Page 115 of F*ckboys

I straighten, squaring my shoulders. "Then that's all I need to know. Get out." My voice is flat, emotionless. I cling to the anger burning in my veins, using it to cauterize the rawness of loss. "I thought you believed in what we're doing."

Grave's jaw clenches. For a long moment, he simply stands there staring at me. I see the internal struggle reflected in his eyes, the warring factions of loyalty and doubt. When he turns on his heel and strides from the room without another word, I'm not surprised.

I'm alone in the silence that follows, standing amidst the wreckage of broken promises and shattered trust. The knife gleams on the counter, a reminder of justice not yet served.

Steeling my resolve, I make for the basement and the man chained within. The path ahead is clear, even if I have to walk it alone.

The stairs creak under my feet, a discordant melody announcing my descent into darkness. Shadows cling to the walls, shrouding the basement in shades of gray.

A rusty pipe drips in the corner, the only sound breaking the heavy silence. The rhythmic tapping does little to soothe my frayed nerves or calm the storm of emotion raging inside me.

Anger and betrayal war with loss, the conflicting currents threatening to drown me in their depths. I cling to my purpose, using it as a lifeline to pull me from the abyss.

Justice will be served tonight.

My captive stirs at the sound of my approach, metal rattling against metal. He blinks against the dim light filtering from above, confusion etched into the lines of his face at the absence of Grave.

"Back for more, sweetheart?" His tone is mocking, though there's an edge of something else beneath it. Fear, perhaps. He's smart if it's fear. Maybe he can tell I should be more feared than Grave. After all, he's only a dangerous traitor, whereas I'm a rageful scorned woman with nothing to lose.

The knife feels heavy in my grip as I stride forward. He flinches away instinctively, the chains binding him to the wall clanging.

"Where's your partner in crime?" His gaze darts around the basement, as if expecting Grave to materialize from the shadows. "Didn't want to get his hands dirty?"

"We're not partners anymore." I keep my tone flat, refusing to betray the maelstrom of emotion churning inside me. "He couldn't stomach what needed to be done."

Understanding dawns, his eyes widening. The implications of being at my mercy alone seem to sink in, his fear spiking. Hestruggles against his bindings, metal groaning. Whoever thought someone would be more scared of me than Grave?

I step closer, close enough to see the sheen of sweat on his brow and smell the sour tang of terror clinging to his skin. The knife rises, glinting in the low light.

"Now, it's just you and me." My smile is slow, sharp. "And we have unfinished business."

His gaze darts to the knife, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. "You don't have the guts."

The words are a challenge, meant to provoke me into action. I tighten my grip on the hilt, knuckles whitening as I wonder if I can replicate Grave's apple peeling on the soft, delicate skin of Harvey Maxwell's throat.

"Don't I?" My tone is deceptively soft, belying the tumult churning inside me. The desire for vengeance wars with the memory of Grave's disapproving gaze, his unspoken judgment hanging between us.

The captive's eyes narrow, a glint of cunning surfacing. "You need me alive. What will you do once I'm gone? That hardly seems like fitting revenge." His lips twist into a mocking smile. "Seems you've lost more than your partner today."

The barb strikes deep, resonating in a place raw and aching. I stiffen, the urge to wipe that smug expression from his face nearly overpowering my restraint.

The knife wavers, then steadies in my grip. I step closer and grasp his jaw, my fingers digging into bone and flesh.

"I don't need anything from you," I hiss. "Least of all, your worthless life."

I slam his head back against the wall and press the knife to his throat, the sharp edge nicking his skin. A thin rivulet of blood trickles down his neck, crimson against pale flesh.

His breath comes in ragged gasps, his chest heaving against my arm. The mocking expression has bled from his eyes,replaced by stark terror at the revelation that I am not of sound mind.

"Please," he rasps. "I'll give you anything. Just let me go."

The knife wavers against his throat. Indecision wars within me, the desire to end him vying with Grave's disapproving stare. His unspoken judgment echoes through my mind, a refrain ofyou promised you wouldn't kill him.

I grit my teeth against the unwelcome thoughts, tightening my grip. The knife digs deeper into his flesh, a vivid red line welling against silver metal.

"Please," he gasps again. "Have mercy."

Mercy.

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