The guy in the chair makes a muffled sound, drawing my attention back to him. Now that I'm closer, I recognize him—one of Thompson's buddies from the St. James hockey team. The same assholes who've been targeting our players all season.
"What'd this piece of shit do?" I ask, circling the chair.
Cope taps his stick against the floor, his eyes glinting with malice. "Caught him touching something that doesn't belong to him. Thought I'd teach him a lesson about keeping his fucking hands to himself."
I raise an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at my lips. "How's your sister doing, by the way?"
"Stepsister," Cope corrects automatically, his jaw tightening. "And she's fine. Grabby Gary here, though?" He jerks his chin toward the trembling asshole in the chair. "Not so much."
The guy whimpers through the tape over his mouth, his eyes wide with terror as they dart between us. Blood trickles from his nose, dripping onto his St. James sweatshirt. The dark stain spreads like spilled wine.
"Well, we can't have that, can we?" I say, rolling my shoulders. "Grabby hands need to be taught a lesson."
Cope tosses me his extra stick, and I catch it one-handed, testing its weight. Not my preferred brand, but it'll do the job. I spin it once, twice, getting a feel for the balance.
"Puck's over there," Cope says, nodding to a small black disc on the ground. "I was just warming up before you got here."
I retrieve the puck, dropping it onto the concrete and nudging it with the stick. The sound echoes in the empty warehouse—that familiar tap-tap-tap that usually precedes a shot on goal. Only tonight, our goal is Gary's sorry ass.
"You want first crack?" I ask, sliding the puck toward Cope.
He grins, all teeth and predatory intent. "Ladies first."
"Fuck you," I laugh, but I line up my shot, anyway.
The puck sails across the concrete and smashes into Gary's knee with a sickening thud. He screams behind the tape, the sound muffled but still satisfying. His body jerks against the restraints, but Cope did a good job with that hockey tape. Fucker's not going anywhere.
"Nice shot," Cope nods appreciatively.
He lines up, eyes narrowing in concentration, then sends the puck flying. It catches Gary in the ribs, and I swear I hear something crack. Gary's scream is higher this time, more desperate.
We fall into a rhythm after that, taking turns launching the puck at different parts of Gary's body. His thigh. His shoulder. His stomach. Each hit draws another scream, another jerk against the restraints, another dark bruise no doubt blooming beneath his clothes.
After about twenty minutes, I notice Cope gettingrestless. He's shifting his weight from foot to foot, a familiar look in his eyes that says he's ready for more. I feel it too—that itch under my skin that says the warm-up is over.
"Time to level up," Cope says, tossing his stick aside. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out brass knuckles, sliding them over his fingers with practiced ease. The metal glints under the harsh light as he flexes his hand, testing the weight.
I drop my stick too, cracking my knuckles as I approach Gary. His eyes widen even further, tears streaming down his face and mixing with the blood from his nose.
"You know what I fucking love about nights like this?" I say, circling behind the chair. "No consequences. No rules. Just pure fucking release."
And it's true. This is what I need—what I've always needed. Some people are born with demons, and mine have always been hungry for violence. Penn's got his reasons for being fucked up—Uncle Robert made sure of that—but me? I just came out of the womb wired wrong. Dad saw it early, kept me away from Robert's influence, but he couldn't change what was already there.
The first time I made someone bleed, I was seven. Some kid on the playground called my mom a whore, so I smashed his face into the monkey bars until his front teeth came out. Dad had to pay the family off to keep it quiet. I remember how he looked at me after—not disappointed or angry. Just knowing. Like he'd been waiting for it to happen.
I grab Gary by the hair, yanking his head back so he's looking up at me. "You touched something that wasn't yours," I say, my voice eerily calm even to my own ears. "Andnow we're going to make sure you never forget what happens when you do that."
Cope throws the first punch, brass knuckles connecting with his jaw with a sickening crack. Blood sprays from his mouth, spattering across the concrete. I follow with a hit to his ribs, feeling something give beneath my fist.
We fall into another rhythm—Cope hits, I hit, Cope hits, I hit. Gary's muffled screams eventually fade to whimpers, then to nothing at all as he slips in and out of consciousness.
"Wake up, fucker," Cope growls, slapping Gary's face. "We're just getting started."
I pull out my phone, scrolling through my music until I find what I'm looking for. The opening notes of "Bodies" by Drowning Pool blast through the warehouse as I set my phone on a nearby crate.
"Perfect soundtrack," Cope grins, wiping blood from his brass knuckles onto Gary's shirt.
The music pumps through me, feeding that dark thing inside that's always hungry for more. I throw another punch, feeling Gary's nose break under my fist. The crack and the spray of blood sends a surge of satisfaction through me that's almost sexual.
