Page 97 of Fury
Matching wounds, perfect symmetry in his suffering.
When I finally step back, my hands covered in his blood, my rage has transformed into something colder, more focused. Volkov hangs limp in the chair, barely conscious, his once handsome face a roadmap of pain.
"You know what I've realized?" I tell him, cleaning my blade methodically. "No matter what I do to you, it won't be enough. Because you'd do it all again. Men like you always do."
I turn to Wilder, who hasn't moved from his position by the door. "Your turn."
He steps forward, eyes locked on Volkov's broken form. As Livie's father, he has his own reckoning to deliver.
I move to the corner, watching as Wilder approaches with deadly calm. His methods are different from mine—less theatrical, more efficient. Military precision in every movement as he selects a serrated hunting knife from the table.
"My daughter," he says simply, and drives the blade into Volkov's thigh, twisting it to sever the femoral artery.
Blood pulses from the wound in rhythmic spurts, each beat of Volkov's heart pushing him closer to death. He doesn't scream anymore, lacking the strength to do so. His eyes, though, remain aware, horror dawning as he realizes this is the end.
"Wait," he gasps, blood bubbling from his lips. "I can still?—"
"You can die," Wilder interrupts, voice devoid of emotion. "Knowing that everything you built will crumble without you. We'll make sure of it."
We watch in silence as Volkov's life drains away, his eyes gradually losing focus, his breathing becoming shallow and erratic. When the final shudder passes through his body, Wilder checks for a pulse, then nods once.
"It's done."
I stand under the scalding spray of the shower, watching Volkov's blood swirl down the drain in pale pink rivulets. The water can't wash away what I've done, but I feel no remorse, only a profound sense of completion. Justice has been served. The threat has been eliminated.
After scrubbing every trace of him from my skin, I dress quickly in clean clothes. My body aches from the exertion of the past few hours, but my mind is clearer than it's been since the night we were taken.
I need to see Livie.
The prospect is still at his post outside my bedroom door, standing straighter as I approach.
"Any change?" I ask.
"No, sir. Dr. Blane checked on her about an hour ago. Said she was still sleeping."
I nod and enter quietly, the room bathed in the glow of late afternoon sun filtering through the curtains. Livie is curled on her side, face peaceful in drug-induced slumber. The bruises on her skin have begun to fade to a yellow-green, healing marks that will eventually disappear completely.
Unlike the invisible scars beneath.
I sit carefully on the edge of the bed, drinking in the sight of her. Safe. Whole. Mine. Something settles in my chest, a weight I've been carrying since that SUV ran us off the road finally lifting.
It's over. Volkov is gone. His men are dead. His organization will soon learn what happens when you target someone under the Devil Souls’ protection.
I brush a strand of hair from Livie's face, my touch gentle against her warm skin. Her eyelids flutter at the contact, consciousness gradually returning as the sedative wears off.
"Greyson?" she murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
"I'm here, baby." I cup her cheek, thumb tracing the delicate line of her jaw. "Right where I belong."
She blinks slowly, focusing on my face. "You came back."
"I promised I would." I lean down to press my lips to her forehead. "Always."
Full awareness returns to her eyes as she searches my face. "Did you… Is he…?"
"It's done," I confirm, the same words Wilder spoke in that basement. "Volkov won't hurt anyone ever again."
Relief washes over her features, tears gathering in her eyes. "And Diane?"
