Page 121 of Boy of Ruin
But I remember something, too, with that sound. My mind seems to settle for half a second. Just that, but as Maverick loosens his grip on my upper arms, his eyes searching mine, as if he’s trying to get me to be reasonable, to let him hurt J, I remember what I have.
What I haven’t gone without since that first Unsaints Night. Since I met the boy from hell.
“Okay,” I tell Mav, playing along as I chew my lip, trying to appear uncertain. Scared. Trying to hide how I really feel.
He arches a brow, clearly concerned that I’m going to try to run again. But he shouldn’t be. Because I’m not.
Because when he lets go of me, takes a small step back, turns his head to Lucifer, I reach for the knife in the pocket of my shorts.
And by the time he turns back to me, I’ve thumbed the blade free, and I’m angling it at his chest.
His eyes widen as he takes another step back, but there’s a smirk on his lips because he’s not scared of me.
Not yet.
“Oh, this is good,” Lucifer says, an edge to his words. I dart my eyes between the two of them as Lucifer comes to stand shoulder to shoulder with his brother, the cigarette to his lips. He inhales, the cherry glowing red.
I try to remember what Jeremiah taught me. The different ways to attack head-on. Only enough to get away.
Just to get away, then run.
I’m good at that, even though I’m not running away this time.
I’m still fucking stellar at running.
And when I hear the clank of the chains, I know what I’m going for.
Lucifer exhales through his nose, looking like he just arrived from hell itself, then he holds up the cigarette, making my mind pause as I even out my stance, ready to lunge, the knife still angled down in my hand, easier to sink into their fucking flesh.
“Come here, baby girl,” Lucifer says, jerking his head, his blue eyes full of amusement, the light from the porch reflected in his big black pupils. “Let’s see how rough you really like it.”
The tip of his cigarette is still glowing bright in the dark, and my mouth goes dry as he takes a step forward.
“I’ve always wanted to fucking brand you where no one can miss it.” His eyes go to my throat, my hand, then my face. But not my belly, where the real brand is. “It’s a fucking shame we’re done now, but I can still make sure you’re not good enough for anyone else to fuck.”
Mav’s eyes shift to Lucifer, his tattooed hands curled into fists.
I catch sight of the top of one, some of the adrenaline in my blood slipping from Lucifer’s words.
There’s a new tattoo, in fresh black ink scrawled over the top of Mav’s hand.
My stomach drops as I realize what it is.
My name.
My fucking name.
My mouth falls open, and just as I look up, to ask him when, and why, Lucifer moves.
He’s in my face, hand back around my throat, the cigarette an inch from my cheek.
But I move too, and he has the upper hand because I was distracted, but I have the tip of the knife pressing against the soft flesh of his neck, just to the side, right above his shoulder.
It’s a wicked sharp blade, digging into the fabric of his black shirt, but I see him scowl and I know he feels it.
His fingers flex around my throat. I can feel the heat of the cigarette on my face.
His eyes lock with mine.
