Page 80 of Beautifully Shattered
The funerals.
Wendy.
The shower and my milk.
The ambush.
In the last week, I’ve killed four people. Three of them were in the last twenty-four hours.
I’m not sure what to do with that.
Who am I becoming?
I’m not sure I like this version, but… well, now I feel like less of a victim.
Now I feellike the predator. Which makes no sense since I’ve had zero training. Just outbursts of blinding rage that hijack my body until I’m left standing in the aftermath, blinking at the carnage I’ve created.
It should repulse me. The violence by my hands should terrify me.
But it doesn’t.
If Bobbi were still alive… and these people were trying to get to her… trying to hurt her… well, I wouldn’t hesitate. I’d kill anyone who dared.
She may not be here now, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m her mother, and I’m not going to stop walking this path until every one of those monsters is dead.
And what happens after that? I have no bloody idea.
“I can feel you thinking, Angel.”
Ringo’s warm breath ghosts over my hair before he presses a kiss to my forehead, and I snuggle even closer.
“Sorry. A lot happened today. I’m just trying to process it.”
“You wanna talk about it?” he asks quietly, and I shrug against him.
“Did any of the Marx crew die tonight?” My mind flashes to the man I saw on fire, screaming in agony.
“I haven’t got a final tally from Griffin yet, but yes, Angel. There were some casualties on our side.”
And there it is again. That sick, gnawing guilt.
I feel guilty for smiling. Guilty for the people suffering because they chose to help me. Guilty for every single life lost in my name.
“The men who work for the Marx family… are they like your club brothers? Like is the Marx crewtheirfamily? Or is it justa job, and they’ve got partners and kids waiting for them at home?”
Shifting next to me, Ringo’s fingers hook under my chin, tilting my head up until I’m looking into his eyes.
“You don’t need to worry about that.”
“But I do,” I whisper, knowing my voice will crack if I try to speak louder.
“I know, Angel.” He leans in and kisses the apples of my cheeks, making me feel more cherished than I deserve.
“I need to know about the people risking their lives to protect me.” I insist, and he sighs, nodding before he shifts us so I’m half-draped across his chest, my fingers immediately tracing small circles over his pecs.
“The men in the Marx crew are employees. It’s their job. An extremely well-paid job,” Ringo explains. “Their families are looked after for life if something happens. They know the risks. Most are highly trained ex-soldiers and special ops.”
“So, they’re here on protection detail, with us, and with your mum and sisters too?”
