Page 9 of Cry Madness
“I don’t hate you.” The words scrape out from between clenched teeth, and despite the turmoil within, that’s a truth I cling to.
I don’t hate Alice Knightly.
Hating her is the furthest thing from my heart. My love for her is a raw pulse, an ache so profound it burrows deep within my very being as I step from the room.
“Goodbye, Maddox.”
Alice’s pained whisper trails after me like a foreboding storm cloud, heavy with finality. This time…
…this time, I know it’s a forever farewell.
THREE
“It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.”
—Alice,Alice in Wonderland
Wonderland
Three Years Later
I’d be lying if I said this isn’t fun.
Took a while, but McQueen finally let me off the annoyingly short leash he’d kept me on, and once freed, I hit the ground running. Not that his hesitation wasn’t understandable. I don’t blame him for exercising caution. I haven’t always been able to rein in my impulsive inclination toward violence, and in fact, I’m still a bit…unpredictable.
Okay, let me be honest, I can be downright feral when the situation calls forit—like now,
More often than not, though, I deserve a shiny gold star for my efforts to restrain myself. I can’t pretend to have mastered the delicate art of temper control entirely. Still, after demonstrating that I’m (somewhat) stable, I’ve earned the freedom to, shall we say, release my reckless abandon.
Fantastic for me.
Extremely unfortunate for this jerkoff who dared to misappropriate Roman McQueen’s property.
Oops, his mistake.
Nicholas Lowell clearly forgot Roman’s ruthless nature and the physical damage I’m capable of inflicting upon a human body. Not only did Nick foolishly attempt to embezzle nearly one hundred grand from my boss—who also happens to be the same man who took me in and raised me after my parents died—but this asshole also made the monumental error of derailing my plans for what should have been a perfectly fine Saturday night.
Wait…
With a calculated tug on the chain draping from my leg, I extract a gold fob from the depths of my black pants. This watch, one of my most treasured possessions, now feels almost sacrilegious in this dingy storeroom. It feels utterly misplaced in a setting so far removed from what it represents, especially as I prepare to do the devil’s work.
I glance at the hour, my mood strained beneath the weight of anticipation, and snap the watch shut without pausing to read the engraved words on the underside of its lid.My love eternal. Those three words have been etched deep into the gray matter of my disordered brain ever since Alice gifted this to me on my sixteenth birthday. That memory clings to me like a shadow as I slide the timepiece back into the safety of my front pocket.
It’s actually Sunday. Just past midnight, sure, but a new day has indeed begun.
After a sharp tug on the leather gloves that cling tightly to my tattooed hands, I grasp Nick by the jaw and pull him close enough that he can catch the unmistakable scent of cinnamon gum wafting from my mouth. “Your bullshit ruined our night,” I growl, my voice low and steady. I swivel his head to the left, forcing him to take in the imposing figure of March. Weighing in at two hundred sixty pounds and towering at six feet four inches, he stands like a solid wall of muscle, effectively blocking the steel door behind him. His menacing expression makes it clear that my ornery brother from another mother isn’t about to step aside and let Nick slip away. He’s holding up his cell phone, and, in true wiseass fashion, I wave cheerfully to Roman, who is watching the scene unfold via a video call. I deliver a sharp smack to Nick’s cheek. “Apologize.”
“I’m sorry,” Nick squeaks, the apology pushed out past lips that are scrunched, split, and bloody.
March and I might have, perhaps, a bit too enthusiastically, pulled Nick from Suite 101 of the Chateau du Monde, the luxurious hotel where Roman hosts a weekly high-stakes poker game. Within those walls, under crystal chandeliers and with a million-dollar view of Jabberwocky Bay, the wealthiest and most powerful men of Grimm County gather. All of them far too comfortable in their seats at Roman’s table.
The solitary silver lining of Nick sitting at McQueen’s table is that he was recklessly wagering with funds pilfered from one of Roman’s clandestine bank accounts. Foolish fucking move, gambling with money stolen from the man who owns the game. Roman watched with quiet satisfaction as a significant portion ofhis money effortlessly returned to him. A perfect scenario—the house does indeed always win…
One way or the other.
Nick fucked around, treating Roman-fucking-McQueen like an ATM.
Now, he’s in the finding out stage.