Page 87 of The Boy I Loved
Tristan dropped his gaze to the bloody hammer, a bored expression cresting over his features. He brought the weapon to his lips, and swiped his tongue over the red substance, wiping it clean.
Emerson’s heavy breathing and trapped sobs echoed through the room, followed by the sound of the table creaking in tune with every brutal thrust.
Tristan’s attention shifted to me and Hazel, his gaze dropping to the arm I had around her waist. His lips curled into a sneer, but he directed his focus back to the girl being assaulted. Vincent wasn’t gentle with her. He slammed into her so powerfully, it sounded like the table might break beneath their weight. She was so small compared to him, and she didn’t have the time to prepare before he was slamming into her. His grunts grew louder and more determined as he took what he wanted from her. He wasn’t like Mason or Tristan. He didn’t care about making it good for them, even less so since this was a punishment.
“Please,” she cried out, tears brimming her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Vincent wrapped his hand around her throat and squeezed, his eyes hardening. In a few more powerful thrusts, he was pulling out and releasing all over her pussy. His chest was heaving as he worked to catch his breath, but once he had, he released her and stepped away, tugging his pants back up over his hips and buttoning them. He swept a hand through his dark hair and made his way back over to us, sinking into the spot beside Azrael.
Emerson was trembling, her legs limp where they hung over the table’s edge. Her neck rolled when she turned to look at Tristan with pleading eyes. She was still badly bruised and fucked up from the last time she’d been with him.
“What is he going to do to her?” Hazel whispered, her voice so soft that I could barely make out the words.
“Shhh. Just be glad it isn’t you.”
Tristan twirled the hammer around in his grip before making his way between her legs. A snarl of disgust curled around the edges of his mouth as he took in Vincent’s release splattered all across her red and bruised pussy.
“You spoke out of turn,” he accused, lowering the hammer to her thigh. He ran it up the inside of her leg slowly, letting the anticipation of what was to come build. “And you questioned my authority.”
Emerson bit her lower lip, a silent plea flashing through her eyes. She knew better than to speak out of turn again. Tristan was on a warpath, and nothing would go unpunished.
“Do you know why I chose you?” he continued.
She swallowed thickly, blinking away some of the tears. “Y-you said I was better than most of the other girls.”
He hummed in response, continuing to inch the hammer up her leg until it was getting close to her cunt. She tensed further, clamping her eyes closed tightly. She knew as well as the rest of us how unpredictable Tristan was, and she didn’t know what else he had in store for her.
“You were,” he admitted. “Not so much now.”
Emerson’s face paled, her dark eyes glistening with unshed tears. Even in danger, she still tried to maintain a stoic expression, not wanting to give him further incentive to punish her.
Hazel was still as a statue, her fingernails curling around the hem of her skirt. She was the kind of girl who would capture spiders and release them into the wild rather than killing them. She was the kind of person who would listen to her friends speak for hours, even while she had her own problems. Hazel was gentle, compassionate, and kind. Even now, that was still true. Acts of violence didn’t appeal to her; she didn’t understand the point of them. All she knew was that people were being tortured and degraded for sport.
My grip tightened around her waist, and for a moment, I didn’t give a shit what Tristan thought about it. It wasn’t like he could control me. I wasn’t one of the other fucks he could push around. I was Dominic Steel, a descendant of Clay Steel. Here, that held a lot of fucking weight. Tristan and I should have been equals in every sense of the word, but for some reason, Clay still doubted my loyalty. Maybe his hesitation wasn’t misplaced.
Tristan’s voice sliced through my thoughts, pulling me back to the scene at hand. “How do you feel for me, Emerson? And do not lie. I’ll know.” He was toying with her now. He knew she cared for him more than she should have. He was her captor, and she meant nothing to him.
“I-I respect you,” she stammered, trembling on the table. The hammer was positioned at her hipbone now, but he didn’t swing it on her again, not yet at least.
Tristan arched an eyebrow. “And?”
She blew out a shaky breath, tucking her lower lip between her teeth as she worked to calm her breathing. “I care for you,” she admitted. “A lot.”
“Keep going,” he ordered.
“I-I love you, Tristan.” The words were jumbled
Tristan’s lips twitched, more in amusement than anything else. “Pathetic,” he murmured. “This is why men are the better gender. Women are too emotional. They can’t have sex without falling in love. It’s tragic, really.” He shook his head, blowing out a breath. “Did you honestly think I could ever love you?”
She sniffled, her body slumping in defeat. His words hit a nerve; it was etched into her features. I knew that was why she hadn’t wanted to tell him how she felt. She already knew he’d never feel the same for her, even if she hoped he’d change his mind. Tristan couldn’t love. I’d never seen him give a shit about anything or anyone other than himself or his own desires.
At least, Emerson shook her head. “I know,” she admitted.
“I think that’s all. Anything else you’d like to say?”
Any last words.
That was what he really meant. He enjoyed killing as much as he enjoyed fucking. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since he killed Nia, and he was already wanting to do it again. Ironically, these were both women he’dclaimedas his chosen.
