Page 86 of Wicked Scorn
He pats him on the cheek before standing up and fucking bowing to me, “Your move, brother. Let’s get this show on the road. I have a hard-on now and would like to go get my dick wet…and no one here is appealing enough for that.”
I don’t have words; I don’t need them. I start pummeling the sniveling little weasel as he sits. My knuckles splitting his flesh and my own as I take every ounce of Oakley’s pain and shame and deposit it back on him.
Another punch, this one cracking against his jaw with a sickening crunch. Blood sprays from his split lip, but I’m not done. Not even close.
“Shit, that sounded expensive,” Penn observes, a twisted smile playing on his lips. “Hope he had insurance. Actually, it doesn’t even matter. You won’t be making it out alive Butkis. Terrible last name by the way. I definitely wouldn’t let you eat my ass.”
Hit after hit rains down on him until he’s a crumpled, whimpering mess at my feet. Still, it’s not enough. I want to hear him scream, to beg for the mercy he’ll never receive.
I draw back my fist, feeling the rawness of my knuckles, the wet warmth of his blood mixing with mine. His eyes, swollen and barely open, peer up at me with a mixture of fear and resignation.
But I don’t stop. I can’t. My fist crashes into his face again, and the impact sends a sickening thud through my arm. Henry’s breath is ragged now, wheezing like a deflating balloon, each exhale saturated with blood.
A death rattle is what they call it.
It’s a wet sound, a cross between a wheeze and a gurgle from a dying person’s throat when saliva, mucus, and blood are all built up in their trachea with nowhere to go.
“You’re fucking pathetic. Get up,” I growl, yanking him to his feet by his collar. His legs wobble uselessly beneath him, barely sustaining his weight. He reeks of fear, sweat, and urine and the pungent scent churns my stomach.
Henry gurgles something unintelligible through brokenteeth, spitting out blood and fragments of whatever excuse he was about to offer. It doesn’t matter. His words are lost in the void between us.
“You’re gonna regret ever laying a hand on any woman.” My voice is low, each word dripping with venom.
Penn leans against the couch, arms crossed and that infuriating grin on his face. “Don’t kill him here,” he advises lightly, as if we’re discussing dinner plans.
I pause, briefly considering Penn’s words before delivering one last punishing blow to Henry’s ribs. He crumples to the ground like discarded trash, gasping for life.
A shrill ringing cuts through the chaos, and I freeze, my chest heaving. Oakley’s ringtone. I fumble for my phone with bloodied hands, pressing it to my ear.
“Bunny? Baby, what’s?—”
The words die in my throat as her cries reach my ears, shredding what’s left of my control. Grunts and muffled shouts sound in the background, driving icy tendrils of dread through my veins.
“Oakley!” I roar into the phone, but there’s no response, only the sounds of a struggle.
I drop the phone, the frat boy forgotten as I whirl toward Penn and Graham.
“She’s in trouble. We have to go. Now.”
Penn arches a brow, somehow managing to look bored despite the violence swirling around us. “What, you mean your stalker magnet found herself another admirer?”
I surge toward him, but Graham’s hand clamps down on my shoulder, holding me back.
“Finish this, quickly,” he says, his voice a low rumble of reassurance in my ear.
I pick up my right leg and press my black riding boots intoButkis’ throat until I feel his windpipe give way and there’s nothing left but to clean up this mess.
A noise draws all three of our attention and we turn to see a flash of a tall, dark-haired girl walking through the alley with a direct eye line into the kitchen window and what we’ve just done.
“Just fucking go. I’ll clean this shit up and go deal with little red riding hood out there. I can’t deal with you spiraling anymore tonight.” Penn tells me and I nod before Graham, and I head out of the house and leave Penn to do what he does best. The grimiest brother I have.
Chapter 33
Oakley
“Stop it!” I scream, my voice piercing the thick, suffocating air. Mr. Bryant’s knife slices through the ends of my dress, his eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure. My kicks and struggles are useless against his iron grip. Each taunt from his lips fuels my desperation to get away from him. Why is he doing this to me?
“Such a pretty little thing,” he sneers, his breath hot and foul against my ear. “Too bad your pretty boy isn’t going to save you.” Rage runs through me at the mention of Jeremiah. I can’t fathom how he was watching me all the way back then. I never really noticed him. He was always a teacher that didn’t give anyone trouble. I don’t really even remember anything about him, just those little bow ties he wore every day.
