Page 116 of Adam
I walk up to it, fingers twitching with anticipation, and seize it.
I look at that piece of shit again and stroll closer, his face still twisted in that scared, stupid expression, waiting for his demise.
So I remind him.
I swing my foot into his face hard. Bone cracks—finally—and there’s blood, so much blood, all over my boots.
“You thought you could put a price on her? Treat her like something you could own?” I spit on him. “I will tear your soul apart just for thinking her name.”
“Please, no …” he wails like a gutless coward.
I lift the axe.
“Bane’s coming for you, you bitch.”
And I bring it down on his fucking neck.
Again.
And again.
And again.
‘Cause once won’t cut it for a rat bastard who tried to buy her. Blood hits my face like rain.
I don’t stop. I want him gone. I want him obliterated. Every fucking cell that ever formed the thought of her.
I want nothing left that ever looked at her. Let Hell sort through the chunks. I’m not done.
He dies screaming, and still, it’s not fucking enough.
I toss the axe aside, hook my fingers by his upper teeth, and slam my boot into his shoulder to hold him down.
I yank with everything in me, rage burning so hot I can’t see straight.
“You should’ve kept your filthy hands and your filthy money away from her.”
I drag and wrench at him until his body finally gives the fuck in, until the sorry sack of shit is nothing but a headless corpse. I stand up covered in blood and fury.
“Bane comes, Bane takes.”
“Enough, Mitch.”
I give Wes a slow, satisfied sidelong glance.
“Now it’shisturn.”
My breathing fractures into stuttering, uneven gasps. My chest strains under pressure. The room tilts and jerks out of place. The edges blur until reality feels unstable.
Rage detonates.
Thoughts disappear entirely. There’s only this shrieking static in my skull and a laugh trying to claw its way out of my throat. Just a violent, grinding fury with nowhere left to go. Oh, this beautiful euphoria that comes after a kill. Too loud for my head, yet too addictive to ignore. It makes me thirsty for more. For worse.
I crouch, my hand closing around his hair, and I lift his fucking head like a trophy.
An object that used to talk too much.
I start walking toward the door. My steps are steady and driven by the same hard pressure in my chest. My body knows exactly what to do now and no longer answers to logic.
