Page 98 of Scornful

This position puts strain on his body immediately, which is what we want. Not to mention having him strung up like a piece of meat at a butcher shop.

"Marcus," Runes says conversationally, like we're having drinks instead of planning his painful death. "I’ve done some diggin’ into your background. Former military. Army Rangers, explosives expert. Dishonorably discharged for selling weapons and explosives to private buyers. Currently employed by the piece of shit known as the Patriot."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Marcus gasps, already struggling against the chains. The position makes it hard to breathe, harder to lie convincingly.

Kraken steps into the light, and for the first time, Marcus goes pale.

He knows exactly who this is—the father of the kids he tried to murder. The recognition in his eyes is satisfying.

"My son lost his leg," Kraken says, each word precise and cold. "My daughter has burns across her arms. She'll carry those scars forever."

"Wasn't personal," Marcus wheezes. "Just business. They were just collateral damage."

The words hang in the air for a heartbeat before Kraken moves.

The first punch doubles Marcus over as much as the chains allow.

Kraken's fist connects with his ribs with a crack that has to be his bone.

The second hit takes him in the kidney, drawing a scream that echoes off the concrete walls.

"Collateral?" Kraken's voice is ice. "My sixteen-year-old boy has to learn how to walk with a prosthetic. Let me show you collateral."

Kraken takes his time with every move he makes.

It’s almost like he’s calculating every single move, and he might be.

Every brother in the room recognizes this is different.

This isn't just punishment.

This is Kraken coming apart at the seams, years of control finally breaking open.

Then again, if this happened to my kids, I’d be doing the fucking same, or worse.

I catch Tor's eye, see the same concern there.

We've all seen violence, dealt it out when necessary, but watching one of our most level-headed brothers lose control is something else.

"The bomb," Fenrir says when Marcus is gasping between blows. "Tell us about the bomb that was at his house." Fenrir motions toward Kraken.

Marcus spits blood. "Fuck... you..."

Kraken picks up a pair of pliers from the tool table. "Wrong answer."

The screaming starts within seconds as he grabs his knuckles and bends them back as far as they’ll go.

I've heard grown men cry before, seen them break under pressure, but this is something different.

"Jesus, Kraken," Emil mutters.

"My son," Kraken says again, like it's a mantra. "My little girl. You tried to kill my children." His voice cracks on the last word, showing the pain beneath his rage.

Marcus' resistance crumbles piece by piece.

First the denials stop, then his tough guy act crumbles, finally leaving just a broken man hanging from chains, willing to say anything to make the pain stop.

After an hour, Marcus breaks completely.

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