Page 28 of The Hitch
Dante strolls back into the room, eyes glued to his phone. "Doesn't matter. Didn't need a fairy-tale wedding. I trust you all have what you need now?"
I can't get a read on this jerk. One minute he's being sweeter than honey, the next it's like I'm an annoyance to wave away like a fly. I glare in his general direction while the gaggle of… whoever they are… pull me every which way. I'm still laser-focused on him when a bright flash goes off, and I yelp, stumbling backwards from the small crowd.
I can't do this. Fuck. The violence within me wants to rage, to slash, to feel the hot spray of blood on my skin. I rip my arms away from their oddly strong holds and cringe into myself. I don'twantto be like this. I don'twantto wonder what their insides look like.
But I fucking do. And Dante notices. He finally looks up from his phone and furrows his brow. "Everybody out!"
The group is eerily silent as they file out of the room, their footsteps echoing down the grand staircase of this monstrosity of a house. Every footfall pierces my eardrums and rockets around in my skull, ping-ponging against every single nerve. I need to rip and tear. With clenched fists, my nails dig little half-moons into my palm.
I will all of my focus on the pain. That's something I can control. That's something tangible. If I press just a bit further, maybe, maybe it'll sate me. Maybe it'll all be okay.
Maybe I'll be normal.
"Where did you go?" Dante appears before me as I reopen my eyes, something like concern written across his face.
But I can't answer. All I can think about is the wet heat that erupts when I first bury my knife into a jugular vein. The thoughtshould make me sick—it would make any sane person sick—but it doesn't. That part of me was stolen. That part of me died when Charlie died. When he pushed me too far, after a decade.
A decade of leering gazes, wandering hands, filthy words. A decade of furious slurs. A decade of abuse.
And I ended it. At the cost of my sanity, I ended it—I endedhim. And all I want to do is bring back that euphoria. The scents, the sensations, the glorious feeling of pure fucking freedom.
Dante is saying something to me, but I can't hear him. I'm lost in my own mind, reliving each and every slash and hack of the kitchen knife. A laugh forces its way from my lips—it wasn't even sharp. I ripped and tore through Charlie with a cheap, dull steak knife. God, I need it. I need it again like I need air.
And so I run. I run through this monstrosity of a house with Dante on my heels, yelling something as I frantically pass by room after room. The shadows dance in the edges of my vision as I sprint down the stairs, down, down to the kitchen and—
Into a wall. A wall of unyielding muscle. Calloused hands clench around my shoulders as I look up with tears streaming down my face.
Roman. Dante's… lackey. My blood roars in my ears as he cocks a half-smile. Something cold and sharp pricks my arm as my vision goes blurry; everything loses its edges. The colors blend together, and my head feels heavy, oh-so-heavy. Dante's face pops up behind Roman's, and their hair melds together.
Midnight black into chestnut brown.
Scarred and grizzled skin into smooth and unblemished.
A high-pitched buzzing in my ears overpowers the rush of my blood. Until everything goes black.
Dante
"No, please! I'm sorry!" The sewer rat before me begs for his pathetic life. I drag my chair over to sit directly in front of him, cocking my head to the side.
"Sorry for what, Anthony?" I smile and flip the machete around in the air, enjoying the whooshing sound. "Sorry for… stealing from me? Sorry for… selling the Market building out from under me?"
"Yes, yes, all of it!" Anthony shakes, blubbering, spittle leaking from the corners of his cracked lips. His bloodshot eyes flick around the darkened room.
"Or are you sorry…" I slash a wide path across his bruised chest, smiling at the waterfall of blood that erupts. "For planting agoddamnbug in my office?"
Anthony is beyond comprehension. Wordless screams pierce the air as he sobs pathetically. I grimace at him and slap a piece of duct tape over his sniveling maw. Sweat beads on his grimy forehead, and the tape droops, allowing his infuriating crying to come through.
I stand and sigh, looking over my table of implements. The machete is my favorite, of course. Long and lethal, so I don't have to be up close and personal. Roman left me a few scalpels, as well as the almighty gun. The roll of duct tape is almost out—I'll need to replace that soon.
Though what I'm looking for isn't necessarily a weapon. I just want something to shut the motherfucker up. Sound-dampening panels line the walls, so I'm confident no one can hear himoutsideof my basement.
But I can fucking hear him, and I don't give a solitary shit about what he has to say.
As I turn away from the bitch, he rattles the steel chair and his iron chains. His screams are frantic, panicked, and giving me a goddamn headache. A folded stack of rags offers the perfect solution; I cram two of them into his bloodied mouth and chuckle at the muffled sobs.
"Hush, Anthony. You did this to yourself." I trail my fingers along his sweaty shoulder, tracing a smiley face into the bloody grime. "You stole from me. Youbetrayedme. You passed my secrets to the Seraph. And for that, your punishment…"
I slit his throat and revel in the gurgling sputters. Yanking his head back by his greasy hair, I watch the light leave his eyes.The gush of blood slows to a trickle, his heart dutifully pumping, until finally… it stops.
