Page 85 of The Knucklebone Brothers

I looked at Blythe, my eyes narrowin'. "She's not just mad, brother," I said, my voice low. "She's... hungry. And I don't think she's hungry for food."

Blythe stopped dead in his tracks, his head tiltin' to the side like a confused bird. "What are you talkin' ‘bout, Mav?" he asked, his voice tired. "She's just... upset."

"No," I said, a dark, twisted grin spreadin' across my face. "She's got that look in her eyes. The one that says she's ready to tear the world apart. And I think... I think she's ready to tear us apart, too."

I knew somethin' was wrong when Rory started laughing.

Not the laugh she gave when we said somethin' stupid. Not the little breath of amusement she tried to hide when she thought I wasn't lookin', a secret just for her. This was different. This laugh came from somewhere underneath her skin, a sound that was all sharp edges and broken things.

She stood in the middle of the room, her chest rising and falling too quickly, her breath catchin' in ragged, uneven hitches. The laugh started low, a dry sound, and then it got louder, a high, manic thing that seemed to bounce off the walls of the trailer. A laughter that made the whole place feel smaller, tighter, like it was closin' in on us.

Blythe stepped forward, his hand out, his voice soft. "Rory? You okay?"

She didn't move. She just kept laughin', her shoulders shakin', her head thrown back. She reached out, her fingers trailin' along the wall, and then she stopped, her hand hoverin' over the small, rickety table. She looked at it, her eyes wide and wild, and then she looked at me, her eyes lockin' onto mine. And that's when I saw it. That's when I saw the monster.

She wasn't just laughin'. She was breakin'. All the things she'd kept buried, all the things she'd tried to hide, they were all comin' out, a dark, chaotic storm of pain and rage and fear. And I watched it, my heart poundin' in my chest, a sick, twisted fascination curdlin' in my gut. I recognized somethin' in her, somethin' that felt like my kind of broken. It was a darkness that I knew, a hunger that I understood.

She finally stopped laughin', her chest heavin', her breath ragged. She looked at me, her eyes full of pain so deep it was almost beautiful. "You think you love me?" she asked, her voice a low, dangerous purr.

I didn't say anythin'. I just stood there, my arms crossed over my chest, my eyes locked on her, a small, wicked smirk playin' on my lips.

"Somethin’ ain’t right about me." She looked at me, her eyes wide and wild. "Do you hear me?"

"Yes."

"Something is fuckin' wrong with me."

She grabbed the lamp from the table, the cord wrapped around her fist. Blythe shifted, his body tensin', his hands comin' up like he was gonna try and stop her. I lifted a hand, a small, sharp gesture that told him to stay back. This was gettin' good.

Rory hurled the lamp across the room. Glass exploded against the wall. Then she was movin' again, a whirlwind of fury and frustration. Her hands swept across a small shelf, sendin' a row of dusty mugs and glass jars crashin' to the floor. She grabbed a heavy glass ashtray, her fingers white around its edges, and threw it against the doorframe, where it shattered into a hundred glitterin' pieces. She kicked at the leg of a small wooden table, sendin' it skitterin' across the floor, before she grabbed the back of the rickety kitchen chair and flipped it over with a guttural scream. The chair hit the ground with a splinterin' crack, its legs stickin' up at awkward, broken angles.

She stared at the mess she'd made, her breath catchin' in her throat, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and satisfaction. Her voice dropped to a whisper, a sound that was almost lost in the heavy silence. "My head is like a haunted house."

She looked around the room, her eyes dartin' from corner to corner, like she was seein' things I couldn't. "And there are demons walkin' through the halls."

I almost smiled at that. Of course there were. I'd met them. I'd been livin' with mine my entire life.

"You've got demons?" I asked, my voice a low, dangerous purr.

Her eyes snapped toward me, a flash of rage in their depths. "Don't fuckin' joke."

"I'm not," I said, takin' a step closer, the floorboards creakin' under my weight. "Maybe ours can put on a show together."

I looked at the glass shards scattered across the floor like diamonds, glitterin' in the dim light. I could see the confusion fightin' with the hysteria in her face, a beautiful, tragic storm. "A double feature," I murmured, my voice low and dangerous. "Your demons and ours. We could sell tickets."

Blythe gave me a sharp, warning look, his eyes dartin' between me and her, his hand twitchin' at his side. I ignored him. I was busy watchin' the pieces, observin' the chaos she’d unleashed. Blythe glanced at me again, his face a mask of concern, but I just shook my head. Don't. Not yet. She needed this. She needed to shatter until there was nothin' left inside her to hold together.

"You brought me here because you needed a fucking bride!" she screamed, her voice shatterin' the quiet. Another object flew—this time a heavy ceramic bowl—and hit the wall with a sickening crunch.

"You needed someone to give you a baby!" She was breathin' hard now, her chest heavin', her eyes wild. "You'll get what you want and then you'll get rid of me!"

Her voice cracked on the last word, a sound that tore at my chest. That one hurt. Not me. Her. I could see it. That little girl hidin' underneath all that rage, waitin' for someone to prove what everyone else had already taught her. Everyone leaves.

The words weren't comin' from her mouth anymore, but I could hear them anyway. They were comin' from the walls, from the floor, from the marrow of her bones.

She was cryin' now. Really cryin'. The kind that made her whole body shake, the kind that emptied her out, left her bare and vulnerable. "You'll leave me," she whispered, her voice barely a breath, a plea to the god she didn't believe in.

I almost laughed. Not because it was funny. Because I genuinely couldn't understand how she'd arrived at such an impossible conclusion. Leave her? I had spent years findin' ways to keep her. Years. I’d watched her from the shadows. Learned her routines. Memorized the sound of her footsteps. Learned which expressions belonged to anger and which belonged to fear. I’d collected little pieces of her without her ever knowin'.