Page 9

EIGHT

TEMPTATION

CONTROL: PUDDLE OF MUD

DOMINIC

T he taste of mint overwhelms the lingering flavor of Killian in my mouth as I scrub my teeth, the bristles working vigorously while fire courses through my veins. With thoughts of murder consuming me, everything else fades into irrelevance—including Ash, trapped in a hospital bed.

For now, I've found a distraction from the unbearable pain. At least I know he’s safe from the vile creatures roaming the streets.

I spit the remaining toothpaste into the sink and finish off with a mouthful of mouthwash, swirling it around until the burning sensation becomes manageable. After spitting again, I wipe my mouth with the hand towel Cali left hanging, run a brush through my short hair, and flash a grin at my reflection, showcasing the gleam of my teeth. When I open the bathroom door, I collide with Killian—a familiar occurrence lately. He’s dressed to impress, wearing a red hoodie, crisp blue jeans, and fresh white Nikes, a snapback turned backward. Fuck, he looks good.

"Who the fuck are you trying to impress?" I ask, pulling my black hoodie over my head to match my black jeans and Jordans. I want to blend into the night, the darkness that has embraced me as one of its own.

"Shit, no one. But if we're going out, I want to look good." He smirks, clearly enjoying this plan of ours.

I can’t blame him—tonight feels more exciting than any night I’ve had in a while.

We lock up and head to the garage, slipping into my black Mustang. The engine roars to life, vibrating the seats beneath us. I peel out of the parking garage, the wind streaming through the open windows, the bass reverberating my rearview mirror as I weave through traffic, methodically shifting gears.

The ride through the city is quiet, both of us plotting how the night will unfold. We don’t have a target, but we know what to do when we find one. Killian remains silent, chain-smoking like he’s nervous, while I sit here as calm as can be.

After some joyriding, I pull into the lot of one of the clubs we know our fathers frequent. Though my father used to hang out here, he’s dead now; Killian’s father is the only one left. With his friends being murdered left and right, he’s been laying low—at least, that’s what he thinks. We’ve been keeping a close watch on him, ensuring we know his every move for when the time comes for Kill to exact his revenge.

Once we park, we step out, inhaling the crisp night air, the scent of liquor, and the sound of music spilling onto the street, drawing us in. We walk side by side, hearts racing and eyes sharp. We both know there’s a good chance we’ll encounter someone we recognize tonight. Whether it’s one of our fathers' acquaintances or someone from the underground, it’s inevitable. But tonight might be our lucky night while also being the worst night for them—their last night.

As soon as we step through the club's doors, Killian freezes, his gaze locked on something in the back. The color drains from his face. I follow his line of sight and immediately understand his reaction. Gently, I take his arm, guiding him to the bar, where the last two empty stools sit, slightly out of sight from the man in the back.

I recognize him too—a mutual business associate of our fathers. When I say "associate," I use the term loosely. He's a predator, a rapist, yet he holds the title of city congressman, deeply fucking corrupted.

As I scan the crowd, my stomach drops; nausea rises as I down a shot of tequila, barely noticing the burn. Killian whispers something, but his words are too soft, drowned out by the thumping music and the cheering crowd. He nudges me, even snapping his fingers in front of my face, finally pulling my focus back to him.

"Okay, I know you see him, but what’s wrong? You were so hyped for this." His concern is evident as he tosses back his shot without flinching.

"It’s not him, Kill," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the pulsating beats that reverberate through the crowd.

Killian scans the bar, attempting to discern what has me so anxious, so fucking furious. I take another shot as he continues searching until he finally discovers the source of my distress. His hands clench into fists, his jaw tightening.

"What the hell is he doing here?" he seethes, signaling for another round.

I look across the room at Calista's father, slumped alone in a booth, staring at the strippers blankly while gripping a triple whiskey that sits untouched. If I didn’t care for Cali, if closure wasn’t important to her, he’d be our target tonight. We’d fucking tear him apart and savor every moment. But looking at Killian, I can tell he feels the same yet understands the limits—we can’t touch him. It’s fucking infuriating.

"He's lucky I care about his daughter too much to off him right here, right now," Killian growls, throwing Thomas a look that could kill.

"I know. Trust me, I want him dead tonight too, but if we touch him, Cali would disappear on us again—and this time, she might never come back. She'd never forgive us." I shake my head, shivering at the thought of losing her forever.

A heavy silence settles between us, our eyes tracking Thomas's every movement, Cali’s name echoing in our minds. After a few songs, Killian turns to me, his gaze darker than I’ve ever seen it—a depth of anguish that threatens to pull me under.

"You know who we can touch, though?" he asks, a mischievous tone slipping from his lips, illuminated by the light that glints off the tequila with his chilling smirk.

"Yeah, the bastard sitting two booths behind him," I growl, raising an eyebrow, a sadistic smile curling my lips.

Kill winks, licking his lips as he glances at me over the brim of his glass and takes another shot slowly, seductively. I wink back, my heart fluttering in my chest.

"Well, we both know how much he loved me," Killian says with a smirk, masking the pain of his resurfacing memories.

I see the anguish, the terror, the scared little boy who reminds me of myself—the hidden, ashamed child lost in darkness. We allow it to consume us while also forging an impenetrable barrier around our hearts, promising to take our secrets to the grave. I don’t know what shifted, but people began to find out, and we chose to take action—thanks to Calista, the mastermind behind this downfall, exposing their pedophilia and revealing to the world their true, grotesque nature.

We move with practiced ease, a silent understanding passing between us, fueled by shared trauma and a thirst for vengeance. We don't need words; a glance, a subtle shift in weight, is enough to communicate our intentions. The target, a man whose name is whispered only in hushed tones, even amongst the city's darkest circles, sits oblivious, lost in his own depravity. He's surrounded by sycophants, their laughter a jarring contrast to the cold fury simmering within us.

