Page 117 of Peak Cruelty

“For calling her ‘girl’ like it was a compliment.”

Third.

“For every time you said love, when you meant leash.”

He jerks now.Eyes wet.Glassy.

“This one?”I say, leaning close.“This one’s for me.”

I keep going.Until there’s nothing left to count.

I strip the sheet off the bed.Tie one end around his wrist.The other to the bedpost.Repeat for the other arm.The bindings pull tight.He thrashes like a fish left in the sun.

I take my time.

I let him bleed.

Let the sweat slick his forehead, pool in his eyes.

Let him feel what it’s like to be at someone else’s mercy and know they don’t have any.

I don’t cut his throat.

Not yet.

I lean close again.

“You don’t get to die before you understand.”

He tries to shake his head.I force it still.

“You took something.You wrecked her.Made her small.Made her afraid.”

He tries to deny it.But I’m not listening.

“And then you dragged her out like a trophy you didn’t earn.”

Another cut.Across the stomach.Deep enough to make him shake.

“You didn’t just break her,” I whisper.“You paraded the damage like it was a win.”

His eyes are full of blood and salt and something like understanding.

“This,” I say, raising the knife one last time, “is me breaking you back.”

The blade slips in under his ribs.

Up.

Twist.

He jerks once.Then goes still.

This time, I let the blood spread.

No confession.

No redemption.

---