Page 104 of The Cruelest Chaos
It was a promise. A warning. A threat. It was the way he said my name every time he wanted me to stay, every time he wanted me under his control. It was the same tone I’d listened to these past few weeks, because I was stupid.
Stupid to think that a steady fuck and a man who shoved food into my mouth as payment was in love with me.
“Get your fucking hand off of me.”
His lips turn up into a smile. “I appreciate the swearing, Ella, but no.”
“Go find her,” I taunt him instead, switching tactics. “Go fucking find the girl you kept in your basement. Drag her back here. Maybe tell her about all the times you fucked me. Go bury your self-loathing into someone who can take it, because I can’t, Maverick. I fucking can’t because I hate myself enough for both of us.” I yank out of his grip, and this time he lets me.
He lets me go.
Chapter Twenty
Of course she ran.
I tell myself I’m glad she did. After that...with the girl and the knife and the fucking anger and the way I wanted to pin her down and force her to stay...
I’m no better than Lucifer. Than my father. Than Jeremiah. I’m no better than the 6. Than every other dumb fuck on this planet lucky enough to find a girl who looks at them like they’re god and then makes sure to spit in their fucking face while they’re already on their knees.
It’s good she isn’t here. Far the fuck away from me. I should’ve never gone after her at Liber in the first place. I wasn’t in the right headspace and clearly, neither was she. What kind of nineteen-year-old wants to get hit by a stranger?
The same kind that wants to remember what it’s like to fucking feel: attention, hate, some sort of cruelty to remind them that they’re alive.
I can blame it on her age all I want. Her mother. Her fucking life.Shane.I can dismiss her and cut her down, but the truth is... I understand why she wants it.
That cruelty. That fucking chaos. It makes her feel like someone cares. Cares enough to hurt her. To make her learn a lesson. To want to teach her, like I do, even if it’s with violent hands.
Gods do that sometimes. They bring a lesson from the pain.
When my phone buzzes in my back pocket, I already know who it is.
And when I’m kneeling at Father Tomas’s feet, hands on my lap and head bowed, I make myself think about them: Malachi. Sid. Brooklin. Ria.Ella.
Everyone I can’t let go of. Everyone I can’t save.
I told Father Tomas not to talk as soon as he walked in, and he had sighed. Rubbed his temples. Clutched that fucking Leviathan cross around his neck.
But he didn’t speak. And he still doesn’t, with every flick of the whip.
I don’t stop thinking about them, even though the pain makes it hard to hold on to their faces. To Malachi’s the most.
I wonder what he would look like now.
I wonder if my father would be different.
My mother.
I wonder if there’s something inside of them that’s still soft. That still loves themselves. Loves me... Brooklin...
I don’t feel it anymore. My body does, the way it jolts with every hit. The way my palms are flat on the floor, my side throbbing from the knife.
Ella.
This is a reminder. I can never be the type of man she needs. I can never be the type of man anyone needs. I can’t even be who I need. The most I can hope for is to be a good brother. To help Lucifer. Sid. Atlas. Ezra. Cain. Even if it means breaking them apart, too. But I know better than most that getting broken means you get put back together.
Sometimes stronger.
The best I can hope for are moments like these, to remind me that all this pain, all this blood, all this humiliation... I deserve it. Because I’ve done worse.
