Page 92 of Wicked Scorn
“Oakley, I’m sorry,” Mr. Bryant whimpers, his face contorting in pain. “I was obsessed. You were just so...perfect.”
“Perfect?” The word feels like a slap. “I’m not your fantasy. I’m a person. And you have no power over me anymore.”
He flinches at my words, the reality of his actions crashing down on him. I feel a surge of anger and a strange, liberating sense of justice. This man who had terrorized me is now nothing more than a broken shell. And I am no longer his victim.
“Oakley,” Graham says, finally giving a voice to his presence. “Is there anything you want to say to him?”
I turn to Mr. Bryant, who still lies crumpled, his eyes flicker with fear and desperation. My breath catches; I can almost taste the bitterness of what’s about to happen. I don’t speak, I don’t have time to before Jeremiah is moving in front of me, eyeing Mr. Bryant with so much scorn in the world plastered on his face.
I almost feel bad for the beady-eyed little man…almost.
Chapter 36
Jeremiah
Istand over the middle-aged fucker, the scent of old books and blood mingling in the air. His face is a mess of bruises and gashes, courtesy of my fists. He whimpers, trying to crawl away, but I grab his collar and haul him back.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I growl, tightening my grip. The bastard doesn’t answer, just gurgles through a mouthful of blood. Desperation pulses through my veins. Oakley. My Oakley. The thought of her trapped, scared, makes my vision blur with rage.
“Answer me!” I shake him, and his head lolls like a rag doll’s. Pathetic.
“Please. I didn’t mean…” he stammers, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. Pathetic. This piece of shit dared to lay a hand on her, dared to think he could get away with it. The sight of his broken form should be satisfying, but it isn’t enough. Not yet.
“Didn’t mean what? Didn’t mean to trap her in a goddamn freezer?” My knuckles are white from gripping his shirt, thescent of his fear mixing with the metallic tang of blood in the air. “You think you get to walk away from this?”
“Jeremiah, stop,” a soft voice whispers behind me. I whip around, finding Oakley standing there, her blue eyes wide but not with fear—something else. Admiration? No, something darker, more complex.
“Baby, he hurt you.” My voice cracks on the last part. “He deserves this.”
“I need you to let me slay this demon,” she says, stepping closer. Her presence calms the rage inside me, even as it stirs another, more primal need. Her delicate fingers brush against mine, and I release my grip on the man’s collar. She kneels beside him, a strange calm settling over her.
“What are you doing?” I ask, head tilting, watching as my innocent girl sits in blood. I don’t want her to see this side of me, but it’s too late. She’s already seen too much.
“Taking control,” she replies, her voice steady and with such resolve in her eyes. She pulls the small knife I keep on me from my boot. There is only a slight hesitation before she lashes out. With a swift motion, she slits the man’s throat, pushing her entire little body into it in order to sever the carotid. Blood pools around him, dark and viscous, staining the old library floor.
She stands, trying to wipe the blade on my sweatshirt, and looks at me with defiance and vulnerability. My pulse quickens, the sight of her strength intoxicating.
“You’re full of surprises, baby,” I say, stepping closer. I can feel the heat radiating from her body, the scent of blood and adrenaline mixing.
“Are you disappointed?” she asks, a challenge in her eyes.
“Never,” I whisper, cupping her face with my hand. Her skin is warm, and she leans into my touch, closing her eyes.
“Hey! What the fuck is going on here? We’re having a murder party without me, and that’s just fucking rude.” Penn’s voice cuts through the haze.
“Can’t you see we’re in the middle of something?” My tone is ice; my stare, just as cold.
“Yea, I can. Still fucking rude of you, but we’ve got a fucking problem.”
“Get to the point,” I snap, feeling the adrenaline spike once more.
He strides into the room, his eyes looking between the lifeless body on the floor and the blood-splattered knife still in Oakley’s hand. “Real fucking mess you’ve made here. Didn’t know you had it in you, little Ashford.”
“I was just channeling my inner Penn.” My girl quietly says with a little smile on her face. She’s always loved my brother and his quirks. She’s never judged him for how off the fucking wall he is.
“The little peeping tom from earlier was a fine ass girl.” Penn’s words hang in the air, each one a nail being driven into our coffin. “And she slipped away from me.”
“Fuck,” Graham mutters, stepping forward with a scowl etched across his face. “You couldn’t keep her under control?”
