“You fucked with my girl.” Roman chuckles darkly, glancing at me before saying, “And you should never fuck with my girl.”
The tip of the blade digs into the corner of Marcus’s jaw, blooming red as it follows the path to his chin. His thrashing only makes the cut deeper, more vicious, a thorned rose rather than a smooth lily.
I edge back, tripping over my feet as I stumble to a wall for support. I can’t look away, but the sight of the gore makes me tip over to gasp for air.
“You’re lucky she’s here. If not—you and me—we would have been having fun all night long.”
A boulder lodges in my throat, scraping along the walls of my neck.
Roman hums a made-up tune as he continues carving all sorts of shapes into Marcus’s already deformed skin. Stars, hearts, circles, his own initials—that he promptly slices through—undeterred by Marcus’s squeals of pain muffled by tape. Roman watches his handiwork with intent eyes following each motion, his body leaning forward as if in a trance, like a child doodling in class. Each glide of his hand is purposeful, going deeper in certain areas while barely grazing the flesh in others. As if he’s trying to stop Marcus from bleeding out.
As if he’s tortured someone like this before.
I wipe my trembling hands along my bare thigh and cover my mouth to silence my sobs. Marcus keeps looking at me to help him. Some sick, twisted part of me wishes Greg was still alive to be a bystander in his son’s demise.
I don't know what I feel. Guilt? Fear? Disgust? Anticipation? I feel all of it, yet none of it. Each swirl of emotion is so visceral but still so dull, as my mind refuses to comprehend the scene before me.
This is fucked up on every single level.
I know I should call for help. I need to stop Roman before he kills Marcus. I should have saved him when I had the chance.
But I can’t do anything, paralyzed in my spot, focused on trying not to pass out.
Roman pauses, looking up at Marcus with an eerie innocence that makes my stomach clench. “Do you want me to let you go?”
I stiffen and everything goes silent. He wouldn’t… would he? The Roman I knew would burn the entire city down before letting someone who hurt me walk free. But three years will change someone.
My foster brother nods slowly, sending me a questioning look. I swallow. Would Roman really let Marcus go? This is the question in both our heads, but I know for a fact that Marcus won’t be asking if Roman will let me go. He’s selfish. There’s no planet where he’d give a shit about what happens to me.
“It doesn’t seem like you want to be let go,” Roman practically sings, swirling the knife around Marcus’s cheek without breaking the skin.
Marcus swings his head from side to side violently, shaking his whole body. He doesn’t seem to care about the pain he’s causing himself because he doesn’t stop.
Worse, I can’t seem to care either.
“That’s better.” Roman smiles in the same way a tiger would before tearing through its dinner’s neck. He may like inflicting fear, but what he loves most is making them beg. “Apologize to my girl.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say, it’s fine. He doesn’t have to. But I want to hear him say it. I want him to beg for my forgiveness.
The duct tape is ripped from Marcus’s mouth for the second time tonight. But like the idiot he is, the first words out of his mouth are, “Please, let me go.”
The words earn him a knife to his stomach. I flinch back from the suckling sound combined with his howling. Whether from morbid fascination, a sense of responsibility, or some sick need for closure, I keep my eyes open, staring at the gruesome sight through new tears.
“Apologize,” Roman growls, twisting the knife.
My chest tightens. Watching this kind of thing on TV is different from seeing it happen to your foster brother. I wish I had the strength to hurt Marcus the way Roman is, not just for vengeance, but to prove to myself that I can take care of myself in every possible way.
Marcus screams. What if the neighbors hear? What if the police come? What if Marcus lives and tells the police that I was an accomplice, like I know he would?
Marcus’s lips quiver, spit and blood flying out as he looks at me. “I—I’m sorry.”
I grit my teeth. His apology doesn’t make me feel any better.
“You can do better than that,” Roman says.
“I’m sorry!” Marcus cries as Roman applies more pressure to the open wound. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “Please, just let me go.”