Page 88 of Hearts Held

I am going to feel bad for being selfish.

For carelessly getting her pregnant.

No.

I’m not fucking sorry for being selfish.

I’m sorry for what happened to her, and I’ll apologize for the rest of my pathetic life if she will let me.

I hope she doesn’t hate my family and resentmefor what she has been through.

Though I refuse to apologize for being selfish.

For she ismine.

I will takecare of her.

I will stitch these pieces back together if she will let me.

And I will take vengeance on those who wronged her, touched her—and, from here on out, anyone who fucking dares to look at her.

They may have feared me before, but now theywillfeel my wrath.

The anger and malice smelts inside me, rising like a wildfire, surpassing any feeling that had accompanied my arrival. All at once, my muscles tense as I rip open the barn door to find Michael hanging from the rafters, with two meat hooks protruding from his shoulder blades.

How poetic, since my dove did the same to his disgusting brother.

“Everett!” Lyle shouts, but I ignore him.

I charge up to Michael’s pathetic naked body and begin pounding my fist into his torso like a punching bag.

“SEVENTEEN!” I yell.

I don’t care how crazy I look, completely losing my composure, my usually perfected control.

My wrath has come to life, each tactical thought burned by the fire raging within my soul.

A right hook to his ribs. “SEVENTEEN!”

A left jab to his diaphragm, causing Michael to sputter for air. “FUCKING.”

An uppercut punch into his abdomen. “TIMES!”

“YOU!” A left uppercut punch cracking into his jawline, crimson exploding from his mouth and dripping down his neck.

A swift jab to his now crooked, bleeding nose. “TOUCHED!”

The heel of my right foot cracks into his sternum. “MY WIFE!” My voice echoes from the rafters.

I deliver blow after blow, and can’t even feel my fists pounding into his abdomen. Once I reach seventeen strikes, I reach into my pocket and grab the cold hilt of my blade.

Recklessly I begin slicing pieces of skin from his flesh. He cries in sweet agony, but it isn’t enough.

I plan to fillet seventeen pieces of flesh, followed with seventeen slashes, starting with the back of his knees and Achilles tendons.

All that are in attendance within the barn encircle me, but I don’t give a fuck. I continue my onslaught, Michael’s pleas music in my ears.

But then a sweet voice, my dear sweet dove’s voice, caresses my mind, and I feel her gentle touch on my lower back.