Very much so.
She’s mine, and that means there are things Hailey can’t do without pissing me off and bringing a heap of pain on the fuckers she does them with... even if it’s an innocent dance.
“I disagree with both statements,” I say, stepping closer. “As for the question...”
Three, two, one.
The crescendo’s still a few seconds away but fuck it. The beat’s gaining momentum and I can’t hold back any longer.
With the firstoverfalling from the lead singer’s lips at two minutes fifty-one, my elbow falls and shoots forward.
My clenched fist—adorned by three chunky signet rings I’m wearing especially for Jensen—strikes his jaw hard enough to knock his head sideways.
I keep the blasts coming, timing each blow withover, and then withagain.
I don’t hear Jensen. I have no idea if he’s making any sound at all while I send one blow after the other, my mind ruled by the beauty of this chaos.
All I hear is my fist hitting the mark and the song. Once it reaches the crescendo, Jensen get a break to catch his breath and spit his teeth out.
It’s a brief respite, a mere three seconds.
Then, with the nextoverI’m back at it. Faster as the beat gains momentum, using both fists to keep up with the tempo.
The pure wrath inside me is uncontainable.
Images of this scum’s hands on Hailey, of what he wanted to do tonight, throw me into a psychotic rage I only ever experienced once—when I gutted the fucker who killed my mother.
It’s a goddamn miracle I didn’t murder Jensen last night.
Every time my elbow falls back, I see Hailey’s unease and the consequent blow is that much stronger. Every time I land my fist, the timid smile she gave me the first time we sat by the lake appears at the forefront of the chaos.
The fun ends all too quickly.
Forty-five seconds and the beat drops. Forty-five seconds and Jensen braved thirty-one shots.
My knuckles bleed, my chest heaves, my muscles burn with the effort but I’m thirsty for more. He hasn’t suffered enough.
Which is why he’ll live. For now.
“Hailey’s mine,” I seethe, gripping his hands and bending his palms back just shy of snapping his wrists. “Have you heard about the rule of three?”
He whimpers, both eyes swollen shut, enough scarlet covering his face for two blood transfusions. His nose is broken, so is his cheekbone. Both eyebrows and lips split.
“Please...” Jensen begs, tears cutting through the blood on his cheeks. “Please, stop. I’ll leave, I swear.”
“If only I believed you.” This is not my first rodeo. Broken bones heal, but gut-deep fear lingers forever. “The rule of three is something outdoorsy people use in the wilderness. An average human can survive three minutes without oxygen, three days without water, and three weeks without food.”
“Please... I’ll do anything. You won’t see me again. I have money, I—”
The fucking audacity. My blood pressure peaks and I drive my point across, bending his wrists the rest of the way. His screams mingle with the sound of his bones cracking to whip across the forest in a melody unlike any other.
I bask in the sound for a moment, then shove the biohazardous rag back in his mouth, shutting him up.
“I don’t want your money. I want to teach you a lesson.” I grab a bottle of water and a clean rag from the hood, washing my hands. “Make yourself comfortable. You have seventy-two hours in this chair. While you’re here, I want you to think about your life choices.”
He whimpers in response, no longer fighting to escape. There’s no way he’ll move. Not with two snapped wrists.
“See, when I come back, I might let you live... if I believe you understand the consequences.”
