“What did you do with the letters?” I ask in a friendly tone, focusing my attention on the knife as I swirl it over his skin.
He squirms. “I don’t remember.”
I click my tongue. “Are you sure you want to lie to me, Marcus?”
“I swear, I—"
My hand clamps over his mouth while I dip the blade into him. Blood blossoms beautifully against his pale skin, despite his thrashing and pathetic attempts to get away. “Do I need to ask you again?”
He shakes his head and mumbles something. Greg continues his fruitless struggles to save himself and his son behind me. If I don't wrap this up soon, they’re going to wake Bella.
“I’m going to move my hand, and you’re going to be a good little boy and not make a peep unless I tell you to. Isn’t that right?” I say as if I were speaking to a child.
He nods like a blubbering mess.
“Where?” The one word makes him shudder.
“Under my bed,” he whimpers as crimson drips from the wound on his stomach.
I stiffen. Excuse me? Is he saying that he took my letters away from her or that Bella never received them to begin with?
“Tell me, Marcus.” I speak as if I’m amenable enough to reason, like there may be a possibility he walks out of here alive. “What are the letters doing in your room? And I wouldn’t lie if I were you.” I wave the blood-stained knife in front of his face as a warning.
Tears well in his eyes while switching his attention between me and his somewhat unharmed father. “We, uh.” He takes a ragged breath. “We saw Isa got mail, and we, um.”
I don’t need to turn around to know that Greg is shaking his head. “Yes?” I graze the tip of the blade along his chest.
“We—we were going to throw them away, but we decided to keep them,” he says quickly.
I cut an inflamed glare at Marcus before turning my attention to Greg. “Is that true?”
When he doesn’t answer, I press the blade against Marcus’s chest, and he nods quickly.
My pulse pounds relentlessly in my ears. After all these years of thinking she threw me away or forgot about me… she never forgot about me; she never got my letters. I can’t help but laugh. She wasn’t ignoring me. She doesn’t hate me. She isn’t mad at me. She just had no idea where I was. Bella’s waiting for me.
The two men glance at each other while I continue laughing. The sound dies in my throat when I look at Greg, my eyes narrowing on the belt wrapped around his throat.
I left her unprotected, and she was hurt because I wasn’t there.
Because of them, she thought I left her.
I grit my teeth and rip off a piece of duct tape from the roll and slap it over Marcus's mouth. “You two?” I chuckle, lacking any humor. “Oh, you two fucked up real bad.” They both start screaming when I tear Greg’s shirt open. “Do you know what you did?” The two men thrash and mumble as I grab the belt from around Greg’s neck, pulling my arm back and swinging down so the buckle comes down on his bare chest, splitting his skin in two. “You put your hands on her.” I bring the belt down again with an audible whip. “You kept her from me.” Again. “You hurt her.” Twice this time. “You treat her like a slave.” Three times. “You talk down to her.” Four. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
He sobs and says something behind his tape.
“I can’t hear you.” I cup the back of my ear. “Nothing? Alright.” I keep beating him with his belt, alternating between the buckle and the tail. “Does that feel nice, Gregory? Do you like the way your belt feels?”
He cries out in pain and fear as he shakes his head.
“You know what I think? I think you like it.” I turn to Marcus, saying to Greg over my shoulder, “I think your son might like it, too.” I laugh at the tears streaming down Greg’s reddened face. “Come on boys, the show is just getting started.”
They shouldn’t have touched Bella.
They shouldn’t have looked at her.
They shouldn’t have fucking breathed near her.
Marcus swings away from me, but there’s nothing he can do to get out of my range. There’s nothing anyone could do to stop me as I slice each and every one of Greg’s fingers and Marcus’s dick off, or as I buckle the belt around Greg’s neck. I step back and look to make sure that Marcus is watching as Greg—his father—dies, slowly losing oxygen.
“Don’t worry,” I say to Marcus with a shrug. “You’re next.”