Page 131 of Dangerous Men

Chase flails, throwing wild punches, but they’re nothing to me, even when he manages to land a few. I was born for this. Trained for this. My blows land with precision—each one harder than the last, overwhelming all his attempts to defend himself, smashing his body into the ground with each hit.

Only when he stops trying to fight back and goes limp do I stop.

But I’m not finished yet.

I grab him by the collar, pulling him close. “If you ever go near Sydney again, if you ever eventhinkabout her, you will regret it. Do you understand me?”

Chase nods weakly, his eyes swollen shut, his face battered.

I stand up and take a step back, taking in the wreckage I’ve made of him. A better man would leave it at that. Would walk away, the fight over.

But I’m not a good man.

I kick him once, hard, in the ribs, and then finish the job with another kick to his head.

With my rage finally satiated, I gaze down at his unconscious, barely recognizable figure, and a grim smile curls on my lips.

48

SYDNEY

When I rememberthe night my parents died, my most vivid memory is the rain.

And the rage.

It was storming that evening, and the rain was so heavy it was almost impossible to see through the windshield, even with the wipers going at full speed. And the storm just kept growing, kept getting worse.

I was so angry. I remember clenching my fists so tight my fingernails bit into my palms. I remember wanting something bad to happen.

“I hate you,” I told them.

And I’d meant it.

After the funeral, I spent years bouncing from therapist to therapist, trying to dull the sharp edges of that memory. Years of trauma processing and desensitization that only left me feeling sick and raw. Years of mantras, of breathing exercises, of mindfulness training.

But therapy only works if you’re willing to let it work. If you face your trauma and learn to let it go.

I don’t want to let it go. Even now, when I let the memory wash over me, I want it to hurt. Ineedit to hurt.

I need to remember what happens when I let myself be that person.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror over my bathroom sink and let that memory hurt me. A monster stares back, her bottom lip still swollen from Viper’s bite. I drag my tongue over the wound.

Nobody likes an angry woman, Chase’s voice mocks me as I stare down the monster in my mirror.

Then Sebastian’s.I think you’re a little dangerous, too.

And I am. I know that I am. I’m dangerous. I’m a murderer. I’m the reason my parents are dead.

Next to the sink, my phone flashes with another message from Ashton. The twelfth so far. I’ve lost count of the number of missed calls.

Ashton: Are you okay?

Ashton: Please pick up, babygirl. I need to know you’re okay.

And I want to. I want to pick up my phone and talk to him. I want to invite him over and eat his stupid takeout and let him comfort me. I want him to make me laugh. I want him to tell me that everything is okay.

But it’s not.