Maybe I’ll even come up with something nice to say.
“This way.” I don’t wait, hauling her to my home.
“Atta boy.” Grandpa squeezes my shoulder as I brush past him.
He can ‘atta boy’ Jett or whoever the fuck.
My world revolves around one thing, and it’s Skylar.
My hellion, she’s clawing at my hand, her nails breaking skin. Her beautiful mouth spewsI hate youon repeat.
All her fight does is make me want to put her on her knees.
We’re almost at my place when the farmhouse door bursts open.
“Heeelp!” Bronwyn bolts out, her long hair whipping around her, gray nightgown plastered to her front. “Heeelp!”
“Bronwyn,” Skylar calls out, and I could kill someone.
Why does she care about her? The bitch wants her dead.
“Let them deal with her.” White-hot rage floods my veins. If we don’t go into the basement right this second, I’m risking her life. I’ll likely crush Skylar’s neck. “Home.”
I pull her another inch when Bronwyn stumbles on one of Reese’s factory-made dolls. There’s always one lying around out here, between our homes. My baby sister laughs hysterically when she’s out here with a magnifying glass, waiting for the sun to hit her toys at just the right angle.
“I’m scared,” Skylar whispers, her gaze locked on her barefoot sister who struggles to hold herself upright a moment before she’s back to running, slower now. “Please, I don’t want to be next.”
Just when I think I’m starting to make sense of Skylar’s mumbling, Jett appears at the front door. My brother has an axe in his hand, his cocky grin fixed on his face.
Papa’s shadow is right behind him.
Skylar doesn’t notice them. Because even though she was scared for her life, she’s hypnotized by Bronwyn.
Completely ignoring Skylar, the selfish, murderous woman screams, “Help,” again, hoping for someone to come save her.
While leaving Skylar to die here.
My pulse pounds so powerfully it’s a miracle the ground doesn’t shake with it. Only reason I’m able to breathe through it is knowing that Skylar will leave this place unharmed, at my side.
Her evil twin, she doesn’t stand a chance.
See, Jett might come off as rowdy or fueled by senseless violence. No one but us knows what a dedicated, ruthless psycho he is.
By the time he turned fifteen, his axe was basically an extension of his arm.
He aims and hits his prey, going straight for the nerves. His victims never bleed too badly. The skin is only mildly harmed, something Papa allows.
Most importantly, they never die on the spot.
They simply fall to the floor when he injures their spines. When he turns them into breathing ragdolls.
Bronwyn is just the last in a long line of what he callsdroppers.
Jett aims and throws the axe. Once it hits its mark, Bronwyn collapses face-first to the ground, her scream dying on her lips.
Warmth and righteousness flood me from head to toe. I can’t look away from the satisfying sight.
“Well done, Jetty!” Grandpa claps his hands. “Well done!”