Killian guides our approach. He weaves through the sea of bodies, his movements fluid and precise, a predator stalking its prey. I follow close behind, a shadow mirroring his every move, my senses heightened, alert to any sign of danger. The music thumps, a relentless beat against the backdrop of our silent hunt. The air is thick with the scent of sweat, cheap perfume, and the metallic tang of blood—a scent we both know intimately.

We reach the target's booth, the air around him thick with the stench of stale alcohol and desperation. He's surrounded by a gaggle of equally repulsive individuals; their faces slack with indulgence. Killian subtly signals, a barely perceptible nod, and I slip out the backdoor, waiting for the two of them to emerge.

I light up, my foot flat against the brick building, watching the smoke as it swirls up into the pitch-black sky. My gun digs into my hip, tucked into my waistband, ready to use as needed. I embrace the pain, for it keeps my mind off my best friend laid up in a hospital bed in a coma all alone. I feel like shit, but this needs to happen.

It doesn't take long for Kill and our target to slip out the back door, bumping right into me, getting met with the deadliest of smirks I've ever flaunted. The man's face pales when he sees me, obviously knowing that he isn't getting whatever Killian promised him. No, he's getting so much more... and so much fucking worse.

"Uh, I changed my mind. I think I'll head home. I have a big day tomorrow," he says nervously, looking at Killian and refusing to look at me.

"Sorry, Fucker. You're ours tonight," I inform him, pulling out my gun and putting it against the small of his back, forcing him to walk.

Killian walks beside him, his arm looped around his shoulders, hiding the knife he has pressed against the side of his neck. Nervously, he begins to walk, Killian and me smirking the way down the dark alley, looking for the perfect place to carry out our plan.

"You thought you could get away with everything? You thought we were only coming after our fathers? Fuck no, pretty boy," Killian laughs, a sadistic tone echoing in the night.

"I won't hurt anyone ever again, I promise," he begs, holding back tears.

"We don't believe in promises, as you might know." I shove the gun harder into his tailbone, making him jump as Killian drags him into a row of trees completely out of sight.

The sounds of his whimpers are muffled by the thick foliage, but the fear is palpable, a tangible thing hanging heavy in the air. Killian’s laughter is chilling, devoid of humor, a sound born of years of suppressed rage and the slow, agonizing drip of revenge. He’s enjoying this, savoring the moment and the power he wields over this man who thought himself untouchable. I, however, feel a strange detachment, a cold calm that settles over me as I watch. The adrenaline is fading, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. The fire in my veins has dwindled to embers, leaving behind a hollow ache.

The man’s pleas become more desperate, more frantic. He begs for mercy, for forgiveness, but his words are lost in the rustling leaves and the night’s symphony of crickets and distant city sounds. Killian doesn’t respond, his movements precise and efficient as he begins to make deep gashes methodically all over his body. He stabs him slowly, knowing where to cut that will cause the most pain but won't make him bleed out right away. He wants him to suffer, and he's doing exactly that.

I watch, my gun still pressed against the man’s back, a silent sentinel guarding our grim ritual. The darkness swallows us whole, a cloak of anonymity in which we become something else entirely—something primal, something unforgiving.

"Step back, Dom," Killian says, giving me a nod as he plunges his knife in the meaty flesh of the man's upper thigh, brutally twisting it even slower.

I move back to watch, keeping my gun in my hand in case the man wants to try something. I watch with hunger in my eyes, intrigue in my heart, and a smile on my face as Kill rips the man's pants down, puts a condom on, and viciously slams into his ass while thrusting the knife in and out of his back, soaked in the man's blood as he fucks him, taking back the power that was stolen from him.

"How does it feel? How does it feel to be fucked in the ass when you don't want it?" He growls in anger into the man's ear, continuing to stab him while he fucks him with absolutely no mercy.

The sounds that follow are muted, swallowed by the night. There’s a brief struggle, a choked gasp, then silence, as Kill drops the knife, grabs the man's head, and gives it a hard twist, the sound of his neck snapping echoing in my ears. He pushes the man down and tucks his cock away, crouching beside him with his knife clutched tightly in his hand again. And then he grabs the man's hair, lifting his head, swiftly slicing his throat open from ear to ear just to make sure he's actually dead. And then he throws him to the ground like trash, using leaves and discarded branches to cover his mutilated body from whoever might walk by.

The only evidence of the violence is the lingering scent of fear and the dampness clinging to the air. Killian straightens, wiping his knife clean on the man’s shirt, his face impassive. He tosses the bloodied garment into the undergrowth.

We stand here for a long moment, the silence broken only by the rhythmic chirping of crickets. The weight of what we’ve done settles upon us, heavy and inescapable. It’s a burden we share, a bond forged in blood and shadowed by the ghosts of our pasts. We don’t speak, not yet. There’s no need for words. The understanding passes between us, unspoken, a silent acknowledgment of the darkness we inhabit and the price we pay for our vengeance.

As we walk back towards the Mustang, the city lights seem brighter, the night air colder. The thrill is gone, replaced by a hollow emptiness. The engine roars to life, a jarring sound in the quiet aftermath of violence. We drive in silence, the city lights blurring into streaks of color as we navigate the familiar streets. The wind whips through the open windows, carrying with it the scent of blood and the lingering echo of another worthless, undeserving life extinguished.

We are fucking ghosts, moving through the night, forever bound by the darkness we embrace. The taste of mint is long gone, replaced by the metallic tang of blood and the bitter taste of revenge. And in the quiet of the car, the unbearable pain returns, a constant reminder of Ash, still trapped in his hospital bed, a silent testament to the price of our war.