He screams and begs for his life.
I bring it down.
The sound of his skull cracking is sickeningly wet. He drops, twitching. Blood pools beneath him, spreading across the concrete in a dark puddle.
I raise the hammer again.
Again.
Again.
Until he stops moving.
Until I'm sure he’s dead.
I'm back in the present, gasping, the hammer raised over the perfectly innocent piece of wood. My hands are shaking, heart pounding.
That wasn't my imagination.
That was a memory.
I killed that man. Whoever he was. Whatever he'd done. I beat him to death with a hammer, and I didn't stop until I was certain he was dead.
I drop the tool like it's burning me. It clatters to the ground, and I back away, pressing my hands against my thighs.
Oh God. Oh God.
I'm not just dangerous. I'm a killer.
I force myself to breathe. To think. The man in my memory was begging, yes, but he wasn't innocent. I could feel it, even inthe fragment. He'd done something. Betrayed someone. Stolen. Informed. Something that warranted—
Warranted what? Death?
Who the fuck am I to decide who lives and dies?
But even as I think it, I know the answer.
I'm exactly the kind of man who makes those decisions.
I leave the lumber and walk toward the fence line, needing distance from the hammer. From the memory. From myself.
But I can't escape my own head.
Because now I'm thinking about Isabella. About Elena. About Draco finding them.
About what I'd do to him if he showed up here.
The rage builds again, hot and vicious. I imagine his hands on Isabella. Imagine him hurting her. Breaking her arm again. Taking Elena.
My fists clench.
And another memory slams into me.
A different man. Younger. In an alley behind a restaurant, the smell of garbage and piss in the air. He's pressed against the brick wall, and my hand is around his throat. He's clawing at my wrist, trying to break free, but I'm stronger.
"Please," he chokes out. "I have kids—"
"Should have thought of that before," I hear myself say. My voice is cold. Dead. Like I'm commenting on the weather.
