like a sack of garbage.

As I walk back toward the safe house, I see Enzo and Sancia waiting by the vehicles.

The bodies of Stark’s men are scattered across the lot—those who survived are zip-tied and bleeding, surrounded by my soldiers.

Enzo raises an eyebrow as I approach, Stark's battered form dripping blood down my back.

"You got what you needed?" he asks, voice dry.

I nod grimly.

"More than that."

Sancia smirks, wiping blood from her knuckles with a torn cloth.

"Remind me never to piss you off," she mutters.

I throw Stark down onto the ground at their feet.

"Bring him," I say. "It’s time the others heard the truth."

We drive from the lot straight to the syndicate’s dungeon.

The gates open with a screech.

Cold steel.

Concrete walls.

The stench of old blood and older secrets.

It’s fitting.

A tomb for the traitor.

We drag him through the corridors, the guards stepping aside wordlessly as we pass.

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