Page 50 of Wreck and Ruin

Unfamiliar excitement coils in my stomach as I watch the love of my life morph from man to beast.

“And it will be me who gets the honor of killing you. And when I tear your fucking limbs off for laying a single fucking hand on a child,” Ezekiel's neck tilts, making him appear ungodly, and the fear in Father’s eyes will be like a scar, forever etched in my brain. “It will be me who gets to brag about your death when Titan comes to get his daughter.”

My chest tightens as a deep thrill clings to my weakening heart when Father falls back to the floor, tripping on a dead body. I careen my neck and adjust my hips a little, conjuring the strength to do so from somewhere, before rolling onto my side as far as I can to watch as Ezekiel kills Father.

Ezekiel's on him in a matter of seconds. His fists meet Father Grimsby’s face with bone-crunching punches, pounding his head over and over again. The sound of Father’s muffled cries of pain is something I've never heard before. I wait for Ezekiel to stop, but he doesn't. Not until a loud bang fills the room, causing him to pause.

Ezekiel's arm is raised mid-air, and my heart lodges in my throat.

He's hurt.

Father hurt him.

That noise.

Father shifts, taking advantage of Ezekiel’s distraction, or is it pain, before he stands, kicking him hard in his injured ribs. I have to do something. Ezekiel is hurt, and I’m finding it hard to think straight. I try to stand. Liquid fire courses rapidly through my stiff muscles, igniting me from the inside out. I bite my tongue, careful not to alert Father of my movements because whatever loud noise has hurt Ezekiel, it could hurt me too, and then I won't be able to help him.

I look up. Father has dragged Ezekiel over to the large window that touches the ceiling, but Ezekiel is fighting back. It looks as if he has been swimming in blood, but I cannot tell if it belongs to him or the dead men with missing faces and decapitated heads lying haphazardly on the floor.

Disgusting.

I'm proud of him.

Blood gushes from my mouth as I bite down on my tongue, my teeth piercing through it as I try not to cry out in pain. My skin prickles in a sheen of sweat as I move my bloodied feet, inching my body closer to the edge so I can hang my legs over the side of the stone table where, just minutes ago, I almost died.

My vision blurs, and my body trembles, a bout of queasiness crashing into me as I try to stand. I look over at Father. His body leans over Ezekiel's, whose back is on the ground, fighting and intercepting each of Father’s blows.

Another loud bang fills the air, and the window glass shatters into millions of infinitesimal shards. Shivers of glass hit my face and body, its broken pieces now covering most of the floor. Ezekiel is shouting something at him, but I cannot hear his voice. I can’t hear anything over the sound of my heartbeat, hammering loudly in my ears as I will my body to keep moving.

It's odd, really.

Part of me feels the pain. The other part of me feels like I'm on the outside looking in, watching the scene unfold from another's eyes. I take advantage of this grace and slowly bend to pick up the small silver blade Father used to stab Ezekiel. It's covered in blood, and I wipe it on the cloak wrapped around my body so it doesn't slip from my fingers. My hand clutches the hilt tightly, sending fire surging down my arm, but I pretend it's not there.

I need to help Ezekiel.

He’s the only thing that matters to me, and I won't let him die for me.

“You will not win this, boy! You will not kill me!” Father screams, Ezekiel’s skin a little paler as his head hangs out the window and over the edge of the frame. His body is still inside, allowing Father access to punch the delicate place covered in scars on his ribcage. Scars that are only there because I was too weak to carry him to safety the day I found him.

Slowly, I walk over and stand behind Father, and Ezekiel's eyes meet mine.

Leave.

Run to safety.

He is absolutely mad if he thinks I would leave him like this. Despite the look on Ezekiel's face, I hold out my shaky hand and grip the knife even tighter. Pushing past the searing pain in my palm, I raise my free hand, fisting a handful of Father’s hair, and wrench his head back sharply toward me. Ezekiel’s words are muffled as I slide the sharp blade across Father's throat with as much strength as I can rally, making sure the wound is deep and precise. He falls back, and a vulgar, gurgling noise comes from his now gaping throat. I hover above his dying frame and stab everywhere I can.

I want him dead.

I want him to suffer for hurting Ezekiel.

The blade stabs through the fabric covering his large stomach, his heart, and then his chest.

I can’t stop.

I don’t want to.

Flashes of memories fly through my mind.

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