His hands go up in a protective gesture, but I half shift, my claws now healed from cutting through the silver bars downstairs. I slice through his hands, a finger or two falling off. He screams.
"What—how—" he stutters and cries, falling, before finally fighting back. He grabs a pair of pruning shears off the table and stabs the air with them. But it's messy and slipping out of his bloody hand, which is almost a stump.
"You're not going anywhere, Silas," he sneers. His eyes are wild, hands shaking from blood loss. "Now, if you're a very good boy and—"
I reach out and snatch his wrist. As much as I don't want to touch him, I want to hear him even less. I'm in control right now. I kick the back of his knee, and he bellows out.
Sounds erupt from their gathering circle outside. And—impossibly—
Grayson?
My brother, my twin. And Orion—I can scent them. Goosebumps erupt along my arms. They're here. They're actually here.
But then I remember Mona isn't. What the fuck was Grayson thinking? Our mate has been captured, that fucking idiot!
I punch Pierre in the sternum, hard enough to hear the bones crack. Witches have a lot of power, but only if yielded a certain way. A wolf—our power may be less esoteric, but in my opinion, far more handy.
Like now—I hit him with enough force that I know it would take magical intervention to heal—a doctor and several weeks, at least. He doesn't heal like a shifter.
I wish I had more time. I wish I could drag this out.
We ignore the war going on outside the door.
"Where is she?" I ask.
"Who?" he sputters, blood spilling from his lips.
I transform my hand into claws and stab him in the stomach.
I wonder what this feels like—I twist my fingers, rooting around his intestines, and I yank.
Gently at first. Don't want him dying too fast on me.
He screams, and it's visceral—literally—and all I do is laugh. "Where is the omega?" I ask again calmly.
"Fuuu—ahhhh!" he cries. It sounds like he's in real distress. "Ahhh! Stop, stop, please!"
I yank again. It's getting messy, slippery. Judging by the smell, I perforated his bowels.
"The omega!" I scream, hissing and spitting in his face. "Where did they take her!"
And even though he's dying. Even though he must be in agony—he smiles. Blood coats his teeth. He laughs, but it's choked and wet. "Deidre was right. She's—she's—"
He coughs again. Fuck. He's too far gone. Plan B, I guess. Or, at this point, Plan E or whatever. We're way off track.
I pull my other hand back, ready to swipe. Blood spills from his lips, the sulfuric scent of the dying witch puffing out of him in steady bursts. A whisper on his lips, crackling and indecipherable.
I want to kill him. I want to get away from him.
I lean closer.
"Where is she?" I ask again.
"You—you—" he rasps. And then he looks up at me, into my eyes. "Silas, you were the best I ever had."
Disgust and fury rush through me. I slice his throat, digging my fingers inside his neck, wrapping my claws around his spinal cord—and, with a foot stomped directly on his crotch to hold him in place, shuddering against the wet crunch of his balls beneath my foot—I yank out his spinal cord.
The long thing whips out as I tear his body in half. And it's not nearly as satisfying as I'd hoped. I'd have taken days with him if I could have. I wouldn't have done to him what he did to my body—no, I'd have invented new ways to torture, belittle and shame him.
