Page 158 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

Miller only smiles from getting a rise out of me; he wanted the satisfaction of making me crack.

I do crack.

It's like someone poured liquid nitrogen into my veins. Every thought freezes. I'm no longer in my body, but watching somewhere above myself. The gun in my hand suddenly feels inevitable, my finger tightening against the trigger as I think of squeezing his throat.

A darkness rises like a tide I've been holding back for too many years. It's not only about Londyn. It's about Wunmi, bleeding out in my arms. It's about the women I just freed from this boat. It's about every victim who never saw justice because men like Miller—men with money and power—always seem to slither away unscathed.

How many of these privileged assholes walk free? How many buy their way out of consequences, bribing officials or intimidating witnesses until the cases against them crumble? How many kill themselves before justice catches up, denying their victims even the small comfort of a verdict?

The world is overflowing with people like Miller, entitled predators who see other human beings as toys to be used and discarded. They own people. They break people. And they never, ever pay the price.

But this one could.

I keep the gun level with his chest as my free hand yanks open the nightstand drawer. My fingers scramble for anything I can use to restrain him. Past the expensive watch and a sleek silver pen, I find handcuffs. They're police-grade because of course this sick fucker would have them.

"Lie face down. Hands behind your back," I order.

Who is even talking? It doesn't sound like me.

Miller sneers, hesitating just long enough to broadcast his intention to resist. Typical. Men like him never surrender control willingly.

I'll have to take it.

I holster my gun and lunge before he can react. The mattress dips beneath our combined weight as I slam into him, pinning him with my knees. Miller thrashes like a landed fish. He manages one solid hit, his fist connecting with my left temple in a burst of white-hot pain.

The blow does nothing but fan the darkness that I've let ooze out. I drive my forearm across his throat, just enough pressure to make his eyes bulge.

"Move again and I'll crush your windpipe," I say.

His body goes momentarily slack, just enough for me to wrench his arms behind his back and snap the cuffs around his wrists. The metallic click feels like victory, but it's hollow. Temporary.

A feral rage builds in my chest, a pressure mounting behind my ribs until I can't contain it. My fist connects with his jaw—once, twice, three times. Each impact sends a shock wave up my arm and aggravates my still-healing knuckles, but I barely feel it through the haze of fury.

"You think you're special?" I growl, words spilling out like blood from a wound. "You think money and fame give you the right to hurt people? To own them?"

Another punch. His lip splits, painting my knuckles red.

"You're just another sick fuck who thinks the world owes him something. Who thinks women are possessions. Who thinks power means you can take whatever the hell you want."

My voice rises, the words not even for him anymore. They're for every commanding officer who sent us into civilian zones with impossible orders. For every politician who started wars from the comfort of leather chairs. For every man who's ever looked at a woman and seen property instead of a person.

"You're the same as all of them. The same as the men who start wars, who create the need for soldiers, who put us in positions where we have to make choices that cripple us the rest of our lives. Where our mistakes kill innocent people."

I'm breathing hard now, shaking with a rage that's been building since Wunmi died in my arms. Since I watched Londyn flinch away from my touch. Since I realized how many people I've failed to protect.

"I'm done failing."

My hand goes to the knife at my waist. Miller is shirtless, his chest and back exposed. I think of Londyn and the scars that pucker her skin. This bastard will have a scar of his own and he'll look at it every fucking day and think of me. And from this moment on, I hope he lives in a permanent state of terror anticipating the moment I'll come back for him.

I dig the blade into his shoulder, watching the shock register on his face, then pull it diagonally across his torso, all the way to his hip. He screams—a high, animalistic sound—arching beneath me.

I climb off because the rush of adrenaline is fading. He rolls onto his side, howling and soaking the sheets with his blood. The cut isn't deep enough to kill, but it's going to bleed like hell. It's going to leave a nasty wound.

My hands tremble as I look at the knife and my bloody gloves. Some of the darkness leaves and I'm left grounded in my body again, wondering what the hell I let myself do.

Wondering how I'm capable of this.

All of it looks bad. It's too obvious that he had an attacker. Could Victor still get the police to turn a blind eye? Miller isn't dead, just injured. It could still work. It could still…

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