Page 17

M y hands and shirt are smeared with Hayes’s blood, some drops flecking across my vision. His screams fade into the background, muffled beneath the piercing ring in my ears. He mumbles curses and fragmented words, and I tighten my grip on the pliers, feeling a pang of melancholy.

A few hours have passed, and we’re nearing the end. I’ve savored this more than with any past victims, mostly because I’ve seen firsthand the behavior that brought us to this moment. He turned out to be even more fucking stupid than I’d expected. The fucker had the nerve to suggest I share my fiancée with him, even describing in detail what he wanted to do to her. It made my work with him more satisfying, though I barely restrained myself during that meeting. He believed I was humoring his fantasies—his eyes never left Venetia.

To say that infuriated me would be an understatement. I’d never struggled so hard to suppress the urge to leap over that fucking table and turn his face into a bloody mess.

I started by gouging out his eyes, carefully, one at a time. After years of practice, the process felt like second nature. I never wanted him to die instantly, but I made sure he would remain blind for the rest of his suffering. Remembering his vile intentions, I moved to his hands and severed each finger. It had been a while since I’d worked on hands, and I’d forgotten just how messy it could get.

No regrets, though.

Now comes the best part. I’m not sure how much longer he’ll last—I’m surprised by his endurance—but judging by the look on his face and the cracks in his voice, I can tell he’s close to breaking.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Senator,” I say, my voice as composed as ever, though it’s nearly impossible to ignore the thrill that courses through me. Torture has always been my favorite pastime—the only thing that truly lifts my spirits—and this one surpasses every experience I’ve had before.

Because it feels too fucking personal.

“I just—” My words falter as a surge of searing anger clashes with the buzz from the coke, my face twitching uncontrollably. Then, with deliberate ease, I straighten, a smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth. “I need to ask you one question. What kind of animal are you?”

He freezes mid-breath, his wild, exhausted eyes boring into mine as confusion clouds his face. “What?” he rasps. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

I shrug. “There are different kinds of creatures in the world,” I begin. “Swans, wolves, penguins—they’re loyal, forming bonds that last a lifetime. Then, we’ve got the lions and chimps, playing the field, mating freely. And the third, unpredictable kind, like mice, who thrive on chaos and promiscuity.” I take a step closer, locking eyes with him. “Now, Senator, which one are you?”

He jerks his head, confusion etched on his bloodied face, his attempted scowl faltering. “What the fuck is this?! Talking about fucking mice and wolves, West, what the actual fuck?!”

He spits on himself, struggling to get free as his emotions take hold. I ask because I want to know why, despite having a family, his eyes wander. But it’s clear I won’t get any answers. Frankly, I’m starting to lose interest.

“Suit yourself,” I mutter unemotionally. His body stiffens as he realizes what’s coming next.

“Oh, fuck. Please, please,” he pleads, choking on a mixture of blood, sweat, and tears—a sight not for the faint of heart, as unpleasant as the smell. This is his true nature—an image of the disgusting, disrespectful pig he is. “I’m begging you?—”

“I’m begging you,” I mock, my voice taking on a squeaky, ridiculous tone as I mirror his expression, even though he can no longer see me. He’s lost both eyes, after all. “You chose to look at her, Heyes. You’re lucky I haven’t grabbed a leucotome to scramble all your fantasies out of your dumb fucking brain.”

Regret fills me the instant the words leave my mouth.

Fuck . Why hadn’t I thought of that sooner?

“I’m so sorry,” he whines, clinging desperately to the edge of his pathetic existence. “I’m so, so?—”

“I don’t forgive you,” I cut him off, closing the distance between us in a few strides. “And while I want to prolong this as much as possible, for you, it’s finally over.”

He squirms in his chair like a helpless worm as I bring the pliers to his lips and force his mouth wide open with my other hand. I know he’ll die from blood loss after I cut off his tongue.

Ignoring his desperate struggles and the splatters of fluid from his mouth and body, I complete the job. He twitches and shifts, becoming a wreck both inside and out until his system fails and his body finally locks in place. An odd emptiness settles deep in my stomach as I look at him, unsettling thoughts creeping in from all corners of my mind.

Why does it feel like Venetia deserves so much more than these couple of hours I’ve given him?

Shit .

Still, it’s done. If I could bring the bastard back, I’d do it without hesitation. But my job is over, and pretty soon I’ll have to deal with the consequences—no doubt, they’ll be far from fucking pleasant.

