Page 88 of King of Ruin

Before I turn the knob to open the doors, I feel it. The prickling and hair rising on the back of my neck. I use the hand of my uninjured shoulder to grab my gun and hold it outright as I let the door swing open.

I’m not exactly sure who I’m expecting when the intruder comes into view, but it definitely wasn't her.

“Hello, son.”

Sweat breaks across Sam’s brow, the small droplets joining the blood as it drips down his face.

I like this position he’s in. Taller than me, forcing me to look up at him. It makes him feel like he still has some type of power here. Like he can somehow leave this place alive.

I see it in the way his lips subtly curve. How his eyes don’t stay trained on me but on his surroundings. Almost as though he’s making a plan in his head on what to do and how to escape.

It makes me laugh while also pissing me off, for him to have the gall to think he’s anything other than dead.

“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this, Sam?” I ask, trailing the scalpel down his broad chest. It’s surprising he has so much muscle considering he doesn’t do anything besides giving orders to the little obedient soldiers beneath him. Then again, you must be strong to hold down the women you rape.

“My guess is every second of your pathetic life.” His voice is dull, indifferent.

Cute.

“So then you know how much I’ve thought about the things I’m going to do to you.”

He smirks. “If they’re anything like what I did to your headless mother, then I’d say we’re in for a good time.”

Hot bile shoots up my esophagus, forcing me to clamp my mouth shut to keep it at bay. My fist smashes into his face hard, much harder than it did the first time, and not even the small clink of one of his teeth hitting the floor is enough to calm my racing heart.

I mourned my parents’ deaths over two empty holes for seven days. In a way, I liked that they weren’t there, because it made it not real. It made it so that there was a possibility the entire thing was nothing more than a horrible dream.

But reality came crashing through my juvenile hopes on that eighth day.

Antonio didn’t let me see when my parents’ bodies were delivered. He also tried to keep me from seeing the coroner's report. But I saw it.

Cause of death: Decapitation. Post mortem cuts observed. Post mortem sexual assault. Samples taken from vaginal, anal, and oral areas.

They all belonged to one person. I always thought it was Phineas.

“She was just too beautiful. I couldn’t help myself. Couldn’t let her go to waste, ya know?”

Black creeps into my eyesight as I grab his thick neck. My sharp nails dig into the sides, piercing into his skin with ease. He jerks beneath my hold, and he must try to move his legs because the twins come forward, holding each one in place.

I squeeze my hand tighter, my quiet reserve threatening to break under Sam’s smug smirk. It isn’t until hues of blue creep up his face that his smile fades and panic makes his eyes flare.

Adrenaline pumps through my system, the pounding of my pulse so loud I almost don’t hear Shi approach.

Her hand finds the small of my back and it’s then I realize that I’m holding my breath with him. I’mdyingwith him.

“He will not know mercy,” she whispers.

I release him and step back, sucking in a sharp breath and relishing the harsh burn of it as it fills my lungs.

Sam spits and coughs, his speech completely incoherent as he tries to shake it off. But the red and purple decorating his neck in a glorious ring informs me he still feels me.

“Tell me, Sam,” I say, walking over to my table of tools. They’re all laid out in a beautiful succession. Each one so similar yet so different, meant to do the same thing but in separate ways. My fingers curl around the slip joint pliers before I finally turn back to Sam. “Which hand did you use to touch her first?”

My mother crosses and uncrosses her legs again, shifting in her chair as her eyes move around, not settling on anything for too long.

Her hair is freshly washed, pinned into a high bun. Her cheeks are flushed and full, indicating she’s gotten plenty of rest and food, and the dress covering her frame makes her look like a Step-ford wife.

Underneath the physical facade, though, I notice the way her shoulders droop and her puffy, red rimmed eyes. Not to mention that no matter what she’s looking at, her gaze keeps drifting to the door. Almost as if she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s clear she’s more than uncomfortable being in a place that used to belong to the man that once controlled her. A man that stole one of her children, used the other, and threatened the third.

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