Page 151 of Desperate People

Eyes wild. Feral.

His mismatched stare glowing like fire and ice under the flickering warehouse lights.

There is blood on his knuckles.

And the look on his face?

It's the kind of rage that only exists when a man sees the love of his life hurt and trembling.

His gaze flashes to me.

To the torn fabric of my dress.

To the bruises and dirt marring my skin.

To the blood soaking the cloth my father presses against my wound.

Something breaks in him.

And I see it.

It’s like something unlocks inside of him.

Something dark and powerful, reserved for the most desperate people.

God, I never loved him more than I do right now.

With slow, deliberate steps, Balor turns to where Daniel fucking Matheson writhes on the ground, already a mess of bruises and broken ribs.

Balor bends.

Picks up the knife.

The knife the bastard used on me.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t yell.

He acts.

And I watch—paralyzed, breathless—as my husband takes that blade and saws through the fucker’s neck.

Bone. Flesh. Sinew.

He goes right through it.

Doesn’t make a sound.

He just cuts and cuts until that bastard’s head rolls free with a sickening, wet thud.

“MOTHERFUCKER!” Balor roars at the end.

His boot crashes into what’s left of the corpse.

Once. Twice. Again.

Then he spits.

Spits on the body like it’s less than dirt.

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