Page 56 of Nocturne
My vision blurs, everything around loses focus — Emma stands there, still, a lonely silhouette behind me. She’s screaming my name, but it’s not Damon who hears.
No.
It’s a god of vengeance, a storm about to blow, eyes blazing with a fury that burns inside, pounding in my chest like a war drum ready to roar.
Every fiber of my body screams for action, for destruction. There’s no room left for fear or hesitation. Only one path remains: act. Now.
?????
Revenge doesn’t heal. It burns.
It’s a hunger that never gets satisfied. Starts small, like a whisper in your soul, but grows like a plague and spreads like cancer. It’s what’s left when your soul rots in silence. They say revenge brings peace, that it’s the curefor an open wound — but they lie with fake smiles and empty promises. It makes you lose your way, kills you slowly, steals your humanity, your dreams. Locks you in an invisible cell where the only food is the hate growing until it devours the last piece of who you were.
When I heard Emma say Hunter killed Noah, it felt like someone shoved a knife in my chest or tore my skin with shards of glass. I didn’t feel betrayed — we’ve always been on opposite sides, our hate’s mutual.
But there’s a rage inside me that ain’t just his... It's mine. For everything that’s happened between us these past months. How was I such a dumbass? There’s something in me pulling me closer to him. An attraction I don’t get — and don’t wanna get. I hide it. Bury it deep. There’s no room here for feelings. No room for weakness.
Revenge burns inside me. It’s a fire I can’t — and don’t wanna — put out.
I lost my brother.
And that absence demands a price.
A bill only paid in blood.
This truce between the gangs? It’s just a comfortable lie.
They want peace, wanna pretend they can control this chaos.
But I don’t give a fuck.
I never wanted peace with the one who took everything from me. Never wanted a deal with the one who destroyed my ground.
I’m standing here, heart pounding in my throat, rage burning like fire in my chest. It’s not Hunter I see —it’s the reflection of everything he destroyed inside me. Every piece of my brother that’ll never come back, every dream turned to ash. I want to end it all, want the pain to disappear, but I know killing him now won’t erase what’s burning inside here.
This shit runs deeper than simple hate, it’s a poison that needs to get out, a fire that has to consume someone. It won’t be him, at least not now. I’ll use this rage, this twisted thirst for justice, to tear apart everything around him. I’ll break every part of the gang, every soldier he calls brother. Let them feel on their skin the hell I carry, let the pain hit him in waves that never end.
Because this is more than revenge — it’s a war burning inside me, a need to make every drop of his suffering come back to him multiplied. I’ll let him live, yeah, but living with the weight of the destruction I’m gonna bring. And when the right time comes, then maybe I can close this chapter — but until then, hell will be his path.
But, fuck, none of this shit makes sense. Deep down, I’m fucked up with these feelings I can’t even explain. I remember his touch, his lips on mine, that rush, that rage between us only we get. The sex, hot and violent, like the hate got solved in bed, burning everything that can’t stay alive outside that room. It’s a fucking mess, a knot tightening my throat, because I hate liking it. Hate what he does to me, but can’t deny that part of me still burns in this cursed attraction. And dealing with it? It’s a hell bigger than any war I’ve ever fought.
?????
My revenge doesn’t scream — it dances, like a blue butterfly over fresh blood, with the cruel lightness of angels who’ve lost their faith and chose to burn.
It’s always the little things. A look that lasts a second longer than it should. A touch that doesn’t end where it begins. A word dropped in the middle of silence. That’s how an old feeling changes shape — rots inside, twists until it looks like something new. Something sick. Dangerous. Contaminated. And I know the name of it. Manipulation. It’s the only logical explanation, the only acceptable excuse for the chaos that settled inside me. A psychopath doesn’t need to raise his voice. He learns to read your body, your flaws, your fears — and uses all that shit against you. Uses words with surgical precision, looks that seem tender but hide blades, calculated gestures pretending to be affection while dragging you down. Hunter Wolfe did exactly that. And I let him.
The rage I feel isn’t simple — it runs through my veins like acid, spreads to every part of my body, every drop of blood, every strand of hair. It consumes my thoughts, blinds me. I can’t think straight. There’s no logic, no calm. There’s only a primal urge to destroy something, anything, to shut up the storm inside me. Retaliation became a necessity, even if it comes in ways I never imagined.
And even with all this boiling inside me, even with this silent hell burning behind my eyes, I refuse to name what I feel. Because naming it would mean admitting that, on some level, there’s still something between us that isn’thate. But fuck that. Hunter Wolfe’s gonna suffer like he made me suffer. He’s gonna learn what it means to be broken inside, day after day.
Death’s a formality — too fast, too clean.
No.
I want more than that. I wanna be the God who rips the air from his lungs, who drags his soul across the ground. I wanna turn every second of his existence into a reminder. Of what I did. And why.
And anyone who tries to stop me will taste the same hell.
