Page 12 of Unleashed (Dark Sovereign #11)

ISAIA

I’m not myself.

I haven’t been myself since I met her. But now? Without her? I’m something far worse. It’s ironic, really, since I’m keeping my distance because I’m trying to be a better man. Trying to fucking deserve her. Yet every night it’s a struggle. Monster versus man.

I should go get her, drag her ass out of that apartment and bring her here.

You’re giving her space.

Fuck her space.

You’re letting her decide.

There’s no world where she gets to walk away from me.

Be. Better.

Fuck better.

With a snarl, I crush my fist into the fucker’s jaw, and he gurgles, spit and blood mixing as I grab his throat and squeeze, his blood slick against my palm.

Funny how fragile life is. One breath. One heartbeat.

And yet, all it takes is a fist and a husband’s rage to crush a throat, to snap a windpipe like it’s nothing.

One tight grip and a crack. That’s it. Life snuffed out.

And that’s exactly what’ll happen to this motherfucker once I’m done unleashing the monster I fight every second of every day, because if he gets his way, I’ll go for her and kill Paladino—using two bullets this time.

I’ll fucking wait until I witness with my own eyes how he takes his last breath.

But since I’m trying—really fucking trying—I’ll continue fighting, but tonight I’m allowed a little reprieve.

“Admit what you did, Ryan,” I seethe, leaning my face real close to his bloodied one. “I want to hear you say it.”

“How the fuck is he supposed to talk when you’ve already cut out his tongue?” Maximo leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching me.

My lips curl into a grin as I glance at the rubbery piece of muscle on the concrete floor.

It lies there like a mutilated slug—dark, swollen, glistening with spit and blood.

The tip is jagged where the blade met resistance, the severed end congealed in red like it’s still trying to form words that’ll never come.

The satisfaction still buzzes through my veins, and I close my eyes like I can still hear his screams.

Ryan had passed out, then came to again. And thank God for that, because I’m not close to being done with him.

“God, it fucking reeks.” Maximo moves to stand a little farther away, the stench of Ryan’s piss and blood making him grimace in disgust. “Ever heard of a quick kill, Isaia?”

“Not this one. He doesn’t deserve a quick death.”

“I love a little blood on the books as much as the next guy, but we’ve got a copycat problem waiting. So, chop-chop.”

Fuck. Somehow, while torturing this motherfucker, I managed to forget about our wannabe Micah problem, but that ain’t gonna make me enjoy this any less.

Ryan’s pulse flutters against my fingers like a moth caught in a fist. Panicked and pathetic. He thought flipping sides would be his ticket out. Wrong. It’s his ticket to hell.

“Do you regret crossing me? Regret telling him where she was?”

The man’s barely able to nod, his eyes glazed over. I tighten my grip until his face turns a shade of purple I like, and then ease up a little, allowing him barely enough air for a breath.

A crack echoes when I slam his head back against the brick wall. He slumps, wheezes, makes these God-awful sounds that are like music to my soul. There’s so much blood covering his face, his neck and chest, I’m hardly able to distinguish exactly which parts of him are bleeding.

There’s something oddly peaceful about this, knowing that the guy who betrayed me and cost me her is tied to a chair, at my mercy, and knowing he knows I’m the one who will end his life. Slowly. Brutally. Painfully.

I reach for my knife—the bone-handled one, stained and familiar—and kneel beside him. “You ever seen a man’s fingernails peeled off, Ryan?”

Fear has his eyes peeled wide, breath stuttering.

I tap the tip of the blade on the nail of his middle finger. “You’re about to.”

Those gurgling sounds that have become my favorite start up, and he’s jerking in his seat, struggling against the ropes bound around his wrists.

The fucker’s moving his hands too much, so I stab my knife straight through it, nailing his palm to the wooden armrest. Bone crunches, blood oozes, and his eyes roll back in his head.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” I slap him hard on the face. “You’re watching this. Maximo, give me your knife.”

“I always knew you were the psycho out of all of us.” Maximo hands me his blade. “And I don’t want that back. Buy me a new one.”

I flip the knife in my palm, once, twice, dragging it out a little, then suck on my bottom lip as I slide the blade beneath his thumbnail, the tip digging deeper and deeper, metal kissing flesh.

There are those sounds again, and I roll my shoulders as they fill my ears. It’s almost like a mewl, a vibration of horror and fear and imminent death that drapes over me like a shroud of satisfaction.

