“Get off of me, you disgusting pig,” I hiss, the vibrations throughout my form are heightening until it seems as if an earthquake is devastating it. My brother rears back in shock. “If you touch me again, I will fucking kill you, Kevin.”
His upper lip pulls over his teeth viciously, and his hands wrap around my throat, squeezing until my oxygen is completely severed.
I'm both staring into his blackened eyes and watching him strangle me from above. I thrash against his hold, my eyes bugged and my complexion purpling.
His own face is red, putting all his strength into crushing my neck between his palms.
My hand pats the bed sightlessly, searching while my life quickly depletes.
I knew it was coming to this. Felt it in my very bones. My mind has been on the precipice of snapping, and with each encounter, he’s only pushed me further to the edge.
I started hiding knives around the house, my subconscious understanding how deeply I was unraveling without ever fully acknowledging it.
Finally, my hand closes around the weapon hiding under my pillow, right as my vision begins to snuff out.
Without any direction, I drive the knife into him, feeling rather than seeing it sink into flesh and sinew.
Simultaneously, the constriction around my throat releases while something warm and wet splatters across my face.
My lungs fill with oxygen, the relief almost painfully relieving. But I have no time to appreciate it when a waterfall of red is pouring onto me while Kev convulses above me.
The tip of the knife is plunged deep into the side of his jugular, blood pouring both from the wound and his mouth. His eyes are bulging, and every tooth is bared.
I think I'm sobbing, but my mind is so fractured, I’ve no idea what my body is doing or feeling.
He's staring directly into my eyes, and I can see the betrayal radiating from them. You can only betray someone if they trusted you.
He should've never trusted me.
He slumps, and I have just enough foresight to push him off to the side, his body flopping next to me.
I'm heaving, this time the panic seizing my lungs. My upper half is covered in warm blood, but it feels like thick tar. I need it off me.
Eyes wide, I stumble off the bed, refusing to look back at what I’ve done, yet feeling the evidence soaking into my pores. I tear off my shirt and wipe myself down as best I can, hands shaking so badly, they’re beginning to go numb.
Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse his still body on my bed, a pool of red growing amongst the sheets.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter frantically, practically ripping a new one off a hanger in my closet. I grapple with the fabric, struggling to find the right end to open and shove over my head.
My mind is racing, yet I don't have a single coherent thought. I’m moving on pure instinct alone, and all I know is that I need to run.
Run, Sawyer. Don’t look back.
Speeding out of my bedroom and down the steps, I practically trip over my feet in my pursuit to escape. I swivel around, frantically searching for my shoes, whimpering in distress when I can’t find them.
Fuck it. There’s no time.
I need to run while I still can.
Because once I start, I'll never be able to stop.
Chapter 31
Enzo
She’s staring at me, waiting for a response, but I’m too stunned to speak. The only thing I can think is how the fuck am I going to save her?
Her blue eyes drop, and there she goes, hiding away.
“Look at me,” I snap.
She does, her eyes shooting to mine. They’re welling with tears, and I know she’s expecting me to get angry.
In a way, I am angry.
“How long ago?”
“Six years,” she whispers. “We were twenty-two. He was fresh out of the academy, but they all loved him instantly. They were devastated when they found out he died.” She shrugs awkwardly. “Some of his cop friends were on the news a lot, crying and promising they wouldn’t rest until they found me. I always hoped they’d move on somehow, but one of his old friends still emails me every so often.”
Blowing out a slow breath, I stand and grab her hands, helping her to her feet. She looks so unsure of herself, and I want to bring her comfort, but I don’t have the right words yet.
How do I tell her that I’m only angry because I wanted to see the life drain from his eyes, too? How do I say that I would’ve loved to see her end his miserable life and then probably fuck her for it after?
Carefully, we make our way off the broken table, ensuring she avoids sharp pieces of glass or wooden splinters. Then, I grab our clothing and help her get dressed, needing to give my hands something to do while I think. When we’re done, I grab the shotgun and lead her upstairs to our bedroom.