Page 66 of Infamous

My knuckles split open. His head snaps sideways, blood gushing from his nose. He staggers.

“What kind of man does that? What kind of man are you?” I growl.

He laughs through the blood, stupid enough to still open his mouth and fight back. “She’s my woman - ”

“Woman?” The word leaves me like a snarl. “She’s a goddamn queen.”

I grab him by the throat, slam him back against the truck so hard the metal screams. “And you don’t get to fucking say her name.”

He thrashes, kicks out, but it’s like watching a fish drown in air. He’s too slow, too far gone to put up an adequate fight.

Mason blows smoke toward the trees. Brando flicks ash. Neither of them moves as they let me take the reigns.

I drag Michael forward and shove him to the ground, booton his chest to keep him there. He wheezes, clutching at air, trying to find purchase to lift himself up.

“You thought you’d kill her tonight?” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “You thought you’d make her bleed, and no-one would notice?”

He spits up blood, defiant even now. “You should’ve stayed out of a man’s business with his woman - ”

The sound I make isn’t human. I grab him by the collar and pull him close until our foreheads nearly touch.

“She’s not youranything,” I snarl. “You’re her disease. And I’m the cure.”

My fingers find the knife tucked beneath my jacket before my brain does. It slides into my hand so fast it barely feels real until the headlights catch the blade, and his eyes go wide, finally understanding what kind of man he’s standing in front of.

“Please - ”

I pin his arm against the dirt and press the blade to his finger. “You like using these to touch her, right?”

He starts begging then. Real begging - high, choking sounds that make no difference to me.

“You’ll never touch her again,” I promise.

The knife bites through bone before he can finish the wordstop.

He screams. The sound tears through the clearing, raw and wet, echoing against the trees. Blood gushes in thick, dark ribbons across my knuckles.

Brando winces, exhaling smoke through his teeth. “Jesus,” he mutters, almost fond. “That’s one way to make a point.”

Michael’s still howling when I grab him by the collar and haul him upright. The stump spurts between us, slick and hot. I hold up the severed finger, the blood dripping down my wrist like paint, and toss it into the black water below the bridge.

The splash is soft. The response isn’t.

The watererupts- a violent swirl of ripples and snapping jaws. A dozen pairs of eyes breach the surface, glowing reptilian and cold. They converge on the spot where the finger sank, the frenzy breaking the calm.

Michael’s voice dies in his throat. His gaze follows the chaos, eyes wide, face draining of color. He knows. Heknows.

I drag him closer so he can’t look away. “That’s what happens when blood and flesh hits the water,” I say, voice low and steady. “Nature knows what to do with garbage.”

He trembles. “Who the hellare you?” he whispers.

I lean in, my mouth near his ear, breath steady despite the pounding in my chest.

“I’m the man who cleans up the mess monsters leave behind,” I say. “And you just became the next one.”

His eyes dart between me and the water, realization dawning in them like a final prayer.

Behind me, Mason says quietly, “Time to feed the animals.”