“You gave her too much. What the fuck? What are we going to do now?”
I’m being dragged through the dirt, tossed into a shallow hole. Leaves and rocks scraping over my skin and burying me alive.
Hatred settles into my stomach and oozes through my veins, blackening everything inside of me. Until there is nothing left. Nothing left but evil.
My carefully constructedkingdom of control is crumbling around me.
The bathwater is cold now, my knees drawn up to my chest as I smear the dried blood on my hand across the wall.
It mixes with the condensation and forms tiny rivers of red in the cracks of the tile, leaking back into the bathtub and poisoning everything around me.
The betrayal, the pain, the complete loss of control.
It’s happening all over again.
The time for war has come, and there’s no backing down now.
I’m trapped in this game. And the only way out is by leaving a trail of blood in my wake.
I’m going to kill them all.
I’m going to make them pay for their sins and I’m going to fucking win.
If Alexander thinks he will ever touch me again, he can die thinking that as I plunge my knife into his heart.
But it isn’t enough. It’s not enough to temper the fire inside of me. Alexander and his friends aren’t enough.
There’s someone else I’ve been holding back on. And I don’t hold back for anyone. I was being nice, and I don’t do fucking nice. And it’s now two times that Rory Brodrick has crossed me.
If he hadn’t interrupted me tonight, none of this would have happened.
I wouldn’t have been off my game and I would have been paying attention and Alexander wouldn’t have caught me off guard.
He just keeps fucking everything up. He thinks he can fix me, but I’m going to show him. There is no fixing me.
There’s only the violence and the want and the hate.
And now, I’m going to use him like a pawn. I’m going to take Rory’s fragile, vulnerable little heart… and I’m going to play with it like a fucking toy.
Cross me, Mr. Brodrick? You better cross your heart and hope to die.
Seven
Rory
Fight night.
My favorite night of the week.
Every Thursday, I’m in this warehouse. Having a bit of craic, fucking shit up.
Irish men are natural born fighters. And I’m no exception to that rule. I love to lamp some poor bloke upside the head just as much as the next lad.
It’s what we do.
And all the lads get in on it too. Drinking and placing bets. Cheering me on from the sidelines. The place is standing room only. The stench of blood and sweat and beer permeating the air around us. There are women too. Lots of women.
There always are.
