Page 139 of Remi's War (Four Dark Horsemen 2)

“You’re killing him! Fucking stop, Octavius!” Florian gets up swiftly, traps Octavius’s arm between his palms, trying to drag him to the side, but it has zero effect on our friend, who’s already in the zone, his eyes glazed while he delivers deeper and deeper stabs.

My wound bleeds, and I cover it with my hand, thinking how to stop Octavius. Couldn't give two fucks about his stepfather. In fact, I’d willingly stab him too, but the safety of my friend comes first.

We need to get him out of here before the staff comes back.

Florian lands on his ass once again. And that’s when Santiago comes from a different angle, catching Octavius’s wrist as he raises it, the knife dripping blood between them. His gaze is glassy with fury.

No rational thought resides there, and whatever his stepfather did this time around wiped away his humanity, because he just wants vengeance.

I’m familiar with his expression; I see it in the mirror before every fight.

He jerks in Santiago’s hold, ready to deliver another blow, when Santiago pulls his arm back and punches him hard in the face.

Florian wants to dart toward them, but I wrap my arms around him, keeping him steady in my hold. “Let me go!” he screams, but I just tighten my arms around him.

Our friend is absolutely right in his action.

When a person is in the zone, under the effect of this rage, talking to them is of no use. They can't hear you.

They only hear the voice of their abuser whispering in his or her ear about how worthless and weak they are, wiping away all the self-control and dignity they have.

And the need to kill becomes so unbearable, they do it without realizing what’s going on or who stands in front of them.

Octavius stumbles back, dropping to the floor on his knees, and the knife slips from his fingers, landing with a loud clatter.

Florian already slides toward him and places his hand on his shoulder, squeezing it roughly, but it brings no reaction from our friend.

He just stares into space, his chest rising and falling with each breath that’s heavier and heavier. His splayed palms on the marble leave bloody prints.

I hiss again as the pain in my arm intensifies. Pressing my hand harder on the wound, I wonder how to stop the bleeding.

I blink in surprise when Santiago crouches in front of me, pushing my hand away to examine the wound.

He shouldn’t worry; it isn't my first knife wound.

Things in the clubs get crazy.

Although the tip struck deep and might leave a scar on my arm, no major arteries were touched.

Considering the knife was in a now-dead body just seconds ago, I need to clean the wound and patch it up. “You okay?” I nod, glancing over his shoulder at the guys before shifting my focus to the body. “He’s dead,” he tells me while gauging my reaction as if he expects hysterics.

I smirk, pleasure filling me at the sight of that fucker on the bed, and spit to the side. “Good fucking riddance.”

He doesn’t even deserve to go to hell for what he has done to Octavius, so I hope his soul burns in purgatory with no relief in sight.

I wince again, studying the wound and wondering if it has the power to affect my fight tonight.

Tim will be livid once he hears about it. My arm injury will give my opponent the advantage, but I’ll have to take the risk.

Tearing away a piece of my shirt, I press it to the cut while Santiago just watches me in disbelief. His brows lift in surprise, and noticing it, I whisper, “You’re not the only one with secrets, amigo.” Maybe if he’d looked close enough, he would have seen how we all changed.

And how we carry our own brand of darkness. We stopped being saints a long time ago.

“What are we gonna do now?” Florian asks calmly, patting Octavius’s back, who now sits on the floor and hugs his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth, still in a trance. He probably doesn't even comprehend what he’s done.

Santiago gets up, rolling his shoulders while focusing his attention on Florian, who has a bored expression on his face. The only concern he shows is when his gaze lands on Octavius. Yet the body on the bed earns only a snarl and a muttered, “Rot in hell, fucker.”

Yeah, safe to say, none of us feel an ounce of compassion toward the fucker. We’ve hated him since we were little and he delivered the first blows to Octavius, marring his skin in never-ending scars.

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