Page 106 of Bad Luck, Hard Love
“You're right,” I say, turning to Charlotte. “This isn't how it should end.”
I reach behind me, pulling the hunting knife from my belt sheath. The blade catches the harsh light, twelve inches of serrated steel with Terrance Robert’s name on it.
“A bullet's too quick for what you have done,” I explain, stepping closer to Terrance. “Too fast.”
“Thor, please,” he babbles, piss darkening the front of his pants. “Whatever you want?—”
“What I want,” I say, testing the blade's edge against my thumb, “is to hear you scream like Charlotte did.”
I drive the knife into his thigh, burying it to the hilt with a single thrust. The sound he makes, a high, keening wail thatbounces off the concrete walls. Blood erupts around the blade, soaking through what's left of his designer pants.
“That's for every bruise you left on her,” I growl, twisting the blade before yanking it free. Blood sprays across my shirt, hot and metallic.
Terrance's head snaps back, tendons straining against his neck as he shrieks. The sound echoes through the mine shaft, raw and animalistic. Blood pools beneath his chair, dark against the concrete floor.
“Stop,” Charlotte says quietly.
I freeze, the knife halfway to his other leg. “What?”
“I said stop.” She steps closer, her face eerily calm. “Give me the knife.”
“Charlotte—”
“Give. Me. The. Knife.”
The authority in her voice surprises me. This isn't the broken woman from the hospital bed. This is someone else entirely—someone harder, colder. Someone who's found her power in the depths of hell.
I flip the knife, offering her the handle. She takes it without hesitation, her fingers wrapping around the grip with surprising steadiness.
“You want to know what I remember most about our marriage?” she asks Terrance, who is gasping and whimpering in his restraints. “Not the beatings. Not the threats. Not even the fear.”
She raises the knife, examining the blood-slicked blade in the harsh light.
“I remember the silence,” she continues. “The way you'd go completely quiet right before you hurt me. Like you were savoring the moment. Like my pain was something to be treasured.”
The knife descends, slicing across his forearm in one fluid motion. Terrance screams again, the sound hoarse and desperate.
“I remember how you'd smile afterward. So proud of what you’d done.”
She pulls the knife back, blood dripping from the blade onto the concrete. “But you're not smiling now, are you?”
Terrance's face is a mask of agony, sweat mixing with tears as he struggles against his bonds. “Please...Charlotte...I'm sorry...”
“Sorry?” She tilts her head, studying him like a scientist examining a specimen. “You're sorry because you're dying. Not because of what you did to me.”
She leans closer. “I spent years apologizing to you. For breathing wrong. For existing. For not being perfect enough to deserve your love.”
The knife finds his shoulder, sliding between muscle and bone. His scream dies in his throat, replaced by a wet, gurgling sound.
“I'm done apologizing,” she says, stepping back to admire her work. “And you're done hurting people.”
Blood runs in rivulets down his arm, dripping steadily onto the floor. His breathing is shallow, labored. He knows this is the end.
“Charlotte, I...I did love you. In my own way.”
She stares at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she shakes her head slowly.
“No. You loved owning me. There's a difference.”