“That's right. Scream for me. Let's make some memories, you and I.”

I take my time, ensuring that each calculated push of the knife generates another wave of agony while I soak up his pain, using it as kindling for my smoldering rage. Each wretched sound pushes the blade a little farther.

“I’ve actually never done this before,” I tell him like it’s a fact that might interest him. “I’ve always wondered what it looks like beneath the fingernail.”

For a heartbeat, there’s resistance—skin stretched tight, clinging like it knows what’s coming. And then it gives. A wet, sickening pop as the nail lifts, tearing away from the bed in a curl of pink and red.

Blood bubbles up instantly, thick, bright, spilling over the jagged edge, seeping into the cracks where nerve endings scream the loudest. It oozes, slowly at first, before the wound pulses, pumping out more with every frantic beat of his heart.

His breath hitches, eyes rolling back, drool spattering and dripping from his mouth. But I don’t stop. I want him to feel every slick, tearing second.

“Jesus Christ,” Maximo mutters, and judging by the tone, my guess is he’s not enjoying the sight as much as I am.

Focused on Ryan—the man I entrusted Everly’s safety with, the man tasked to protect us—I ignore Maximo. It’s ironic how more than half the time it’s someone on the inside who sells you out. It's almost laughable.

All my senses are tuned into Ryan’s pain, focused on the way his breath stutters when I tap the exposed nail bed, and his screams reach a pitch they haven’t before as I scrape the tip of the blade against raw flesh, ripping open nerves that have never felt contact with the outside world.

It’s a melody I want to commit to memory, his agony my muse that stokes the fire within me.

“One down. Nine to go.”

Around my neck, the vial clinks softly. Everly’s blood.

I catch it between my fingers, grounding myself in the sight of it.

That dark, glistening red is the only reminder apart from the haunting memories of the vows I made that night.

Vows I said before God and a priest. Granted, a corrupt priest, but still a man of the cloth who heard my promises and sealed them with God’s blessing.

She’s mine. My wife. My fucking world. And every breath she takes without me is a crime. But I’m trying to be better while holding on to that one last sliver of hope that maybe, just fucking maybe, I’ll get her back.

“Let her decide. Let her make her choice, or…”

I shake my head and focus on the third nail pop and hit the concrete.

“Three nails. One tongue. I’d call that a successful night, wouldn’t you?” I glance up at Maximo, and he stares at me, unamused.

“Fine.” I sigh and straighten. “Fucker’s half dead anyway.

” But just because I can, I press the bloody knife to his arm.

Slow. Sharp. Deep. And the skin parts with a soft hiss, splitting open in a thin, perfect line from wrist to elbow.

It’s cleaner than it should be, almost surgical, like peeling the first layer off a ripe fruit.

For a breath, there’s no reaction. Just the sound of his breath stuttering, the glint of steel dragging through flesh.

And then the blood comes. It wells up in tiny beads first…

bright, angry, dotting the wound like crimson pearls.

Then gravity takes hold, and it spills—thick, dark, trailing down his arm in rivulets that drip to the floor.

The blood on my blade gleams under the flickering light, but for one maddening moment, it’s not the right color. Not the right texture. It’s not her. It’ll never be her.

For a moment, everything else fades. The warehouse walls, the stench of sweat and piss and fear, the dying fucker gasping at my feet. All I see is her.

Everly.

That soft flush in her cheeks when she tried to act unaffected by me.

The way her lips parted when I whispered her name like a curse.

Her breathless little laugh when I pulled her into my arms, right there in the clearing, drenched in rain, her dress soaked, her body pressed against mine as we danced to music only we could hear.

I remember her fingers trembling on my lapels. The defiant tilt of her chin, even when her eyes were drowning in fear. Not of me—never of me. Of losing herself. Of losing us.

I remember that fear. It was mine too.

The second she said I do, I thought maybe, just maybe, the world would stop trying to take her from me. That, for once, the blood on my hands would be enough to keep her safe.

I was wrong.

So. Fucking. Wrong.

The blade tightens in my grip.

Ryan’s breath is a wet rattle. Weak. Fragile. It should satisfy me, but it doesn’t. Not even a little. Because while Anthony’s men were hauling her into that helicopter, her screams ripping through my skull, he was supposed to be protecting her. Ryan. My fucking man. On my fucking payroll.

Instead, she was ripped from my hands.

And now he’s close to me, breathing the air meant for her. The oxygen that surrounds me belongs to her and only her.