Page 102 of Twisted Violet

Because what’s coming for him?

Is made of fucking nightmares.

Ezra grabs a pair of gloves off the tray and tosses them to me. “You ready?”

I pull them on without hesitation.

“No music?” Tristan quips from the corner, checking the calibration on one of the tools like we’re tuning an instrument and not preparing for a bloodbath.

“I want to hear every second,” I mutter, grabbing a wrench off the wall.

The motherfucker starts to shake.

“You don’t understand,” he rasps, voice fraying. “Whatever she told you. She’s confused. She-”

I drive the wrench into his left kneecap.

He screams.

Loud. Messy. Pathetic.

“I understand enough,” I say calmly, rotating my wrist like I’m checking the follow-through on a golf swing. “I understand you kept her locked up like an animal. I understand you made her bleed. And I understand you made her think she deserved it.”

Another hit.

Crack.

His leg folds wrong, and Cyrus lets out a low whistle.

“Dallas is usually the sweet one,” he says to no one in particular, “but damn if he doesn’t turn savage when you fuck with someone he loves.”

That word-

Love.

I don’t flinch when he says it, because I know it’s true.

She’s notoursyet.

Not completely.

But she will be.

And until that day comes, we’ll bleed for her.

We’ll burn the world for her.

And we’ll vanquish all of her ghosts.

Niko steps forward next, quiet as always. No theatrics. No speeches. He just grabs a branding iron and steps towards him with that cold, surgical calm that makes him the scariest one in the room.

The asshole lifts his head, face bloodied, lips trembling. “Please…”

“No.” Niko says simply and slams the red hot iron into his chest.

The smell of seared flesh and charred hair fills the room as the mark hisses against his skin. He thrashes, convulses, but there’s nowhere for him togo.

There’s no hesitation in Niko’s movements. No mercy. Just clean, efficient cruelty.