Liar, liar…
I grab another arrow as he starts crying again. My custom-made carbon fiber recurve bow is perfection. Its combat style and heavier body allow me to shoot very accurately from a considerable distance or very quickly and effectively during a close-range fight—the red laser sight helps too. It’s also durable, and if used in hand-to-hand combat, it can serve as a melee weapon. It can also shoot multiple arrows simultaneously with incredible precision, but now is not the time.
I fire. He yells. More blood stains his clothes. I wonder how many arrows I’d need to shoot without hitting major organs before he bleeds to death. That would take too much time, and I have Sully to stalk.
I place my bow back in its case and make my way to the fucker.
“I’m gonna stomp my boot in your face until the last thing you see is the back of your head. How does that sound for a way to go?” I tell him, using an empty tone.
“Waiiiit! No, please. Please!” he begs.
Is this why my brother likes torturing so much? The pleading part? Does he relish the donors’ capitulation? Or is it the screams that he craves? The violence and grittiness of it? Theblood? I don’t get it. Unless we are talking about retaliation that is.
“I’ll tell you everything,” he tries again as I move near the tight rope, tied to a piece of metal sticking out of the floor.
“I saw the damage you made on his skin and on his mind, you motherfucker,” I snarl. This rage running through my body is a testament to how much Sully is already mine.
I felt the desire to take him the instant I saw those heterochromic eyes. Now? It turned into a need to possess all of him, dominate his body and own his heart and soul. Every time I think I’ve reached the peak of ownership, it goes up another notch. Now that I finally know what it feels like to cradle my little chick in my arms, to feel his tight hole swallowing my cock, and to hear him crying my name as I unload deep inside, I can feel another crank turning in my head.
This is not love, ugh. Watching people from afar was an emotional learning tool that taught me that love is the least constant feeling. It ebbs and flows like the ocean tides, leaving only foam and sand behind.
This is a compulsive, devouring, deep-seated need to keep him with me and to make it so that he can’t see anyone else. He shines too fucking brightly for people to ignore. Some even want to dim that light, but I’m the only one holding that power. Because he belongs to me. My most beautiful possession. And when people try to take him away from me, they’ll have a taste of my wrath.
“I was paid to do it!” Jacob’s statement makes my hand freeze on the rope.
“Go on,” I hiss, another bit of murderous intent dropping onto the pile.
“I…I fucked up and banged the wrong girl. Her father is-is a big boss or something in the drug cartel, and h-he told me he was going to kill me.” Drool slides down his red face.
“Get to the fucking point!” I snap, yanking two arrows out of his body at the same time and tossing them on the floor.
“Ahhhh! Fuck.” More sobbing. “He-he didn’t. I received a message saying nothing will happen to me if I…if I played with Sully Carver.”
“Played?” I growl like an animal about to attack. My fingers close around another arrow.
“Stop!” he cries out. “I was supposed to screw with him.”
“Be more specific, Jacob.” I give the arrow a twist.
“Jeeeeesus!” he yells. “Get him drunk, fuck him, and pass him around. They wanted pictures of it.”
I yank the arrow out and punch him right in the balls. He gasps and coughs. Tears, blood and saliva mix into his hair.
A dark suspicion starts growing in the pit of my stomach. “Who was the message from?”
“I don’t know their real name. Just the-the handler,” he squeaks. “Phoenix.”
Fury explodes inside me, and I grab the half-broken wooden chair near me and hurl it against the dirty window behind Jacob. Pieces of glass fly and fall all over him and the floor. Seeing the damage doesn’t satisfy me. I turn back to the rope and loosen the knot. Jacob’s bleeding body drops on the floor, before I grabhim by the back of his pants and take the two steps to the broken window.
“What are you doing?” he stutters with a weak voice. “Where are you taking me?”
I ignore him and use my boots to crush the big, sharp piece of glass popping out from the low frame. When I’m done, I pull him up, spin him to face outside, and let go. He starts falling out of the window, like a bag of potatoes. His shriek doesn’t stop, not even when I grab the rope around his hands to avoid his fall from the fourth floor of the abandoned building.
“Talk, or I’ll let go,” I state, jerking the rope and letting him lean forward a little more.
“I-I don’t know anything e-else, man.” He sounds breathless, like he’s about to faint. I slap him hard on the forehead.
“Do you still have the messages?” I got his phone; I found it in his pants.
