Page 182 of Pulse Zero
Standing here now, now that I finally have the chance, I realize death would be too easy. Too merciful. Living with what he’s done is worse.
I know that, yet every instinct in me still screams to kill him. End it. Finish it.
But Cason asked me not to.
And I would burn the fucking world down for him.
Or, in this case, not do the one thing I’ve dreamed of doing for seven fucking years.For him.
So instead, I let a slow, cruel smile take over my face. Then I see it, what I was waiting for. It lights up Malcolm’s eyes,taunting my shadows.
Fear.
“Reese.”
Malcolm’s voice wavers in a way I’ve never heard before. Just my name. A plea.
I may not be killing him tonight, butthatwas worth the wait.
My shadows explode outward. They hit Malcolm, slamming him backward into the central structure behind him with a violent metallic crack. Darkness wraps around his wrists, yanking his arms wide as more shadows coil around his throat, ribs, legs.
Then theysqueeze.
Malcolm grunts as the shadows constrict around him. Tighter and tighter and tighter. Bones creak. His lungs wheeze. The machine at his back groans under the pressure.
Cason steps back beside me as sparks skip across his skin, like he’s itching to join me but letting me have my moment.
Malcolm doesn’t fight. He has too much pride for that, too desperate for the illusion of control. But me and my shadows know him too well by now. They slide beneath skin without breaking it, pressure blooming deep inside muscle and joints, invading every vulnerable place they can reach.
He manages to suck a sip of air into his lungs.
Then he screams.
The sound rips through the chamber, raw and human and nothing like the composed man who’s spent years pretending he’s above suffering.
My shadows tighten their grasp. Not to kill him, not anymore.
Because Cason was right.
Death is mercy. And Malcolm Bellrose doesn’t deserve it.
Malcolm screams again. Thesound of it bounces off the curved walls of the chamber and drills straight into my skull. But the really fucked up part is that I don’t feel bad. Not even a little.
I probably should. This is my uncle. The man who used to bring me weird expensive candy back from business trips. The man who pretended not to notice when I stayed up too late playing video games at his house.
But every time I look at him now?
All I can see is Reese bleeding out on a basement floor.
The shadows tighten again, black tendrils digging into Malcolm hard enough to force another broken sound out of him. They squeeze and strike and suffocate. They fill his lungs, and I know from experience the kind of agony that is. They beat him. They crush him. Blood spills from the corner of his mouth as he struggles against them, his breaths uneven and wet.
And all I can think is…
Good.
He fucking deserves it. Hell, he deserves a lot worse.
“Well,” I mutter, pushing my hair back from my face. “This is probably not what my therapist would’ve recommended.”
