Page 42

S omething rushes through my veins. I can’t explain it. It’s dark, deeply rooted inside my chest, and it’s finally peeking its head, slowly rising to the surface. The sudden rush, the feeling of being unstoppable, consumes me, and I can’t focus on anything but the sheer excitement that flows through my body.

Blood drips down my gloved hands, some managing to get under the leather. Feeling the ichor on my fingertips sends a different kind of thrill down my spine. It’s sadistic, dark, and, in some ways, it satisfies the blood thirst.

Not enough, though.

The mace is coated in blood, the remains of what were once members of the New York Vipers. Now, they’re a lifeless mass on the dirty tiled floor of an abandoned warehouse, and no one will ever find them again. They died just how they lived — pathetically.

My eyes skim the surrounding area of the ruined room, broken glass, windows, and smashed door all around me. Tables in pieces, chairs with cobwebs all across them, the dust hitting my nose, causing me to cough. The mask is still on my face, and undoubtedly, it’s covered in blood as well.

“Oh, Wyatt,’’ I called out loudly in a singing voice. My footsteps echo as I walk slowly, walking from one room to the other one.

No matter the disagreement Arlo and I had, I know he won’t touch Wyatt. Despite everything, he cares about me, and he won’t take my revenge away from me. My father is a different story. I’m praying that he hasn’t found the bastard; otherwise, all of this would have been for nothing.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,’’ I sing, laughing softly at the eerie silence of the room. With a sigh, I leave, turning a right corner and entering a different room. The warehouse is massive, and a part of it used to be a factory of sorts. It’s good that Mom and Dad joined, because the grounds are too big for the four of us to cover alone.

My feet move at a leisurely pace, and I’m humming a soft song, dragging the mace behind me. Despite the carefree attitude I have going on, my senses are on high alert. I can’t afford to lower my guard, and I don’t intend to.

The room I walk into is just as dusty as the previous one.

It used to be an office. The wooden desk has cracks in it, and the stack of papers on top of it has lost its white color. An abandoned pen and a photo frame without a picture rest near the papers. The window isn’t broken, though it’s cracked open, allowing the cold air of the dark night to slip inside.

Shudders go through my body, and I inhale, preparing myself for what’s to come. He’s near. I know he is. Given how big of a coward he is, he’s probably hiding, waiting for the perfect opportunity to run away. Unfortunately, such an opportunity will not come.

He has nowhere to go, nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide.

I’ll be his demise, and I’ll bring him right to his knees. The bastard will die painfully; I’ll make sure that the last thing he sees before his soul leaves his body is my face. My eyes. The look of pure contentment and happiness that he’s gone.

I want him to know that he’s worthless and that he won’t be missed.

Swallowing harshly, I turn on my heel, leaving the deserted office with the door wide open. The halls are silent, gunshots and screams echoing in the distance. By now, Cove and Arlo are already competing on who’s going to get more of the prey, and that’s something I’ll join in the next time.

The hallway is long, and my hand tightens around the base of the mace. My eyes roam every single detail, every corner or place where Wyatt could possibly be hiding. I know for a fact that Arlo wasn’t stupid enough to give him a gun, but that doesn’t mean he’d go against the rules he set himself and leave him without a weapon.

That would be too boring.

Knowing Wyatt, he probably has a knife on him. Perhaps a bat if he was feeling bold enough to pick something that wouldn’t mean an immediate death for his opponent. But given how he’s been acting since he returned to New York, I'd say using his brain isn’t his strongest suit.

“Come on, Wyatt,’’ I groaned, getting irritated at the time it’s taking me to find him. “Let’s just get this over with. I have places to be, things to do.’’

My footsteps come to a stop in front of a double wooden door. Slight shuffling can be heard on the other side, and a sly grin tugs on the corner of my lips. All in me is telling me that this is it; he’s inside. Carefully, my hand wraps around the door handle, and I give myself a silent, mental pep talk before pushing the door open.

It looks to be a living room of sorts. It’s not uncommon for big warehouses to have these so the workers would have somewhere to spend their breaks, given that some shifts can last up to twelve hours.

The two big leather couches are torn apart almost entirely. The glass table between them is broken, glass shards all over the floor. As I step inside and close the door behind me, something runs down my spine, and I know I hit the jackpot.

Immediately, I spin around and lift the mace.

Wyatt isn’t wasting any time, and my quick reflexes save me yet again. His knife hits the metal object in my hands, his teeth bared at me, gritted as an insane amount of rage radiates off his body.

He’s someone who always took pride in his appearances. That’s why he was able to fool everyone. Perfectly ironed clothes, a smoothly shaved face, and neatly trimmed hair. But right now? He looks like the biggest mess I’ve seen in a while.

