Page 156 of Shattered Souls
“About fucking time,” he growls, like he’s not the reason we’ve been waitinghoursfor his shitstain of a father to regain consciousness. Not that I can blame him.
I’m still fucking furious with myself for not realizing Shortcake was in trouble onlyfeetfrom the house, and I had no fucking clue. I shouldn’t have left her alone.
I can tell Royce is carrying the same guilt; the tightness in his shoulders and the flexing of his biceps let me know he’s itching to take out all that guilt on the man, who is slowly rousing.
Bertram groans, and when his eyes finally flutter open, the three of us are standing shoulder-to-shoulder in front of him. He’s truly never looked worse, half charred, half beaten with skin literally sloughing off. It’s a disgusting sight.
“What is this?” His words are slightly slurred, his voice raspier than it used to be. His bloodshot eyes scour the room, taking it in. “W-where am I?” Before finally lifting to where he’s dangling from the ceiling. “W-what… Get me down!”
“Yeah, that won’t be happening,” I tell him.
He finally seems to realizewhois standing in front of him. His gaze narrows on me, then turns wary when it slides to Royce before finally landing on his son.
“Grayson.”
Contempt lines his cracked voice. It raises my hackles. Despite his dire situation, he doesn’t seem to realizehe’snot the one in charge here. He should be cowering in fear. Begging for his life. How the fuck is this asshole even still conscious?!
“Dad.”
Bertram’s lip lifts in contempt. “If I’d known you were interested in my sloppy seconds, I’d have let you have a go with Lydia before I killed her.”
Grayson’s hands fist at his sides, but instead of acting on the violent impulse I know is riding him hard, he smirks arrogantly at his father. “This isn’t about you, old man. And for the record, Riley was never yours. Youtookfrom her. But what she vehemently refused to give you, she gave willingly to me. Tous.Because she’s ours.”
Grayson’s chest expands with pride, and I silently clap to him for finally getting on board with Team Us.
“But thanks for taking care of our Lydia problem,” Grayson continues.
His father merely grunts. “So what is your plan now?” the asshole drawls, still not fully grasping the situation. “We both know you haven’t got it in you to kill your own father.”
Grayson scoffs. “You’re no father to me.” Stepping forward, he glares intently at Bertram. “Iknowwhat you did to my mother. The abuse. The bruises.” His voice rises with eachstatement he directs at his father until he’s shouting, “You’re the reason she’s dead!”
Unaffected by his son’s accusations or the palpable rage billowing off him, Bertram snarls, “Your mother was weak. Weak-willed. Weak spirited.Weak.”
He doesn’t get the chance to say anything more. Grayson drives his fist into his already beaten and burned face.
Despite the ache that’s likely settled into his muscles from the earlier beating, Grayson pummels Bertram anew.
Royce and I stand back, knowing he needs this. Needs the closure. To burn off everything he’s bottled up regarding his father.
By the time he’s done, Grayson’s knuckles are split and caked with blood, and his father sways listlessly from his manacles. His toes barely touch the floor, his body bowed forward. The chains are the only reason he’s still standing.
His face is a bloody pulp, so swollen and charred that he resembles Lydia and David’s corpses more than a human being.
Ass pressed against the far wall, Grayson is bent at the waist, his hands on his knees as he catches his breath.
Meanwhile, I step forward. Bertram’s eyes, swollen and bloodshot, unfocused when they meet mine.
“Remember me?” There’s no mistaking the blade of menace in my tone.
Missing a few teeth, and with his mouth likely filled with blood, he merely makes an indistinguishable noise in the back of his throat.
I take my time, cracking my knuckles as I stare him down. “You’ve had this coming from the moment I found out what you did to my girl. Even if you’d left her alone after you got out of prison, you’d still be right here, swinging from a chain and counting down the minutes until your death.”
Then I drive my fist into his stomach, throwing my entire weight behind it. He doubles over—well, as much as his chains will allow—an agonized sound ripping from his throat as red-tinged spittle hangs from his mouth, swaying precariously before dropping to the blood-splattered tiles.
I go to do the same again when a hand on my shoulder pulls me up short. “Here,” Royce grunts, shoving a baseball bat into my hands instead. “Riley will have all of our nuts if you damage your hands while giving this fucker what he deserves.”
He’s not wrong, even if it does feel good to use my fists. I never use my fists. Never get in fights or do anything that could potentially jeopardize my hockey career, yet the second I saw this sack of shit on our doorstep, I had no concern for my future, only that penance was paid.
