Chapter 9
Rhys
Idrag this gobshite by the collar, boots scraping on the garden paving stones. The arrogance to think he’s actually going to see another sunrise with all his teeth.
Not wanting the dosser to use the trowel on me, I wrench it from his hand, and it clatters uselessly behind us.
The guy wails in pain as the dried handle tears up his skin. “Hey, what the hell?”
“Quiet.” My pulse is a steady, brutal drum in my ears.
I drag him deeper into the alley, past the glow of streetlights, and turn into the shadows I use to hunt prey.
The guy tries to regain his footing and sneers, “You can’t just?—”
I slam him into a tree so hard his head cracks the bark.
“Aye, I can, mate.” I punch him again. “That woman you called a psycho? She belongs to me.”
“Oh shit. Okay. But listen, man, you gotta admit she’s a little strange. She talks to those fucking plants.”
“And my mum talks to her plants. Do you want to callmymother crazy, too?” I squeeze his windpipe.
“I know people,” he stammers, trying to get a breath. “The cops?—”
“The cops won’t help a man who was about to attack an innocent woman,” I say flatly, choking the life from him.
I let him fall to the cold ground, and my hand slides to the gun at my back. The weight of my Glock is a familiar comfort. Screwing the suppressor on is practiced perfection.
His eyes lock on the barrel, panic flaring. “Come on, man, I… I didn’t touch her.”
“That,” I whisper, “was youronly smart choice tonight.”
I thrust the muzzle under his jaw and keep it there until he stops swearing and starts crying.
Sometimes fear is better than the kill. The beating and seeing the pain is more satisfying.
I don’t dance around this one. Every strike is a sentence. Every sentence is meant to make him understand what he almost did.
Whohe tried to hurt.
My fucking woman.
The rest is muscle memory. My fist, his head, the pavement. Ah, the sound of a man who deserves pain. He begs me to stop, but I don’t process the words so much as the sound of a man surrendering.
He trembles, shivering with fear. “Please.”
But I finish what I came to do.
When the blows stop, he’s face down, barely moving. I crouch, pressing two fingers to his neck. There’s a pulse. It’s weak, jagged, and stubborn. He’s not dead. Not yet. That’s on purpose.
Living is up to him. If he has the will. If he prays to the right god.
I wipe my hands on his shirt, checking for the spray of his blood on my clothes. Nothing. My heartbeat stays vicious and methodical as I drag him deeper into the park until I find the dumpsters. I wedge him between bins. If he survives, he’ll wake up with bruises and scars that will remind him for the rest of his life what he’s done.
If not, he’ll be just another missing piece of trash someone will curse at when they find him.
I stand in the dark and shake away the evil I needed to call up in order to beat a man to within an inch of his life.