His clothes are worn out, ripped in a couple of places. The stubble on his face is the first thing I notice, followed by the unruly, uneven hair. Dangerously, he inches closer, trying to push the mace away.

I struggle a little, forgetting for a moment that there’s a reason he was always able to overpower me. He’s strong as hell when he wants to be, and right now, the murderous intent in his eyes tells me he wants me dead.

“You fucking cunt,’’ he spits out, raising his voice as he takes a small step back, breathing heavily. There are a few cut marks along his arms, and I immediately realize that the bastard must’ve fought another prey.

It's what I expected, but it’s still rather pathetic.

“I’ve been looking all over the place for you,’’ I grin. He knows it’s me. He doesn’t need me to take off my mask to know it’s exactly the person he hurt the most. “Why are you hiding, Wyatt?”

“Who says I’m hiding?” He retorts, taking another step backward just to ensure there’s enough distance and that I can’t swing the mace unexpectedly and kill him on the spot. “Maybe I was just waiting for you to appear.’’

I cock my head to the side, slowly pulling the mask up, letting it rest on the top of my head.

“Isn’t that sweet? You were waiting for me.’’

He rolls his eyes, but the anger doesn’t subside. If anything, it grows with each passing moment, and I can’t help but be glad that I’m getting a reaction out of him.

On the other hand, I’m calm.

I thought I’d be angry. Instead, I feel at ease.

For the first time since he returned to New York, my thoughts and head are clear. I see it all for how it is, and I stop blaming myself for what happened in the past. I’m not over it- not by a long shot- but I’m not letting anger cloud my judgment and lead my actions.

My body relaxes, and I hold eye contact with him. He can’t hurt me anymore. All he has going for himself is anger, and somehow, I think he knows he’s the one to blame. He’s angry at himself for allowing it to get to this point- to get caught.

I think he’s starting to regret ever coming back.

“Do you know what will happen here, Wyatt?”

My voice is flat, void of any emotions. It’s too indifferent, and he catches it, brows creasing slightly. His hand grips the knife in his hand; however, he’s yet to make an attempt to truly hurt or kill me. He’s trying to find an opening, but I’ll be damned if I give him one.

“Yes,’’ he responds, trying to keep his anger at bay. “You’ll die.’’

“Really?” I muse, a dangerous smile dancing on my face. I lean back against the wall, letting the mace rest next to me as I fold my arms in front of my chest. “And pray tell, how will that work out for you? Even if you somehow manage to kill me, it’s not the end. My parents are here, and Arlo and Blair are here. Cove is here. One of them is bound to kill you.’’

Something snaps inside him at the mention of Cove’s name, and I suppress a smirk. It’s far from jealousy. It’s envy. He wants what Cove has. He wants the strength and power in the ring Cove has. He wants the life Cove has, being able to do whatever he wants with no one to dare stop him.

He’s envious that Cove has everything life has to offer and beyond. He’s envious that Cove has a life with me that he could never get.

Insecurity rears its ugly head to the surface, flashing behind his eyes. He swallows, jaw clenched, and if the grip of the knife isn’t metal, it’ll snap in half from the force he’s using to grip it next to his body.

“It doesn’t matter. Do you know why?” He grits out, stepping closer to me. “Because you’ll be dead. Just like you said a while ago, no one will care that I’m gone. But you? They’ll care. They’ll remember me as the man who took someone so fucking precious to them. And trust me, baby, if I can’t have you, no one can.’’

A year ago, the words would have struck a chord in me. Hell, even a week ago they would’ve left an impact on me, forcing me to go back to the darkest parts of my mind. However, right now? The only thing I can do is blink, unbothered.

I push myself off the wall and take a step forward.

It’s not the closure I’ve been wanting, but it’s okay. It doesn’t have to be. I no longer crave closure. I don’t want to know why he hit me. I don’t want to know why he used me, manipulated, and isolated me from the people I care about the most under the pretense of love.

Wyatt and Cove’s definition of possessive is vastly different.

One wants to keep me locked up for his own pleasure and greed; the other one wants to keep me locked up for my own peace of mind.

“Sadly, I can’t let it happen, Wyatt. I think that you’re starting to realize that your words no longer have any merit. You no longer have any power over me.’’

That’s enough to set him off. With a loud snarl, he runs toward me. The anger in his eyes, the trembling of his body as he focuses to hurt me is enough to force my feet to move. I’m not quick enough to grab the mace, but I manage to dodge most of his attacks.

The blade of the knife pierces through the suit, slicing my left shoulder. I hiss under my breath, blood trickling down, mixing with that of the men I killed previously. With a shaky breath, I brace myself for his next attack.

He aims straight for my throat, and my eyes widen. Momentarily, I’m shocked before my mind starts screaming at me to move, to duck, or to do anything to avoid being hit. Because if he manages to push the blade into my throat, it’s game over for me.

