Savage Beast (Savage People 2)

“No, you needed the money,” I correct, turning again to leave. “I’m trying to build something here. Please don’t ruin it. And don’t come here ever again, dad, I mean it. The Savages are dangerous. They take care of their girls. You don’t want to become a statistic in their unfortunate record.”

Just as I’m about to leave, he yanks me back by my hair and throws me against the wall again. His fingers wrap around my throat and his blade is digging to my stomach, and this time he means business. I see the manic twinkle in his eyes is back, and remember that I hate my dad sober more than I hate him when he’s high or drunk.

Because when he is high and drunk, he is annoying and unresponsive.

But when he’s sober? He’s just a sick, violent bastard.

“You’re right, Quinn, I should cut you just for being such a cold little bitch,” he sneers. I feel the blade in my stomach, how it slices through my flesh, hot and searing, and I pray he hits an important organ and just kill me already. “You’re a bitch,” he stabs into my stomach, digging deeper. I feel it. I feel the blood pouring out like a river. I squeeze my eyes shut, a faint smile adorning my lips. I don’t answer him. I need him exactly like this. Manic.

“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” he spits into my face, his rotten breath directly against my nose, over and over again.

“Stop,” I hear a steel voice all of a sudden.

Oh, no.

Reluctantly, my eyes flutter open. I feel dizzy, out of focus, probably from the blood loss. But I can still make out his figure. His eyes, so blue. His hair, brown and mussed, messy like a boy’s. His beautiful body. His severe expression on that gorgeous face.

God, his face. The way he looks at me.

Carter.

“Pull the blade out,” Carter instructs coldly, without an ounce of emotion in his voice, “Slowly, or better yet, let me do it, but don’t make any sudden moves.”

I’m so ashamed I shut my eyes again. Who can blame me? My dad is stabbing me in an alleyway because I don’t want to be his whore, because he can’t pimp me to his drug-dealing friends. Hell, no one is supposed to know my story. Why can’t I just die already?

“You her boyfriend?” Dad cocks his head in my direction. “Because you know she’s a whore, right?”

I’m not a whore. I swallow down the shame, but I don’t cry.

“Fine, I’ll take it out. You just stand there and don’t move,” Carter mutters, still blasé. I suck in a deep breath, praying my sorry excuse for a father won’t listen, and this time stab my heart, when I feel his rancid laugh dancing in my face again.

“No. I think I’ll kill her. She’s no good to me anymore.”

Before I know what’s happening, he is yanking out the blade from my stomach-it’s much more painful than when it was when he dug it in, I note-and I feel the blade making its way again to another part of my stomach, but the knife never does more than scratch me on the surface. Suddenly, my father is yanked back, thrown on the door against me, and Carter is beating him up. His fists connect with my father’s jaw, nose and neck over and over again until my dad collapses down to a fetal position, which doesn’t make much more than fifteen seconds. Carter is ripped, huge and strong. He is a bouncer, and a good one. Now Carter is on top of him, straddling him, beating him up so methodically, and all throughout, his face is completely relaxed and composed.

As if nothing’s happening inside of him.

A psychopath.

It’s clear to me now.

Carter is a psychopath.

I slap a hand over my mouth as I watch Carter beating the life out of my father. First, my dad struggles. Not exactly fighting back, he is too weak and old, but definitely crying and yelling and begging. I clutch my waist where he stabbed me and bend down. It’s painful and I want the pain to go away.

When my dad stops screaming and begging, Carter lets him go. His whole face is just blood, really. He’s completely unrecognizable. And dead. So very dead.

I should feel relieved, or maybe even happy or satisfied, but I still feel nothing. Nothing, at all.

Carter wipes his bloody hands with his shirt and pulls him out, tucking it into his back pocket. I shouldn’t admire his six pack, so I don’t. I just note that his body is very big and very strong, and it makes me feel very little, but not in a bad way.

Definitely not in a bad way.

“I’ll need to get rid of him,” he tells me, still detached. “But first we need to make sure you’re stitched and wrapped. Where do you live?”

I tell him where I live. He approaches me and without a warning, tosses me up so he is carrying me honeymoon style. “It’s a short walk. Let’s go.”

When we get to my apartment, he puts towels over my bed, lays me inside it and plucks a bottle of whiskey from the counter in my kitchen. He opens the bottle and gives it to me silently. I take a swig, not because I want to, but because he asked. Sort of. The alcohol makes me feel somewhat numb. Carter pours some of the whiskey into one of the clean towels and wipes my injury after rolling my shirt all the way up until my bra is completely exposed. My head against the pillow, I inspect him as he cleans my wound meticulously and quietly.