Page 77 of That Sik Luv

He may be talking about telling me everything as promised, but the way the crack in his voice says the word, I get the feeling that he’s surrendering entirely to me. He’s giving me everything he has. Every living, breathing part of him. The pieces I can see, and the shattered ones I can’t. I feel what he feels in this moment together.

My answers to the unending questions are coming, but there’s one thing I know with complete certainty. It’s just him and I in this world of torture and torment. We aren’t like them. We’re like us.

And solidifying that is everything.

Chapter thirty-eight

Evolution of the Game

Istillmybody,using every available sense I have.

A bird’s wings flutter from the tree branches above me. I breathe the stark scent of pine with the pungent smell of wet mud beneath my black lace-up boots. My fingertips gently graze the sharp bark of the tree behind me, feeling for its width as my vision stays trained on the area before me, ensuring it’s cleared.

Slowly, I mold along the tree, using soft, light footsteps and a steady flow of motion until my target is in my direct line of sight. I take a steady inhale, exhaling smoothly, calming the nerves that always pool before I strike. Grazing the knives along the straps across my chest, I grip the tips of each blade and am transported into a different place entirely.

There, leaning against the tree, is the outline of the disgusting, child-assaulting demon himself.

Bishop Caldwell.

I spin off the tree, quickly making eye contact with my target, and flick my wrist, sending the blade rotating so swiftly through the air that the sound is practically silenced as it strikes him directly in the left eye. Blood bursts from his head as his mouth drops open, and his stunned body falls back against the tree.

I continue through the trees, not watching as his dead body collides with the forest floor beneath him, running light on my toes, my feet stepping around the rocks and sticks left on the ground that could give away my whereabouts.

Dodging a bullet by diving into a somersault, I come up on my knee with one leg propped out before me, stabilizing myself. I toss the knife up, flipping to grab the handle, and gripping it, I twist my body back, slicing the core of the man approaching me from behind with a semi-circle, back-handed motion.

The man who made Aero’s life the living hell that it was by murdering his mother, the mistress, silencing his secrets the only way he knew how.

The same man that sent his son to live in the dark basement of the church, under the strict eye of the bishop himself. A man so eager to assist in the grooming of another innocent child. The same bishop, whose idea of purifying and cleansing this spawn of Satan, was through excessive attention and a gentle, caressing touch.

The man who turned a blind eye to the cries for help from a small boy, made up of his own genes, being abused by the very institution that promised to protect.

The man who set up his own flesh and blood, accusing a child of a crime so vicious, so vile, that it pained anyone to believe it could be true.

The man who tried to erase the existence of the one stain he never could.

Callum Westwood.

I cut into his abdomen, tearing the blade through the flesh as I swing the knife, spilling his intestines into the dirt where they belong. He groans before collapsing forward; the blood spurting across my face and arm from his large gaping wound as he awkwardly drops to his death behind me.

I grip the sharp edge of the last blade from the strap on my thigh, aiming for the last target who’s straight before me.

His striking blue eyes find mine, and his face softens, sending a twisted feeling to the pit of my gut. I’m not sad for him. I don’t feel sorrow anymore. But I feel this act I’d be gifting him would be too kind. Giving him death gives him freedom, and after all of the lies and deceptions, he deserves none of that.

I hesitate. My wrist pulls back by my ear, but I hold for a second too long.

My only error.

Just as expected, my hesitation gets the better of me and before I can send the final dagger flying into the heart of Saint, someone grips my neck with a firm hand from behind, another wrapping my arm behind my back, twisting it into a painful hold as I’m forced to drop the last remaining blade.

“You messed up,” his grave, familiar tone purrs throughout my core, his hot breath warming my neck. “You hesitated, and now you’re dead.”

This is Aero’s game; always has been. I’m still merely a player.

I feel the rope circle my wrist as he tries to grab for the other. Sending an elbow to his jaw, I feel his teeth knock together before an angry growl reverberates from somewhere deep in his chest.

Thrashing wildly in his hold, I feel his body push into me, forcing my face into the dirt beneath us, my legs splaying out behind me. He’s already hard.

Twisting my other arm back, he ties it to the other wrist. Once my arms are tied behind my back, he sits on my ass before I can roll over to use my legs.

---