“Oh? How come?”
“Attacked the De Santis manor and paid the price.”
“Is everyone okay?”
“Mainly,” Kaya mumbles. “But yes, Aria, Arlo and that little crew — they’re all fine.”
“Thank God,” I sigh. “What’s the third one, though?”
“Ah, you might want to sit down for that one.”
I roll my eyes at the dramatics. “Just cut to the chase.”
“Hudson is alive.”
TWENTY-SIX
The bottle of whiskey is still in my hands as I approach Simmons. He’s still in a half-unconscious state, trying to pull himself out of it. Without missing a beat, I pour half of the bottle over his head, watching as the honey colored liquid slides down his face.
Paul gasps, choking on some of the whiskey that manages to fall into his mouth. His eyes open wide, and it takes him a while to figure out what’s happening. His head is moving from one side to the other, his eyes filled with shock, confusion, and dare I say a dash of fear?
“Oh hey, sleepyhead,” I lower my voice, stepping back and taking another sip of the whiskey. Does it taste terrible? Yes. But does it help with my nerves, and the pain in my stomach? Also,yes. Which means that tonight, this whiskey is my best friend. “You’re finally awake, I was starting to get bored.”
His eyes snap to mine, his dark pupils blown out. There’s anger within, and he’s not trying to hide it. His body shakes a little as he tries to yank the chains off him, but it’s futile. I put the most pressure at the back, where he cannot reach to free himself.
Something akin to a snarl, mixed with a growl comes out of his mouth, his eyes glued to me. He’s shaking with anger, seething, his hands curling into tight fits on his lap. His clothes are soaked with whiskey and rain, the white shirt stained. They don’t even fit him properly. The man who up until six months ago wouldn’t have been seen in anything other than designer clothes; that fit him like a glove, or even a semblance of a beard on his face is now a fucking mess. The shirt and the blazer look a size too big on him, and although they seem of good quality, it’s nothing in comparison what he used to wear. His stubble is weeks old, growing out into a beard, and he’s in a desperate need of a haircut. Then again, he’s balding, he’s probably trying to keep as much hair as possible.
“You fucking wench,” he grits out, spit flying out of his mouth in the process. His eyes narrow while he’s staring at me, and I know that he’s trying to buy himself time, to try and find a way out of this place. Yet, there’s none. He can’t escape me now, not after I’ve waited for years to slaughter him like a pig.
“Oh, there’s no need to raise our voices here,” I drawl out, stepping closer to him, and bending over a little, my palms on my knees, our faces a couple of inches apart. “Isn’t that what you used to tell me, Paul? To keep my fucking mouth shut unless I wanted it to hurt more?”
Paul tries to set himself free, yet again failing. The chains create a jiggling sound, his body struggling against the holds.His jaw is clenched, and he’s staring at me with so much hatred that it makes my heart flutter.
The feeling’s mutual, motherfucker.
“I should have killed you when I had the chance, you dumb bitch.”
I chuckle, poking his cheek with my index finger. “That, we can agree on. Now, you’ll be the one to die and no matter what you say or do, you won’t be getting out of it. So why don’t we have a civilized chat first, hm?”
“I will not speak a word to you, you dumb whore,” he seethes, the anger peeking through. Finally, I thought all of this would anger me, but all I’m feeling is deep resentment and pity. All Paul ever wanted was to be seen as a man, yet here he is, at the mercy of the girl he abused for years. Isn’t it funny how life never works out in ways we want it to?
“Well,” I push myself back a little, creating some distance between us. I lean against the bar, folding my arms in front of my chest. My wound aches, but I manage to shove it away. The alcohol, and heroin are doing its work, keeping my full attention on Paul. “You can either speak, or lose your tongue.”
“That’s a lose-lose situation for me, isn’t it?” He grits out.
I laugh. “See? I knew you weren’t a complete moron.”
“What are you going to do if I refuse to talk? Are you going to torture me?”
His words are a question loaded with mockery. The evil glint that I spent so many years fearing, makes an appearance; and for the first time, it doesn’t phase me. His lips tug into a small smirk, his gaze skims up and down my body with confidence. The bastard doesn’t think I have it in me. Truth be told, if Ihadn’t met Arlo, I don’t think I would have it in me, either. The plan was always to get my revenge on Paul, but it was always more of a thought than an actual plan because for a long time I didn’t think I was capable. It was Arlo who brought out the desire and confidence from deep within me, to go and get my vengeance on him, to give myself the justice that the law system failed to provide.
Physically, I’ve never tortured a person, but in my head, I’ve already tortured him a thousand times over, in the worst possible ways. I’ve had dreams where I took his head off, tore his body apart limb by limb, and fed it to the wolves. In some, he was even alive while the wild animals ate him.
“Yes, Paul,” my tone is saccharine sweet, a small smile on my face. “I am going to torture you. I’ll make sure you live through a portion of the hell you put me through. The difference is that mine lasted for years. Oh, but trust me, I’m going to make this feel like years. You’ll beg for death, and I won’t grant it. You’ll beg for mercy and I’ll ignore it. You’ll beg for forgiveness and I assure you, that the word is no longer a part of my vocabulary. You’re a dead man walking, Paul. It’s only a matter of time. I decide when I’m done playing around with you. Praying to your God won’t save you — because right now, even your God fears me. He wouldn’t dare get in the way of my wrath.”
Paul’s expression falters. The mockery, all the confidence he had but a moment ago seems to disappear. My words are laced with venom, pure hatred, my words are a threat. I’m not speaking idly, I’m not making empty promises. I’m telling him exactly what I’ll do to him, and I have every intention of making sure it fucking hurts.
When I turn my back to him, it’s like something in the air around us shifts. The dominance is mine now, and he is beneathme, a coward whose life is ticking away by the second. No matter how much he struggles against the holds of the chains, he can’t escape me. I’m the one with the gun here, and blowing his knee-cap off won’t kill him but it will prevent him from running away. Would it deter my plans a little? Sure. But it won’t kill him, and as long as he’s alive, that’s all I need.
