Page 76 of Call It What You Want
“Oh, my God.” I press my hands to my face. “Oh my God, what did I do?”
Ember’s arm comes around my shoulders, but I barely feel it.
All I can see is blood. The knife inmyhand. Jackson is taking it from me. Takingallof it from me. Then letting me hate him for somethingIdid…
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Jackson
The would-be-assassin’s scream ricochets off the concrete walls. Blood slicks the floor, thickening the air with the stench of iron and sweat.
I press my forearm into the guy’s throat, pinning him to the chair. My knuckles are split open, raw, blood drying in the tight cracks.
“Who hired you?” I ask, my voice low, rough, and calm. The kind of calm that makes grown men start to pray.
He shakes his head, gasping. “If I tell you, I’m dead anyway?—”
From his cot, Sin exhales with a soft laugh. “Try the ribs,” he says, his tone smooth, unaffected. “They crack faster when the body’s in shock. Makes a sound that gets through even the thick ones.”
I don’t respond, but I take Sin’s suggestion, because why not? I drive my fist into his ribcage once. Twice. The third blow cracks the rib loud enough to make the guy choke.
Sin claps slowly. “See? Beautiful.”
“Who sent you?” I growl, leaning in close. In my mind’s eye, I can see him grappling with Ava on the floor of my bedroom, and I see fuckingred.“Was it Shadow and Ash?”
“No.” He spits a wad of blood onto the concrete floor.
Sin snorts. “Please. If he were one ofmyguys, you’d be dead already.”
I turn my head just enough to glare at him. “Shut the fuck up.”
Sin’s been holed up in the Panic Room for weeks now, lounging on that cot like some kind of dark prince in exile. And with each day, he gets more and more annoying.
The guy groans. I grab the knife from a tray I brought in and press the tip under his chin until a bead of blood slips down his throat. “Talk.”
He lets out a strangled sob. “I—I can’t.”
Sin’s annoying-as-fuck voice cuts through the room again. “You’re asking the wrong question.”
I turn toward him. “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”
He smiles. “Ask him who paid himnotto talk.”
The guy freezes. And I feel it—that shift, that pulse of fear that tells me Sin just hit the vein.
I twist the knife just enough to bite. Blood beads along the edge, gliding down the man’s throat, and my mouth waters. “Whofuckingpaid you?”
He shakes his head, body trembling.
A part of me—one I try not to look at too closely—craves this violence. The sensation of metal sinking into flesh. The weight of another man’s fear in my hands. It’s sick, but it’s real. One of the few things that still makes me feel alive.
I slam the knife down through his palm. He screams, loud and broken. The sound ricochets through the Panic Room. I feel it vibrate in my chest.
“Stop wasting my fucking time.” My patience is hanging by a microscopic thread. He coughs, choking on his own blood. I grab his jaw and force his head up. “Who. The fuck. Paid. You?”
Silence.
I grab the guy’s shirt and rip it open, the fabric tearing easily. “You know what happens when guys like you don’t talk?” I whisper. “I carve them up, bit by bit.”
