Page 148 of F*ckboys

He sees the threat in my casual grip, his words faltering as comprehension dawns. The color drains from his face, leaving his eyes stark and wounded.

Good. Fear becomes him.

"Did you really think I'd forgotten?" My voice emerges as a growl, rage giving the words an ugly twist. "That I'd forgive what you did? You betrayed me. Betrayed all of us."

"Fallon, don't—" Cheston's warning comes too late. I surge to my feet, my chair crashing behind me, and lunge across the table.

The knife finds its mark with ease, slicing through cloth and flesh. A cry of pain and shock rings out, cut short by my hand closing around a throat.

Bronson struggles beneath me, bucking and clawing at my arm. My brother's blood wells between my fingers, as crimson as the haze clouding my vision.

"You will pay for your sins," I hiss. "And when I'm done with you, you'll beg for the mercy of death."

Bronson's eyes bulge, his lips turning an alarming shade of blue. I ease my grip just enough for a rasping breath, not yet ready to end this.

"Fallon, stop!" Fenton shouts, his hands closing around my shoulders. I shrug him off with a snarl, my knife flashing out to discourage any further interference.

He stumbles back, betrayal etched deep in the lines of his face. But he stays silent, unwilling to risk his brother's life by provoking me further.

Coward. Just like Bronson. Like all of them.

My gaze drops to the ruin of Bronson's shirt, soaked through with crimson. The wounds aren't deep, but they'll scar, a permanent reminder of his sins.

A fitting punishment.

The knife nearly slips from my nerveless fingers as I stare at the ruin I've wrought. Horror and satisfaction war within me, the haze of rage receding to leave a bitter taste in my mouth.

What have I done?

I've stabbed my brother in cold blood. It felt good. And he's not even the most annoying one.

Bronson sucks in a desperate breath as I release him, collapsing to the floor in a limp tangle of limbs. His eyes find mine, clouded with pain and fear—but beneath it lingers the shadow of understanding.

We're all more alike than I care to admit, my brothers and me. Bound by blood and secrets too ugly to bear the light of day.

I scrub a hand over my face. The metallic tang of violence is gone, replaced by the acrid burn of self-loathing.

What kind of monster have I become?

Cheston steps forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. His eyes flicker between Bronson's crumpled form and the knife still grasped in my hand, reading the violence etched into the scene.

"Fallon, what have you done?" The words emerge as a hoarse whisper, disbelief warring with resignation. "You stabbed our brother?"

I open my mouth, but no words come. What can I say to undo this?

Anger flickers in his gaze before fading beneath a veil of weariness. He kneels beside Bronson, his hands gentle as they probe the wounds.

Bronson sucks in a sharp breath but doesn't pull away. Trust, even now. Or perhaps resignation to the demons that haunt this family.

"It's not deep," Cheston says after a moment. "But it will scar."

His eyes find mine, judgment and understanding warring in their depths. I drop my gaze, unable to bear the turmoil reflected there.

"We're broken, all of us," he continues softly. "Twisted up inside until we turn on each other." A bitter smile quirks across his lips. "But we're all we have left. So we should perhaps not run around stabbing each other."

I flinch, as though struck. He's not wrong, but the truth of it cuts deep, exposing vulnerabilities I'd rather not face.

"So when things like this happen, we don't spend months—or weeks even—pointing fingers." He shakes his head. "We pick up the pieces and move on." Cheston's hand closes over the knife, prising it from my unresisting fingers. The weight of it leaves an ache inside, a hollow yearning filled with echoes of violence.

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