My head jerks to the side, smashing into the wooden wall with a sickening crack that pierces the air. My skull feels seconds away from exploding—one more hit, and the pressure will squash my fucking brains out.

I didn’t plan on him finding out—at least not so quickly—but with my fucking luck, he walked in just when I was done dealing with body parts, all covered in Heyes’s blood. Now comes the best part.

“You fucking moron!” Dad screams, delivering another powerful blow to my face, this time targeting the other side. “Do you have any idea what the fuck you’ve done?!”

I served justice. Restored some respect for both Venetia and myself. Released a lot of stress, too.

The phrases swirl on the tip of my tongue, but I bite them back—literally—when his knee connects with my solar plexus. Reflexively, I wrap my arms around it, bending over in pain, and he takes the opportunity to drive his foot into my hip. When I crash to the floor, he continues to rain blows down on me, but all the agony fades into nothing more than background noise.

I don’t feel shit.

Years of this have forced my body to adapt and accept the pain. I know there’s nothing I can do to change it, so my brain has created an invisible shield of nonchalance, keeping me teetering on the edge of death. For a normal person, beatings like this would be both mentally and physically devastating. For me, it’s routine, one I’m perfectly accustomed to.

Though, at times, it feels a little fucking humiliating to realize that an adult man can’t do anything when his father turns him into his personal punching bag. But I know better than to push back. I wanted to when I was young and even tried, but eventually, something clicked inside, and I came to accept it. It’s now part of the fucked-up routine that shaped me into the unbreakable person I am.

In a way, I feel grateful. If anything ever happens, these sessions have taught me well. I can withstand pain for hours, even days. If I’m ever kidnapped and our rivals try to beat information out of me, they won’t succeed.

I spit out the blood to keep my airway clear, retreating into a dull void as he goes on cursing and lashing out. He’s furious that I killed a so-called ‘respectable’ man, worried that he’ll face consequences because of it. He’ll never understand why I did it—not out of some dumb rebellion, but out of loyalty and respect. He’ll never comprehend those qualities because he doesn’t have them.

I thought I didn’t, either.

But I was wrong. Just a glimpse of that pig, his single breath near Venetia, pushed me to take action. And now, as I lie here, what’s the only thought brewing in my mind?

If I had the chance, I’d do it all over again. I’d bring that bastard back to life and repeat the process, again and again, until nothing remained but a bloody puddle.

The funniest part? Venetia has no idea, and I have no intention of telling her. I’m not some high schooler who runs around bragging about what he’ll do for a woman who drives him to these lengths. It wasn’t even her request—it was my decision.

Dad will get over this. He’s just paranoid about me jeopardizing his precious campaign. Ironically, that senator didn’t seem too keen on his plans. I did him a favor.

Not that he appreciates it.

“I can’t fucking deal with this,” he grumbles, finally backing off from me and taking a few steps away. Taking the chance, I roll onto my stomach, a muted ache blossoming in my chest, as though my insides are being crushed.

Well, honestly, they kind of fucking are.

“Fuck it. I don’t want to see you anymore. Tomorrow, you’ll fly to Washington for a few days. My friends organized a fundraising campaign there—a chain of charities for the homeless,” he explains, but my attention slips, lost in the throbbing waves of pain spreading through me. “Go and act like you need to. I’ll try to clean up the mess you fucking caused.”

“They won’t find him,” I rasp, coughing up another splash of blood. “I’ve dealt with everything.”

He shakes his head, scrubbing a hand over his sweat-covered face. “Why?” His voice falls to a whisper, laden with disbelief. “Just fucking why? Do you think she’ll love you because of this?”

That ridiculous word makes me chuckle, a sound I quickly regret. My whole body shudders from the effort, and I swear, I can hear my bones rattling. “He didn’t respect me,” I retort. “That’s why I did it.”

“You can sell that bullshit to others, but not to me. I see right through you.” He stands there for a moment, looking at me as if weighing the idea of landing a few more blows.

After a brief moment of twitching and seething with rage, Dad turns and walks away, leaving me bleeding on the floor. He halts at the threshold, adding, “Remember, whatever you do, you’ll never even be liked , West. Especially not by Venetia.”

He slams the door closed, plunging the house into silence. A void emerges from my chest, tightening around me as his words turn into a distant murmur—a broken record that can never be fucking fixed.

As if I needed a reminder of it.