Huffing, I stomp towards one of other men that hasn’t been identified yet. I don’t care what his name is. Just that he bleeds.
I plant my foot in his chest and kick back. A muffled outburst sounds through the tape as he knocks straight back. With his arms tied behind the back of the chair, he lands right on his wrists. He screams. Must’ve broken his wrists.
Oopsies.
White hot rage still clouds my vision as I straddle his body and plunge my knife into his chest and neck. The other men start screaming as they witness their friend’s brutal death.
“Jesus,” Zade mutters from behind me.
I don’t care. He’s always making fun of me, always looking at me like I’m crazy!
“Don’t you dare look at me like that, Sibel. You look crazy, and God doesn’t accept crazy people into his Kingdom.”
“I’ll show you a demon slayer,” I mutter breathlessly through more stabs.
Blood splatters across the entire front of my body. My face, my hair, all over my already ruined dress. The man’s eyes roll to the back of his head as he suffocates on his own blood.
“Think you got him,” Zade announces from behind me, sounding a little annoyed.
I still don’t care. I keep stabbing. The knife elicits wet, slurping noises. I change my trajectory and start stabbing him in the face. At one point, his eyeball lodges onto the tip of my knife and pops out of the socket.
At that point, Mark turns to the side and starts upchucking.
I barely register the sigh that blows past Zade’s lips, nor the calm footsteps as he walks over to me and grabs my wrist midair.
I whip towards him, seething mad.
“Now you’re going to stop me from demon slaying?!” I shriek, my voice pitching to near hysteria.
“Little girl, there’s quite a few things you need to get serious help for, but I’d say anger management is top of the list.”
My eye twitches as the anger circulates.
Sometimes I get like this. The littlest things set me off, and I can’t control the pure rage flowing through my body. Mommy always said I need to stay cool—to not let people see how much they’re getting to me. But I never could, no matter how much I tried.
His grip on my bloody wrist tightens when I try to yank it from his grasp.
“Look at me,” he demands. I comply immediately, my wide eyes snapping towards him. His unique face starts to blur. “Drop the knife,” he orders next. This time, I try to fight the pull to listen to him. I’m not submissive. But something about this man makes me want to be.
“What’s your name?” he asks quietly.
I huff like an enraged bull with a red flag being waved in my face.
“Sibel.” Casting my eyes down, I lick my dry lips and hesitate. I glance up at him and awkwardly say, “My friends call me Sibby.”
His eyes trace my face. He looks like he’s trying to figure something out, and I’m not sure if I appreciate it. I feel the blood rushing to my face as his eyes pick me apart.
“You’re an interesting person, Sibby. But I’m going to need you to calm the fuck down. I can’t interrogate in peace when you’re over there stabbing someone like a cracked-out banshee, you feel me?”
Normally, being told to calm down would heighten my anger, but the fact that he deliberately used my nickname—that he considers me a friend—is what ultimately calms my nerves. My henchmen are all I have. I don’t think I’ve ever had a real friend before.
Especially not one that doesn’t cower from my calling in life.
I swallow thickly and reluctantly nod my head. “Are you done mocking me?” I ask, my voice more timorous than I’d prefer. I don’t know why, but something about Zade just makes me want to listen. Makes me want to seek guidance from him. Maybe it’s because I never had a real father, and Zade asserts a platonic dominance over me that I always sought from Daddy, but never found.
He smirks. “I think I’ve taken a liking to my nickname for you. But I’m no longer making fun when I say it,” he placates.
I eye him closely, reluctant to believe it. He’s granting me his own special nickname? My heart jumps in my chest, and it feels something like giddiness.