Page 184 of Boy of Ruin
From fucking rage.
He doesn’t deserve to breath another second, but I want Lucifer to watch him die.
I want Sid to get to see his death.
That gunshot wound to his shoulder was a fucking graze.
But thinking of it, I pick my head up, let go of one end of the twine, then dig my finger into the still-healing wound, pink and nearly closed up.
But not fucking quite.
He screams, and I clamp my hand over his disgusting mouth.
“I’m not going to kill you yet, because that would be too easy. Because when you let grown fucking men make my sister cry, you were living your best life.” I dig my nail into his wound, and his own dig into my arms, beneath the sleeves of the black shirt, I’m wearing, but I don’t give a fuck. I can barely feel that pain, because I’m thinking about her pain.
I’m thinking about my past pain.
“When you let them throw me in that…” I swallow down the word, see his eyes connect with mine, and I don’t like the look in them.
Something like regret.
Something like he actually feels something about it.
But I know he’s good at manipulation. Just like I am.
“You were sleeping like a goddamn baby at night, weren’t you, Maddox?”
He shakes his head, his nostrils flaring as he tries to speak beneath my hand clamped over his face.
“Shut the fuck up. It was a rhetorical question.”
He swallows, silent as he breathes through his nose, staring up at me.
I lean back, half-sitting on the console behind me, but I’ve got to nearly fold myself in half to do it.
“Put your hands together,” I tell him, sliding the twine from his neck.
He releases his hold on me, but his hands are shaking as he brings them between us.
I watch that tremor—from fear—and see the veins beneath his skin, light blue, stark against his sinewy arms.
Yeah. Won’t take long to cut off that circulation, fucker.
I wrap the twine around him, as tight as I can. He tries to cradle his hands to his chest, but I don’t think. I just hit him in the side of the face and he groans, his head snapping to the side. I don’t look up. I just keep digging in the plastic twine deeper into the skin of his wrists, and it’s already leaving imprints in his flesh, something that causes joy to swell in my chest.
He’s crying in earnest now, apologizing too, as if I give a fuck about an apology.
I reach behind me, in the passenger seat, snatch up the switchblade and thumb the latch. After I knot the rope, I cut it off, toss the spool in the front floorboard.
My neck is cramping, my back, too, being folded at this angle in my car, but I can’t resist.
I bring the sharp blade to his inner thigh, refusing to look at his fucking cock. Refusing to think about where it’s been. Who he’s hurt. If he ever touched her that way, maybe before she was sold. Fuck, maybe even after. Maybe they passed her around.
Maybe he was her first.
My fingers tremble as I hold his gaze and the knife slips, cutting him.
I know, because he hisses, glancing down with wide eyes.
