Page 55 of Massacre
I closed my eyes and reluctantly nodded.
God help us all.
Ravage was on the hunt.
Chapter Twenty-One
Massacre
TRIGGER WARNING:This chapter contains a graphic representation of sexual assault and rape of a male individual. If you suffer from any triggers, PLEASE, PLEASE, take extreme caution before reading this chapter. Your health is more important to me than my fictional story.
It didn’t take him long to find me.
I knew it wouldn’t when I basically gave myself over to the fucker. Had I known what he had planned for me, I would have taken my own fucking advice and run for the hills and never looked back.
But that was three days ago. Or was it two? I couldn’t remember anymore. Time didn’t matter either, only the blow of his fist.
The metal chair bit into my thighs, the cold seeping into my bones. Yuri’s face, a mask of brutal satisfaction, loomed above me. The single bare bulb overhead cast long, grotesque shadows that danced like mocking ghosts of my past.
He didn’t need words. His silence was a symphony of hate, punctuated by the sickening thud of his knuckles against my ribs.
Each blow was precise, a calculated strike, designed not just to inflict pain, but to systematically dismantle me. My vision swam with crimson. It wasn’t just the blood—though there was plenty of that—but also an encroaching darkness, a strange, violet hue that pulsed at the edges of my sight.
Was it a concussion? Or something else?
The pain, though excruciating, was almost secondary to the chilling certainty that this was more than a simple beating. This was Yuri at his best, his ritual. I felt it in the almost supernatural precision of his attacks, the way he moved with an unnerving grace that belied his bulk. It felt like he wasn’t merely a man, but a conduit for some darker force, channeling an ancient, implacable rage.
Then came the whispers. Not audible whispers, but sensations—vibrations in the air, twisted tendrils of icy dread that coiled around my mind. They spoke of betrayal, of debts owed in blood, of an oath broken long ago under a sky choked with frost. Those whispers, those ghosts, echoed with a power that dwarfed even Yuri’s brutal strength. They painted visions where pain was the only true language.
The room spun, and I felt myself slipping away, the darkness beckoning. But Yuri wasn’t done with me yet. With a final, bone-shattering blow, he sent me toppling to the floor. I lay there broken, the cold seeping deeper into my body. The ghosts grew louder; their icy tendrils tightened around my consciousness. They spoke of revenge and condemnation.
Yuri stood over me, his face a twisted mask of hatred and triumph.
As I lay there, my mind wandered, and drifted back to my last encounter with Yuri’s brother Yasha. A person I hadn’t thought about since I killed. I should have known then that he was different, that he possessed a darkness unlike any I had ever encountered. But I had been foolish, thinking I’d won.
Now, I would pay the price for my arrogance.
Goddamned sick fucks. The whole fucking lot of them were fucked in the head. Why I was still fucking here was anyone’s guess, but I fucking knew I couldn’t take this shit much longer.Storming into my room, I slammed the door, then turned as I punched a fucking hole in the wall.
One of many.
I missed my family, my brothers, and Reggie.
I wanted to go home.
Fuck Montana and fuck Reaper for making me do this shit.
For damn near two motherfucking years, I’d stood by and watched as Boris Petrovitch contaminated the world around him with his vile tendencies and taste for blood. Someone should have shot the sick son of a bitch at birth and saved humanity the trouble. The men and women he brutalized, raped, murdered, tortured just for the sick fun of it, had finally taken its toll on me.
But that sick, twisted motherfucker Yasha Nikitin was going to eat a fucking bullet before I left, if it was the last thing I ever did.
Walking over to my closet, I grabbed my bag.
I was done. Fuck the consequences.
Throwing it on my bed, my bedroom door was kicked open. There, smiling at me, was Yasha.
“Get the fuck out.”
