Page 55 of Runaways

"Silas!" I scream again as Tate helps me to my feet.

"Easy on that ankle, baby. I've got you." He wraps an arm around me, and I lean on him, letting him help me down the staircase. "I want you to know that it's okay if you like this, Noah. There's nothing wrong with it—with any of it. I don't want you to feel guilty for enjoying the things that we've done or what happens next."

"Well…what's happening next?"

He doesn't answer, but I think I know.

By the time we reach the bottom of the stairs, Silas is already hauling Paul into the dining room. Blood runs from his nose down his chin as he struggles against his hold, but Silas has five inches on the older man as well as thirty pounds of muscle and infinite rage.

"Sit!" Silas shouts when they reach the table. Tate pulls out a chair and hands Silas the meat cleaver.

"Who are you?" Paul cries out. "You can take whatever you want! I have money!"

"We don't care about your fucking money," Tate says.

Paul looks at Tate, recognition flashing in his eyes. Tate is hard not to notice anyway, but with the blue hair, he's easily recognizable. Next, he notices me, and then looks at Silas before turning back to Tate again.

"I know you," he says, appearing to relax a little. "I know both of you. You're just…what? A couple of nineteen-year-old kids? Whatever you do here, I will be pressing charges, and youwillgo to jail." He turns to me. "It's not worth it…for whatever this lying whore said to you. She's not even that pretty."

It happens so fast it's almost like it isn't real—like I'm watching a movie. In one swift motion, Silas grabs Paul's hand,pinning it to the wooden table while raising the cleaver knife overhead with the other, and then brings it down on his wrist.

It slices clean through the bone and gets stuck in the table. Silas has to tug on it twice to get it free.

Paul screams, falling from the chair onto the floor, his remaining hand gripping the other wrist while it spouts blood, and the other hand just…sits there…on the table.

"I always thought this would be a fair punishment for men who hit women," Silas says calmly. "Come over here, Noah."

"Help!" Paul screams through his sobs. "Kathy! Help me!"

"Silas, you need to get out of here! My mom is going to call the police."

"Nah, I've got their phones in my pocket," Silas says. He kneels on the floor with his knee on Paul's back, immobilizing him. "Come on, Noah." He extends the knife toward me. "It'll feel good; I promise."

"What are you talking about? What will feel good?"

When I don't move, Tate shoves me forward. Stumbling on my injured ankle, I end up on my knees beside Silas, who takes my hand, presses the knife handle into my palm, and then closes my fingers around it.

Then he pins Paul's arm against the hardwood floor. "Go ahead, Noah. He deserves it. It's not a bad thing; it's the right thing."

"I'll kill you," Paul says, gasping for air, his breath loud and labored now. "I'll fucking kill you, Noah!"

Even through my fear, I laugh a little because…I know he's not going to do anything to me ever again. No one is—except for Tate.

"Do it now, Noah!" Tate screams, pulling me back into the moment.

"He hurt you; he hurt your mom. And he'll keep doing it if he can. He ruined your life," Silas says.

Tate saunters up to the table, picking up the dismembered hand by its index finger, and tosses it onto the floor beside me. "One could argue he had ahandin my sister's death, too. Things could have been different if she had a friend around."

I stare at the heap of bloody flesh at my side, and my vision blurs. But Tate's kind of right, isn't he? If it weren't for him, we never would have moved, and it probably would have forced us all to make up, no matter what that looked like. I could have had more—more of Tate brushing my hair, more of Silas holding me and sheltering me from the rest of the world. I could have Mia, and I wouldn't have this hole.

"What are you…what are you talking about?" Paul sobs.

Apparently, he's given up on shouting for help. Maybe I was right—maybe Mom is using again, and it'll take a lot more than a little dismemberment to get her out of bed.

"Don't be a wimp, Noah," Silas says.

"She's always been a wimp," Tate says. "She used to be better at following fucking directions, though."

---