Page 4 of The Misfits
When I step closer to her, wanting her to swallow her lies, the bailiff wedges himself between us. His stance makes my jaw tick with fury and causes something inside me to snap. For years, I watched Cleo from afar. I held my place until the time was right, but not anymore. I’m tired of following the rules, but even more than that, I’m sick to death of ungrateful women who don’t know their place.
Years ago, my father taught my mother a lesson, and now I must do the same to Cleo.
The bailiff’s shoulders are double the width of mine, the difference in our heights is highly notable, but it doesn’t stop him hitting the ground like a bag of shit when I toss him to the side. I’m up in Cleo’s face faster than I can snap my fingers. The pounding of the batons on my back and the roar of the man who wrongly believes he owns her don’t deter me in the slightest. It is just her and I. The woman who isn’t close to paying for her father’s atonement.
Cleo’s father took away my one true love. For that alone, I should have slaughtered his entire family.
I would have if Cleo didn’t spark my interest. The longer I watched her, the brighter a new plan became. I didn’t need immediate revenge. I needed entertainment.
For the past four years, Cleo gave me that and so much more. It was enough—until Marcus entered the equation.
I don’t back away when challenged, but he wasn’t merely threatening to call “checkmate.” He tried to swipe all the pieces from the chessboard, and that’s when my game plan changed. My interest in Cleo switched to something greater than revenge. We reached a mutual understanding. We connected. We were more than strangers, but Marcus destroyed any possibility of us finding our happily ever after. He tainted her with lies and made her a woman undeserving of love.
He ruined her.
And although I tried to save her from the madness, she didn’t listen.
She still isn’t listening.
“After everything I did for you, you still want to have his bastard child?” I eat my words twice when they bounce off Cleo’s tear-stained face before ramming back down my throat.
Clearly brainwashed, Cleo nods, which should be impossible with how hard I am clutching her face.
As anger envelops me, my grip doubles. Just like Stephen, I consider snapping her neck now. It would make her death clean and painless, but unfortunately for them both, my father never taught me leniency.
Stephen betrayed me. He paid for his stupidity with his life.
When Cleo betrayed me, I gave her my forgiveness.
I will not make the same mistake twice.
“No, please, no.” Cleo’s lips tremble as she tries to yank away from me. I’m not going to kiss her as her eyes are begging me to do. I’m going to issue her one last promise, one I intend to keep even if it kills me.
The hairs on her neck prickle when I snarl, “I saved your child from the depths of hell by stopping it from turning out like him… and perhaps even a little like me.” The smile that arrives with my last sentence doesn’t suit the callousness of my words.
Cleo’s breaths quiver when I squash my lips to her ear. My smile is so broad my teeth graze her fleshly skin sufficiently enough for the seductive scent of her blood to linger in my nostrils. “I promise to save any future children you have as well. We don’t want any misfit bastards left lying around.”
I only see the quickest flare of alarm dart through her eyes before a strike to the back of my head forces me to succumb to blackness, but it is more than enough. It will feed my appetite for revenge for the next several years, only growing in intensity for every year we spend apart.
The weak request forgiveness.
The strong seek revenge.
I’m the strongest I’ve ever been.
one
DEXTER
THREE YEARS LATER…
“Come on in, Dexter, don’t be shy.” When my greeter’s smile grows, the whiteness of her teeth makes me want to gag. “We’re all friends here.”
She gestures to the dozen-plus people sitting in a circular pattern around her. They’re gleaming at her like she’s the sun, the moon, and the Earth all rolled into one.
I’m looking at her in wonderment as well,wondering if her blood will run as red as her lipstick.
I slump into a vacant chair, unsatisfied about my first taste of group counseling but preferring it over the other option. With my outburst three years ago awarding me a seven-year stint in a psychiatric hospital for the criminally insane, I either play nice with these weirdos or get transferred back to the maximum-security hospital where I was originally incarcerated.
