Page 50 of Once A Villain

“You didn’t have a problem holding her down.” I glare at him, knowing damn well he’s just as ruthless as I am.

“Fuck. Off. Axe. I don’t know who the hell you are right now, but that shit was fucked up. That’s not how the Hawthornes handle things. I’ve got no problem putting a bitch in their place, but not like that.”

“What the hell is this? You got something you want to say?” I step closer, our faces inches apart.

“Yeah, I’ve got something to say. That shit back there? That’s not us. This whole fucking arrangement is bullshit, and you know it. Rory isn’t Conrad. He’s a fucking piece of shit, but she’s not. What’s your plan? Lock her up? Beat her every time she defies you? Torture her? What’s next, Axe?”

“Shut the hell up,” I snap, my temper on the verge of exploding.

“No. I’m not shutting up. You need to hear this. This is some fucked-up shit. You’re acting like a fucking lunatic. You’re turning into your goddamn father!” The moment those words leave his mouth, I slam my fist into his jaw, the impact jarring my arm.

“Don’t you ever fucking compare me to him!”

He stumbles back, rubbing his jaw, blood trickling from his split lip. The bastard barely flinches before he lunges at me, and we hit the ground hard, locked in a brutal struggle.

We grapple, punch, kick—each blow feeding the fire inside me. His knuckles connect with my ribs, and the sharp pain is almost welcome, grounding me in the violence. The taste of iron fills my mouth as I land a punch to his gut.

He fights back with everything he’s got, but I don’t give a damn. I need this. I need to feel something other than the fucking rage burning me alive.

We fight all the time, usually over stupid shit, but this? This is different. There’s a viciousness in both of us, a rage that drives us to keep going long after we should’ve stopped. Eventually, the exhaustion sets in, and we collapse, panting, bloodied, and bruised.

I shove him off, spitting blood onto the ground as I sit up, my head pounding and my face on fire. I could kill him right now, but I just crave the violence, the pain.

“Are you finished?” I growl, refusing to look at him. If I do, I know I’ll lose it again, and this time, I won’t stop.

“Fuck you,” he mutters, his breath ragged as he pushes himself to his feet. I follow, my body screaming in protest. “Why are you doing this, Axe? What the hell is all of this about? This can’t just be about revenge. You’ve never given two shits about a woman before, let alone a fucking wife.”

“Drop it, Griff. Just fucking drop it.”

He shakes his head, frustrated. “When she kills herself to get away from you, don’t come crying to me.” He storms off, leaving me alone to lean against the fence, sucking in deep breaths to steady my rage.

His words echo, but I don’t give a fuck.

She’s not escaping—not death, not me, nothing.

I drag the back of my hand across my face, smearing blood over my skin. The cold air bites, but it doesn’t touch the fire burning in my chest. He doesn’t understand. This is how it has to be.

I’ll drag her through hell as many times as it takes.

She’ll learn to submit. I’ll make damn sure of it.

My anger twists into something darker—a thirst for violence, for blood. I need an outlet. Pulling out my phone, I fire off a message to Isaac, demanding the next mission. A list of targets fills my screen—names of men who’ve managed to slip through the Sovereign’s grasp. The fuckups before me couldn’t get it done, but I’ve never failed.

I lock onto the highest-value target—a drug kingpin who’s spent years evading the Sovereign’s attempts to bury him. That ends now. I’ll dismantle his empire and make him choke on the ashes of everything he’s built.

I head straight for the armory in the basement. The room is dim, the air thick with the scent of gun oil and metal. Rifles line the walls, and weapons are meticulously arranged on the shelves. I pack a large black duffel bag with everything I’ll need: knives, guns, ammo, explosives.

Satisfied, I sling the bag over my shoulder and head for the door.

As I pause at the doorway of the room where I’d locked Rory that first night, a memory crashes over me. A memory I’ve spent years trying to bury deep.

“Axel, I’m hungry,” Lucas whispers.

“Shut up. He’ll hear you,” I hiss, curling tighter into myself. The cold floor numbs my bones, but it’s nothing compared to the emptiness gnawing at my stomach. Days without food. Locked in cages like animals.

I glance over at my twin, his ribs sharp against his skin in the cage beside mine. We’re both at his mercy. And he has none.

“Just a little longer. He’ll come back,” I lie, knowing damn well there won’t be mercy when he does.

---