I miss the fucking blood. I miss the violence. I miss the adrenaline highs and the takedowns every night with the crowds cheering my name and countless bets placed on me. Miss all the ink rights I won over the years. I was the goddamn best.
I never fought women, but I didn’t have to. They fought for me. Pitted against each other, they would brawl for Vinny-dick rights. I could get rough with them, and they didn’t care. They wanted it.
Others… they brought to me. Different girl every night. Didn’t care to get their names. Didn’t care to know if they were there willingly or because they were found on the street and brought there by force.
Every single one of them left me hollow. Every fight left me hollow. But addictions do that shit. Fucking hate those scars. Fucking hate how I still want to open each one, bleed them, feel them again.
I’m not a different man. Still the same fucked up asshole who could take a punch as easily as I could throw one.
But Briella? She’s different.
I glance down at her now, curled up on the floor, bloody and bruised. The kind of battered that would have broken anyone else. Their screams still haunt me. They never lasted to the end of the whipping. They called for death before it was over.
There was no shame in their giving up.
I always had to dispose of the bodies.
“Do you wish for death?” Raphael’s voice cuts through the thick tension and silence.
I stiffen, staring down at her, my body turned to one side.
Don’t, Girly. Don’t give up. Keep fighting.
Her violet curls cover her face, fracturing it, but even with all her sweat, blood, tears, she’s still gorgeous. Those hazel eyes…
They’re still open. Not blank. Not defeated. She’s watching us, watching me, with this unrelenting glare that feels like it’s burning straight through to my soul.
My spine locks up, muscles growing more tense.
It’s not fight. Not exactly. I’ve seen fight before—seen desperate people clawing and scrambling to survive becausethey had no other choice. This isn’t that. What I see in her eyes is something colder. Sharper. She’s not fighting because she has to. She’s enduring because she wants to. Because she’s choosing to.
The fuck kind of girl does that?
She’s a beautiful little soul carrying a ghost. One that has seen horrors, perhaps darker than ours.
Our alpha takes one step toward her, squats, and trails a lone finger along her cheek. She shivers, but she doesn’t look away.
Raphael brushes the backs of his knuckles along her neck as she dry heaves, covering her chest as much as she can.
“I’m c-cold,” she finally breaks the silence, blinking up at him. “I’m tired. I’m hurt. I’m sore.” She clenches her eyes shut. “So sore.”
“Say the word, Briella… God is your strength. That is what your name means?” He tilts his head, his eyes darker as the shadows from the torches flicker on his face. When she nods with a whimper, he peels back strands of her hair from her face and continues, “Iam your God now, Briella.Iam your strength.”
What the fuck is he doing? He never does this. It’s always the one question, followed by each girl fiercely agreeing. Fuck, this girl is shaking up everything. What will be left when the dust settles?
Raphael looks at her differently. Like he wants to punish her more. Not just for the Kinship sins she’s committed, but because he wants to unleash something inside her. Like peeling her skin and flesh open, breaking her bones, and reaching inside to take out her heart.
We’ve done this before, and it always ends the same way. Light goes out of their eyes, spirit crushed. Except Briella isn’t playing by the rules.
She isn’t breaking. If she is, she’s doing a damn good job of shining that light.
When she stares up at him, I’d swear she’s doing it to him: opening him up, trying to find his heart. Sucks for her. He doesn’t have one. And the bastard isn’t even proud. He’s just detached. Fucking psycho. Psycho we followed to hell and lower.
Cause he’s still got a soul. And it’s made of the same stuff as ours is… but stronger. Soul-bonded. The only one who has a heart among us is Seth. And Jude. But they’re still half-rotted.
Rory crawls toward her from behind, breathing along the back of her neck, ready to pounce.
Despite her watery eyes, she presses her lips into a tight seam. “You have levels. So, tell me.” Briella shocks us all when she grits her nails onto the ground and slowly starts to rise.
