Page 31 of Tortured Eyes
Thirteen
The shower soothes me back from where we are in this hedonism. It cleanses the thoughts, making me think of a decent man—an honest one. I step out and towel off, sighing at the view of him in my mind. He damn well smiled all the time in later life, kept it on his face and enjoyed his time after Cane became something other than it used to be.
I walk to the window and cast my eyes over the lawns, tracking them back to the drive. That’s the last place I saw him smiling. He stood down there, on my driveway, and told me that he knew Cane meant more to me than I was admitting, that they all did. And then he told me I wasn’t heartless—that no Cane was heartless. I feel heartless, though. I feel merciless, cold-blooded, and unforgiving. It's probably why I've been digging into old files,dragging up info from the past so I can make what's left of her life all kinds of hell.
I reach for some pants and pull them on, throwing a shirt on too, and glare at the spot he stood in. Why the fuck did he come to try stopping me? He had a life that was better than that, away from it all. My father dead—I could have lived with—but Nate? No. And all I’ve got left to torture, over myself, are these two fucking humans that linger in my basement waiting for me, for us.
My head tips over my shoulder, listening to the sound of something clattering loudly in the kitchens below me. Carter. No one’s here at the main house but me and him. I’ve given the staff some time off, sent them the fuck away so this can go on as long as I damn well choose. And it will go on.
Endlessly.
Another bustle of noise brings me back to the here and now, and I head downstairs to get some food. I don’t even know what fucking time it is, let alone care. Nothing matters other than this. My body ends up planted in front of the door down to the basement, hand opening it before I remember what I came downstairs for. I trudge downwards again, glaring at the thought of both of them in their rooms, breathing. I don’t want either of them breathing. They don’t deserve it after what they’ve caused.
I head for Emilio first, watching as he tries to pull himself somewhere and leaves a trail of blood behind him. Mangled cries fall out of his mouth, blurred and indistinct. He manages to twist his battered head to look at me, fingertips still pulling along the floor in the hope he can avoid what’s coming next. He can’t. Never will. He’s here until I decide he can die. Until then, it’s more of this.
I crouch, my gaze still fixed on that eye closed-over and the lip split clean in two. Big brother’s had some more fun. Perhaps he does remember how to deliver hell effectively. I snort and run a finger through some fresh blood on the floor, lifting it to my lips to taste Emilio’s fear. Vico taught me that. He said letting loose was like insanity, and if you truly wanted to feel it, truly wanted the world to see you’d go every fucking mile there was to gain power, then the world needed to understand that you’d be willing to cross insane thresholds to achieve it.
“Become an animal, Logan,”he said. “No heart. No fucking care. Everything dies. You choose when to end them."
No heart.
I’m up and across the floor to Emilio without any more thought, five more punches delivered to his already beaten head before I’ve taken a damn breath. Cunt. He slumps as soon as I’ve let go of him, blood and spit splayed out on the ground to join the rest of it. I shake my hand and back off a step or two, stopping myself from ending this too quickly. I’ve got other things to play with yet. My eyes glare at the wall separating the two of them, part of me wishing there wasn’t a wall there. I could make her watch, make her see what was coming for her next after what she’s already taken, but no. The wall is good. The wall makes her listen, ramping up her fear levels.
Phlegm launches out of my mouth, spit flying at Emilio’s face. Fucking humans. They’re all so pointless. So confused about their worth. They’re worth nothing at all. Not to me. And these two fucks are worth less than the rest of them because of what they’ve done.
A laugh murmurs out of me as I open the door, one that makes me wonder if I should leave it open, let him see a sliver of hope. I watch him in his half-dead state, unable to move anymore even if he wanted to, and laugh again. No. No hope. No possibilities. No mercy.
The door slams. Lock engaged.
Hungry.
Carter sits in the kitchen when I reach it, shirtless with most of his arms and hands covered in partly dried blood. He looks up at me and takes a bite of his bagel, not one element of emotion anywhere on his face. I look at my knuckles and fingers, staring at the blood on them. We’re like twins, both of us covered in something to help us heal.
“He still alive?” he asks, reaching for a glass of water and glugging it down.
I run my hand through my hair and cross to the refrigerator, searching for something to eat. “As far as I know. Was a minute ago, anyway.”
Silence descends. I pull some pastrami and eat it from the packet, grabbing some cheese, too. I frown at him across from me and lean on the countertop, wondering where it all went wrong with us. Or when. I fucking resent him for it. It’s not like we were ever that close. He was always too coded down, but I thought back then that I meant something to him. Something more than just… I don’t know what I thought.
“The fuck are you looking at?” he growls, barely coherent.
“I'm looking at someone I used to know,” I muse. He looks at his food, taking another bite to show his disinterest in conversation. “Someone I used to give a damn for.”
“You’re the one who left, Logan,” he mutters between mouthfuls. “You always knew where I was. Where we all were." He takes the last bite and leans back, a half-smile coming to piss me all the way off. "You were welcome home anytime you damn well liked, so don’t throw that shit at me.”
Fuck him.
And them.
My scowl lands and I turn away, not able, or maybe not willing to discuss anything with him other than what we’re here for. Revenge. That’s it. Nothing more. The fact that I have him in my house, his fucking face bringing up old feelings, is plenty enough to tip my scales of rational thinking. He stands and crosses to the sink, letting his plate smash into the bottom of it, and cracks his knuckles out. “I’m going down again.”
My head nods as I fill a bucket of water, getting myself ready to go see the bitch. She’ll need cleaning up before the next event. Carter can go do whatever the fuck he wants to Emilio. As my father said—enjoy himself. This time it’s all me in there with her, no sharing.
I pocket some other supplies and leave without another word, incapable of anything but thoughts of hatred and retribution. Welcome home? Screw him. I don’t have a home, certainly not back there with a father who fucking disowned me because I didn’t agree with his rule. And that was because of Carter. The only fucking home I can fathom now is when someone allows me some fucking respite from the constancy of my head spinning.
Samuel.
My hand palms the last door down to her, and hovers there. I can hear him now, hear his quiet words and his softened tones, his forgiveness. I growl and look around my hallway, almost expecting to see him here ready to talk me out of this. Nothing looks back at me but grandeur and false realism. Clean lines. Pretentious attributes. Wealth upon wealth piled high and delivering the misrepresentation of who I am. I prefer the depths of one of my clubs to this hell, the dirt down there. Unless I'm with him, his religious garb discarded and the real him on display for me. Kind hands. Soft words.
