Fucking hell, if he’s about to tell me he’s kissed someone else, or has agreed to someone’s protection proposal, I am going to lose it. In a way that will drop bodies every-fucking-where.
Pinching off his nerves so he doesn’t lunge forward, his back stiffens into an unmoving rod hovering in the entrance.
Izz’s chest expands in a massive inhale. “Vince offered himself in exchange for me asking you a favour.”
Vince?
Shit, his mind is not with him right now. Nothing slots into place, he just stands there like English is a foreign language to him.
Which in turn has Izz scrambling to fill the thick silence. “He has an inmate who he owes money to . . . he wanted you to . . . k-kill them. Asked me to ask you . . .”
Words filter in. Vince. Owes. Kill them. They circle and cling when they’re something his deeper soul catches. The meanings and sentence structures are lost to him.
Izz’s eyes are on the floor when Sinn'ous clears the fog to see his boy.
“What did you say.” He’s aware his voice is flat and very much cold. Devoid of any emotion. Yet he can’t bring himself to care or try to shove out some.
His boy aims his words towards the floor, eyes remaining downcast. “I didn’t really answer him. I wasn’t expecting to be asked such a thing. It caught me off guard.”
Vince touched what’s yours.A dark voice screams in his head.
“He touched you.” Sinn'ous all but growls. And if Izz replies further it’s lost to him. Red is all that becomes of the cell. A deep saturated colour driving his instincts to kill into his frontal lobe.
Kill.
Kill.
KILL.
~~~
Walking to C-Wing, pinning Vince to the cell bars by the throat with feet dangling, was a Satan be damned blur of red-hot rage. An all-consuming fire he’d peeked through while it devoured everything. Every scrap of control he tries to pretend he has any say over, snapped and burnt to a crisp.
He’s fairly sure he snarled in Vince’s face about touching Izz. What words were spat out he couldn’t say. He’s not sure why his conscious mind is back either, but the red is receding, it’s still tickling the edges, but it’s cleared to where he can see, feel, and hear.
But why?
The answer writes itself in the form of an instinctual flare. And he knows without a shadow of doubt that Izz’s standing behind him watching this.
He clings to this. To the knowledge that if he kills Vince right now he will undo everything he has worked so hard to build. Every lie and half-truth to manoeuvre Izz into the right sized box will be demolished.
He grits out sentences he half tracks. Things not said for Vince, but for Izz’s benefit. “Save it. We all know you were. Idon’t kill for hire—I don’t kill, at all. There is no evidence. No proof. And there never will be.”
His grip remains strong, tightly constricting Vince’s airway. The sacrifice’s eyes are bulging, face turning a deeper shade of red. How easy it would be to break the neck. Just one swift twist.
He’s so close to a kill he can taste it.
Vince’s pathetic struggles, sloppy attempts to shove Sinn'ous off, only have him considering shaking the half limp body like a ragdoll.
Ave Satan, give me the strength I need to step back.
To drag himself out of the kill is the same as diving headfirst into quicksand then swimming back to the surface. Damn near impossible.
“Keep away from Izz,” Sinn'ous snarls, leaning closer to Vince’s face, “and you and I won’t have a problem that needs . . . solving . . . Understood.”
Through his choking and whimpering, Vince drops his head slightly, nodding. Unable to utter a verbal reply, and his lips are changing colour, growing an unnatural blue tint for any living person.
Satan.Sinn'ous drives the name into his limbs and uses his prayer to forcefully drop the sacrifice.
