Marcus slides down the wall, leaving a smear of blood on the wood. He's barely conscious now, his face a ruined mess of red and purple, his breath coming in wet, gurgling gasps. He holds up one hand in a feeble attempt to defend himself.
"Please," he slurs through broken teeth. "Please, I wasn't going to—she wanted?—"
I grab him by the collar and haul him up, then throw him to the floor. He lands hard, coughing, spitting blood, trying to crawl away from me.
He's not getting away.
I follow him, my boots heavy on the wooden floor. He's dragging himself toward the door, leaving a trail of blood, whimpering with every movement. Pathetic. He was so confident when he had a bound woman beneath him. So powerful when his victim couldn't fight back.
Look at him now.
"Phoenix." Jade's voice again, closer this time, but I can't look at her. Can't take my eyes off the man who hurt her. "Phoenix, please?—"
The fire poker is leaning against the stone hearth, right where it always is. My hand closes around the iron handle and it feels right.
I stand over Marcus's broken body. He's trying to speak, trying to form words through the blood filling his mouth, but all that comes out is a wet, choking sound.
"You touched her," I say. My voice doesn't sound like mine. It's cold, empty and dead.
"Phoenix—" He coughs, spraying red across the floor. "I'm sorry—I wasn't thinking—please?—"
"You touched what's mine."
I raise the poker.
"No—wait—PLEASE?—"
I bring it down.
The impact reverberates up my arm—a sickening thud that I feel in my bones. Marcus's body jerks, a strangled scream tearing from his throat.
I raise the poker again.
"Phoenix, don't?—"
I bring it down. Harder this time.
His screams stop. His body twitches, then goes still.
I raise the poker one more time.
And I bring it down with everything I have.
Silence.
The only sound is my own breathing—ragged, harsh, animalistic. I'm standing over Marcus's body with the poker still clutched in my hand, my chest heaving, my entire body trembling with adrenaline and rage and something else. Something darker.
I look down at what I've done.
His face is unrecognizable. A pulpy mess of blood and bone and tissue. His skull is caved in on one side, the wound glistening wetly in the firelight. His eyes are open but they're not seeing anything. Not anymore.
I killed him.
The poker slips from my fingers and clatters to the floor. My hands are shaking. They're covered in his blood, and it's warm and sticky between my fingers.
I killed a man.
I wait for the horror to hit. The guilt. The revulsion at what I've done.
