Page 153 of I'm sorry, Princess
How the fuck did I miss this? The little golden retriever best friend, always smiling, always trailing after Serena like some obedient puppy, turns out to be a fucking wolf in disguise. A little psychotic. A gun pressed to my head, a threat in her voice as steady as any made man I’ve ever faced.
I wonder if Serena knows.
If she’s seen the darkness coiled behind her best friend’s pretty face.
If she knows the girl she giggles with over coffee could pull a trigger without blinking.
But then the thought curdles, rotting in my chest.
Fuck Serena.
Fuck what she knows.
Fuck what she does.
She’s the reason this storm is ripping me apart. The reason I can’t breathe without rage clawing at my lungs. The reason I’m standing here, shaking, trying not to put my fist through something living.
I storm into the basement, my sanctuary of violence, and the world narrows to one thing: destruction.
My knuckles slam into concrete again and again, each thud ricocheting up my arms, numbing the bone-deep ache. Blood smears across the wall, bright and wet. My skin splits, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.
One hour passes. Maybe more. Time dissolves into the rhythm of violence, thud, thud, thud, the sound of my heart beating itself raw against the cage of my ribs.
The wall doesn’t give. My rage doesn’t fade.
All I’m left with is the taste of blood in my mouth and the echo of her words, We’re over, princess, carved into my fucking soul.
“Who the fuck are you?!” Ian’s muffled voice tears through the fabric of the bag over his head. His tone is cocky, loud, pathetic. “You’re going to regret this! I’m a fucking FBI detective!”
A smirk curls on my lips. Brilliant. If you’re looking for a fast track to an early grave, start bragging about being a fed when you’re tied to a chair in my basement. Looks like Ian Archibald has zero survival instincts.
“Take the bag off his head,” I say, voice controlled, flat.
The moment Lev rips the bag away, Ian freezes. His bravado shatters when he sees who’s standing in front of him. Not me, Lev.
I don’t blame him. Lev’s a monster. Six-foot-eight of Russian-bred brutality, covered in ink, riddled with scars, eyes like frozen steel. The kind of man nightmares are made of. And Lev doesn’t disappoint, he leans down, gives Ian a wink, and his lips curl into a predator’s smile.
“Who do you wanna play with, sweetheart?” Lev’s voice is low, mocking. “Me… or Lorenzo?”
Ian’s eyes go wide. He doesn’t even glance at me. He knows Lev would tear him apart piece by piece just for fun. “Fuck you!” he shouts.
“Language, sweetheart,” Lev adds when Ian mutters under his breath. “Or I’ll cut that pretty tongue out of your mouth.”
The color drains from Ian’s face. He’s silent now. Good boy.
I give Lev a small nod, and he backs away, throwing Ian a dramatic blown kiss on his way out. The poor bastard flinches. I almost laugh. Almost. But the ringing in my ears drowns out everything except the pounding of my pulse.
I step forward and loosen the ropes around Ian’s wrists. His eyes flicker with confusion. He thinks he’s being freed. Idiot. My fist connects with his jaw before he can even process it. The crack echoes off the walls, blood spraying from his lips. He stares up at me like I just kicked his dog.
“What the fuck do you want?” he spits, blood dribbling from his mouth.
“I’m giving you a fair fight, Ian.”
I watch the shift in his eyes, panic to determination. He lunges for me, throwing a pathetic punch. It’s laughable.He’s slow, sloppy. How the fuck did this weakling ever become a detective?
I catch him by the throat, slam my knee into his stomach. The air leaves him in a strangled groan. He folds, but I don’t give him a second to breathe. My fist smashes into his nose, the crunch of cartilage sharp and satisfying. He stumbles back, blood pouring down his face, trying to swing at me again.
He doesn’t stand a chance. I’m dodging easily, dancing around him while he bleeds and gasps like a fish out of water.
