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I hook my fingers around his index finger and bend it backward.

Grant’s body freezes beneath me. “What the fuck are you⁠—”

I keep pushing until the resistance suddenly gives. A hard crack snaps through the air, and the finger folds back more than it should.

His scream rips across the empty parking lot.

Grant bucks hard beneath me, trying to wrench his arm free, but I keep his wrist pinned to the trunk and use my weight to hold him there.

“You fucking psycho!” His voice cracks around the pain. “I’m calling the cops!”

“Please do.” I tighten my grip when he tries to pull away again. “Make sure you tell them about the part where you threw the first punch.”

“This isn’t fucking self-defense!”

Probably not anymore. Can’t say that I care all that much.

I move to his middle finger. This time he knows exactly what I’m about to do, and panic kicks in before I even start bending it. He starts trying to buck me off, but I’m taller and have at least twenty pounds on him.

“No. Don’t⁠—”

The joint fights me for a second before it gives with another hard crack. Grant screams and thrashes against the car, his shoes scraping uselessly against the asphalt while I keep him stretched across the trunk.

I want every second of this to stick with him. The pain. The fear. Knowing he can’t get away from me. So the next time he even thinks about putting his hands on a woman, he remembers exactly what it cost him the first time.

I fuck up his ring finger next.

“Wait.” His voice comes out rough and breathless now. “Fuck, man. Stop.”

The begging starts before I even put pressure on it, and there’s a wet break in his voice that sounds a hell of a lot like he’s crying.

“Please. Fuck. Please don’t⁠—”

The finger gives beneath my hand with a sharp snap, and whatever fight he had left disappears. His body sags against the BMW, his forehead dropping to the hot metal while these broken, miserable sounds work their way out of him every time he breathes.

Three down.

Two left.

I don’t rush.

Grant knows what’s coming now, and judging by the way his entire arm is trembling beneath my hand, the waiting hurts almost as much as the broken fingers do.

“Sumner.” He swallows hard. “Man, please. I get it. I swear.”

Now he sounds scared instead of pissed off.

That’s what I wanted.

I curl my hand around his pinky and bend it backward. He makes a strangled noise and squeezes his eyes shut right before another crack cuts through the air.

His knees buckle beneath him, but the trunk and my weight keep him from hitting the ground.

“Stop,” he gasps. “Jesus Christ. I fucking get it.”

I look down at his thumb.

He follows my gaze, and fresh panic wipes what little color is left from his face.