Unbroken Rules (Rules 3)

“You don’t even recognize me, do you?” I scoff.

He takes his time to answer, clearly wasted.

I notice the tremble of his body, the lack of color in his face. I know an addict when I see one. He’s not that big of a guy, most likely shorter than me. God, he seemed so fucking scary when I was fourteen. So terrifying when he forced a tape onto my mouth and tied me to a chair. Now? I could take him in a heartbeat.

“You’re that kid who came lurking around here searching for me, aren’t you?” He takes another sip from the glass bottle, unbothered by my presence. “I assume that means I did something to you, and you want revenge.” He cracks a laugh. “I suggest you get in line.”

My fists clench on their own.

“That all you recognize me from?” I can’t believe I’m actually talking to him right now. That, after all this time, I’ve found him. I guess I never thought about what would happen once I did. He arches an eyebrow at me, thinking long and hard, and nods to confirm my suspicions. Rage boils within me.

“Five years ago. Colton Gate. You broke into my house.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, his eyes widen in realization.

“No…” he says in disbelief. “It can’t be.”

“I assure you it can.” I step forward.

Suddenly, the once careless guy is paler than his dead girlfriend.

“I’m not going to lie. You were pretty hard to find. Took me a long time to track your murderous ass.” I move closer to him, and fear finally seems to settle into his wrinkled eyes.

“Listen, kid,” he babbles and drunkenly rises to his feet. “I’m not a killer. I’m a thief, a drug dealer, a piece of shit, I admit, but… that little girl…” His hands fly up as if he’s begging for mercy as he steps backward. “That little girl was the worst mistake of my life.”

That does it for me.

A mistake?

“That little girl had a name!” I shout, and he jumps. “Did you ever think about that?” I keep stepping closer. “Did you even wonder what her name was?”

He remains quiet, scanning the crass motel room as though he’s searching for a weapon of some sort. He’s scared of me.

Good.

“Desiree Adams. Brown hair, blue eyes.”

The murder seems to unfold in front of him.

“You shot her in the stomach. She bled out on the carpet.”

“I-I’m so sorry,” he says in a crammed, desperate sentence.

“She was five years old.”

“It was an accident, I swear.”

I’m not sure when or how I throw the first punch.

I must black out for a few minutes, running on rage, because by the time I come back to my senses, he’s bleeding all over. His mouth, his eyebrows, his cheeks—everywhere. He spits out blood while I pummel his face with a strength I’ve never let myself use before. Tanner always used to tell me there was a clear line between fighting to harm and fighting to kill. Right now, I’m crossing that line. I’m fighting to kill.

And it scares the shit out of me…

Because I can’t stop.

I push him to the floor, and he groans in agony. Yet, I kick him in the stomach over and over and over. Nothing is too far.

“Get up,” I belt out. When he fails to do so, I lift him by the collar and force him off the ground.