“Not just kill you, but make you suffer.”

Marco starts struggling again, so I force him down on the bed by his neck, tightening my grip. The knife sinks further into the meat of his thigh, and I give it another jerky twist. I feel his neck working beneath my hand, trying to scream, but no sound comes out.

“No,” his wife whimpers. “Please. We didn’t mean to hurt anyone. We’re sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” Trouble laughs sardonically. “You’re sorry? You hear that, Emo? They’re fuckin’ sorry.”

I grunt, because it’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. As if an apology would make it okay that they sexually abused a young girl for half of her life. There’s not a damn thing that could ever make that okay.

“No, sweetheart, you ain’t sorry, but you will be when we get done with you.”

With that, he jams the needle into the side of her neck and presses the plunger. He pushes her away from him, and she falls to her side.

“Oh, God, what did you just give me?” she cries, rubbing furiously at the spot.

He tosses the used needle o

n the bedside table and picks up the other. “Something that will make this much easier on us. You’ll feel every goddamn thing we do to you, but you won’t be able to move. Pretty fuckin’ awesome, right?”

She slumps down, the effects of the drug already hitting her. Her eyes are wide open and unmoving, but I can still see the fear in them.

Trouble heads around the bed with the other needle, but I stop him. “No. I want to see and feel him struggle.”

With a clipped nod, he goes back to his side. Using a move I’ve used several times before, I tighten my hold on his throat until I feel his larynx crush. He’ll still be able to move, unlike Gabriela, but he won’t be able to scream, ensuring no neighbors will come investigate.

I plan to enjoy every single second of my time tearing him apart.

Ripping my knife from his thigh, I climb up on the bed and straddle his waist. He’s become weaker with blood loss, so when he begins struggling again, I easily overpower him with one hand. With his hands trapped above his head, I slice away his shirt and slowly start to carve away the flesh on his chest. I purposely keep my knife dull because it hurts so much more when you have to saw back and forth through skin, meat, and tendons.

I stop several times just to enjoy the pure horror and pain on his face. I make sure not to go to deep or hit anything vital yet. I want this to last longer than a quick kill.

Trouble’s dragged Gabriela off the bed and is extracting his own form of torture. I don’t take the time to look; my sole focus is on the man writhing beneath me. I relish every moment, already wishing I could go back in time and do it over and over a thousand times.

Blood soaks my clothes, my glove-covered hands, and the bed beneath Marco. Underneath all the blood on his face, his skin is pasty and pale. He’s long since stopped struggling. The only sound he makes are pain-filled grunts each time my knife pierces his flesh.

By the time I’m done, his heart rate is sluggish and coming slower and slower with each beat; there’s not an inch of skin that hasn’t been touched by me or my blade. I set the tip of my knife on his pec, just to the left of his sternum. Looking down into the eyes of pure evil, I slowly push down, leaning my weight on the butt of the handle when there’s resistance. It sinks deep, all the way to the hilt. Marco grunts one last time before his eyes glaze over, his chest rising once before stopping on an exhale.

Lifting my arm, I use the sleeve of my shirt and wipe my brow, uncaring that all I’m doing is smearing even more on my forehead. Using the knife still embedded in Marco’s chest for leverage, I hoist myself up from the bed, then yank it from his body. Satisfaction and adrenaline pump through me as I look at the carnage I’ve caused.

Glancing around, I spot Trouble leaning against a nearby wall, his eyes filled with revulsion. Not at what we’ve done, but at the man and woman to blame for such actions. At Trouble’s feet is Gabriela. Her body is a bloody mess, her sightless eyes staring up at nothing. It’s out of the norm for Trouble’s kills to be so gruesome; he’s usually a clean killer. But even with her guts lying on the floor beside her, her body isn’t close to the mess I made with Marco.

We both go to the en suite bathroom and wash away as much blood as we can from our arms and faces. We’ll take care of our clothes when we get back to the truck. I make sure there’s nothing in the room that could lead back to us while Trouble grabs the vial and syringes from the bedside table. We leave a few moments later, not sparing either of the bodies another look.

It’s after six in the morning by the time we get on the road, the sky turning from black to a dark purple as the sun begins to rise. Neither of us speak, both in our own minds. Trouble calls Mae at the halfway mark, letting her know we’re going to be stopping by her house to shower before going home. We’ve changed our clothes and pitched the old ones, but we still have blood residue all over us. Neither of us wants to show up at the house with that shit on us.

The key in my pocket feels hot against my thigh. I pull it out and flip it over several times before I put it in the center of my hand. I curl my fingers around it and squeeze. Not enough to break skin, because I still have the blood of that bastard on me, but enough for me to not forget it’s there.

Looking out of the windshield, I watch as the trees pass by us. Every mile we cross brings me closer to the one thing I really want right now. The one thing I crave more than anything else.

To set my eyes on Rella again.

CHAPTER TWENTY

RELLA

I LIE ON MY SIDE WITH my hands tucked under my cheek and just stare at Aziah. I could probably stare at him all day, every day and never get tired of looking at him. His thick black hair is messy, and his long eyelashes rest against his cheeks as he sleeps. His face looks peaceful, more so than I’ve ever seen him, even as kids. There’s dark stubble on his chin, jaw, and above his full top lip, like it’s been a couple of days since he’s shaved. My eyes move down to his chest and arms. I’ve noticed he’s like me and likes to wear long-sleeved shirts, and I wonder if it’s to hide his own scars.

As a kid, he was the smallest out of him, my brother, Judge, and JW. While that’s still the case, he’s in no way small. His torso is stout as it stretches the black shirt, but not bulky, and his biceps bulge with muscles. His forearms are all veiny.

Tags: Alex Grayson Hell Night Romance
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