Without thinking, I raise my hand and grab the blade. I grit my jaw as pain shoots through my palm, the knife slicing through the leather glove and tearing my skin open. Blood coats the metal object, and I manage to push it away from me, causing Wyatt to slightly stumble backward.

Quickly, I grab the mace and head straight for him.

He’s still in good shape, dodging my attacks, whether it’s by simply moving out of the way, ducking, or using his knife to stop the mace before it hits his body. It’s pissing me off how much strength he has in one hand, how he’s able to use a small fucking knife to push away this gigantic thing.

“Is that all you have, baby?” He taunts with a sadistic gleam in his eyes. “I expected more from a trained assassin. Or are you just like me, the disappointment of the family?”

I scoff, trying to ignore the ache in my palm.

“You wish, motherfucker,’’ I grit out. “No one’s as big of a disappointment as you are.’’

Wyatt’s eyes narrowed into slits, and he darted toward me yet again. This time, I see him coming. I feel him coming before he makes the first step, and I’m prepared, both mentally and physically. With all my might, I aim the mace for his side and hit him roughly.

A scream comes from him, mixing with the sound of his ribs cracking. His eyes are widened in pain, glossy with tears that are slowly sliding down his cheeks. His body trembles, and I hit him again.

He falls down to his knees, and a feeling of satisfaction starts to bloom in my chest.

Not yet.

It’s not enough.

“This is for every time you raised your voice at me.’’ I hit his other side, the rounded tip with spikes hitting through his flesh, slowly starting to change color to a dark red one. “For every time you belittled me,’’ I hit again. “For every fucking time you dared to hit me.’’

Wyatt swallows, crying in agony, a pleading look in his pathetic eyes.

“Wait,’’ he stammered, voice shaky and cracking. “Stop—’’

“Did you?! When you’d hit me and I’d beg for you to stop, did you? No, you didn’t. You told me it was because you loved me and you had to teach me how a woman should behave. So, right now, I’m teaching how a man should behave. I’m putting you in your fucking place, motherfucker.’’

I can no longer listen to him. His pleas and cries get muffled, blending with the background. The adrenaline pumps in my veins, and I continue to hit wherever I possibly can. From his back and stomach to his legs, arms, and shoulders.

Anger inside me bursts, and there’s nothing that can stop me now.

I’m out for his blood, and I’ll stop at nothing until I can see the last breath slipping from his mouth.

With each thrust of the mace, the strength in me grows. The pain in my palm is replaced by a dull ache, the slit on my shoulder no longer hurting. I’m focused on causing him pain, trying to give him back everything he once gave me.

The metal mace turns red, and the harder I hit, the more blood drips everywhere. My face, my shirt, and the white strands of my hair that fall down my face are coated with Wyatt’s disgusting blood, and the more it falls on me, the happier I become.

There aren’t words to describe how I’m feeling.

The feeling of freedom returning to me, the power I once lost resurfacing — all of it is too good. Almost too good to be true. Through teary eyes, as they roll down my face, my hands start shaking, yet I can’t force myself to stop.

My sobs fill the room, fusing with Wyatt’s wails.

It reminds me of the time when it used to be the other way around. With me begging for him to stop. And just like he didn’t stop, I’m not stopping right now. I grip the base of the mace with both hands, swinging it around, hitting his body as if it were a doll.

He falls down entirely, lying on his back, and I just straddle him, continuing with my assault.

His face is covered with blood; his body has multiple deep wounds, blood gushing out. His breathing is uneven, slowly starting to die out. I can see it in his eyes; the fire, the need to survive, is losing its spark, turning into a dull, blank stare.

“You’ll go to hell for this,’’ he croaks out, barely audible.

My hands stop mid-swing, the mace in the air as I blink, registering his words. A wicked, satisfied, and vicious smile is on my face. I’m pretty sure I’m not a pretty sight right now — covered in blood from head to toe, with an insane grin.

“Yeah? Save me a seat then, motherfucker.’’

With that, I landed the final blow.

The gratification of seeing his body stop moving fills me, and I can’t look away. The last look on his face is pure fear, and my heart skips a beat. I can’t move, transfixed on the sight in front of me. It’s beautiful, more than I ever could’ve imagined.

My eyes move to his chest, and I start sobbing, happiness consuming me when I see that it’s no longer moving. I drop the mace next to me, covering my face with my hands. A mix of happy tears and laughter comes from the depth of my throat, my cheeks stained.

Finally.

Wyatt Chambers is dead.

Soon enough, I find myself pulled to my feet. When I’m spun around, I come face to face with the love of my life, the man I can always count on having by my side. He glances between Wyatt’s lifeless body and the happy expression on my face, then his own mirrors mine.

“I’m so fucking proud of you, bunny.’’

Yeah, I’m proud of myself, too.