Page 108 of The Games We Play
“I made a promise to you at the prison earlier today, and I always keep my promises,” I remind him.
He bares his teeth at me, grunting in annoyance, but staying exactly where he is because he’s trapped and he knows it. His fists clench at his sides, keeping in his angry outburst because he knows he’s stuck.
“Silent or spectacle? I believe those were your options.” I bend down and slide the skinning knife from my boot holster, crouch down on the floor, and use the cement to sharpen the blade. I lift my gaze to him as I slip the blade back in its holder, then look around the cell at the ceiling bars. “We could do aSilence of the Lambstribute in here. That would be fun.”
His eyes grow wide and I can see the rapid heaving of his chest as he tries to hide his fear.
“You’ll never get away with this!” he screams as his voice cracks. Does he actually think the louder he is, the better chance he has?
I wince, as I rub my ear, annoyed.
“Desperation looks good on you,” I say, as I pull my gun out of the sleeve, giving it a once over and checking the safety, then tuck it back into my belt.
He shifts his stance, and at first I think he’s uncomfortable.But as he stands to his full height, I see that his demeanor has completely morphed into something darker. His energy has changed, and when he dips his chin to his chest, I see the immoral darkness in his eyes.
“It looked better on her.” His reply is an evil whisper in this dark cell, and his words penetrate me worse than any weapon could.
“The way she begged for my cock, telling me how much better I was than you. Whimpering when I slammed into her. Oh, she was desperate alright.” His lips curve up into a smile. “She’ll never forget me. Never. I will live in her mind forever, and there is nothing you can do about it.”
“Seamus…” Whitlock’s voice of warning is far away, but his words are nothing more than a name by the time it reaches me.
Fury licks at every corner of my body. My heart pounds behind my ribcage that rises and falls, as his words stab me like a knife to the chest.
It must be a minute that goes by as we stare at each other. My contained rage is still a wildfire burning under my skin. He just continues to stare me down with that sardonic smile, and he must think he’s getting to me.
That’s probably something he’s gotten used to as an inmate in a prison that he practically runs with his family's money and connections.
But he has no idea what I’ve seen and the things I’ve done. Never did those jobs feel so goddamn personal.
Vengeance was never my motivation. But it is now and that centers me, keeping me focused and completely in control.
“Psstt…Seamus—” Whitlock whisper-yells through the side of the cell. I swivel my neck and look in his direction.
His eyebrows are pushed up to his forehead and his palm faces up as he gestures toward Nathan. “Are you done fucking with him yet?” He says, tapping the face of his watch.
“Yeah, I guess playtime is over, isn’t it?” I ask, turning back to Nathan.
And now he can see the devil-in-hiding behind my eyes. The one I mask so well.
Nathan’s brow pinches together as he steps back. I can see the realization that his taunting did nothing and how powerless he is when he’s trapped in the cage with someone like me.
“Nothing you can say will stop me from what I came here to do, Nathan.”
“Stop—”
“Stop?” I question, interrupting him. “Did you stop?” I tsk, shaking my head as I crouch down and grab the skinning knife from my boot.
“This will be what she remembers,” I gesture to the knife, “because I’m going to whisper every single detail of how you begged for your life, while I fuck the memory of you out of her.”
He takes a giant step back, cornering himself next to the sink and bench as he holds his arms out in front of him.
I jab forward, flicking my wrist once over his left arm then again over his right, slicing him between his forearm and his wrist.
He screams as he leans forward, holding his palms over his bleeding arms.
“That’s the thing about this knife, it gets right under that last layer of skin and tears away from the flesh. Makes you bleed like…a lot.” I shrug, kicking my knee into his face, cracking his nose.
Blood splatters on the ground as he falls to the floor. One hand covers his face, the other presses into the cement floor. Blood drips from the incisions on his forearms, and I can’t help but think that he doesn’t really need that wrist.
