Page 158 of Adam
Inside the box?—
No …
A hand. A man’s hand, severed at the wrist. The eagle tattoo on the back leaves no room for doubt.
Wes’s hand.
That fucking piece of shit.
I’ll kill him. I’ll rip him the fuck out of this world and drag everyone who ever breathed his air straight to hell with me.
How the fuck does he know where I am?
That’s the part that’s driving me insane. That question is eating me alive. Gnawing. Scraping.
I was careful. Hell, I was fucking obsessive—counting every move, paranoid to the point of madness.
I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t leave traces. I buried those places, buried myself, and somehow, he still fucking knows, like he’s inside my fucking skull.
And he’s fucking playing with it. Dragging it out. Letting me feel it.
Dangling it in front of me like I’m some stupid animal he can poke with a stick just to see how hard I’ll snap. Like I’m entertainment.
Me.
Three days since it happened and I fake stability, pretending I’m not losing my shit.
I laugh when I’m supposed to. I work out like a good boy, pretending that the punching bag is his face. I don’t let my hands shake where she can see. I do it for her. Because if we run, she’ll be tagged and not protected anymore. She’ll be an easy target. A problem with legs. Besides, I’m not a runner. I never was and never will be.
So, I stay planted and let the pressure build until my skull feels welded shut.
Everything in me wants to fucking detonate. My nature is feral and loud, and it wants a target. It wants me to go find him, split him open, dig the noise out with my bare hands.
It wants the quiet that comes after.
My thoughts keep circling it like flies.
But I still don’t go. I clamp down and let the impulse chew me from the inside instead. I let it make me sleepless and fucking unstable.
For her.
I could ask Grayson for help. It’s right there. A clean fucking option. All I’d have to do is open my mouth and admit I can’t hold this alone, but my selfish, pride-addicted, control-freak ass would rather chew glass.
However, time’s closing in, and I don’t have the luxury to stall anymore. I need a solution—and fast.
The bag’s chain whines every time I slam into it, and I’m still nowhere near empty. The rage won’t drain. It just keepsrefilling with every new or old thought. My knuckles are sore, my shoulders on fire, and the knife digging into my palm with every punch sends these sharp flashes up my arm, but fuck, it’s nothing. Not enough to matter. Not enough to slow me down.
“Hey,” she says softly, leaning against the wall, watching me.
“Hey.”
“I feel so bad for this bag,” she jokes, tucking her hair behind her ear.
“Yeah,” I say. “Kind of a party pooper, knowing it’s not the bastard who actually deserves this.”
I drive my knee up into it. The mount rips free and the bag comes crashing down, tearing out of the ceiling and slamming to the floor.
She widens her eyes, pushes out her lips, and shakes her head.
