His eyes flare with something like yearning and it only makes me want to hurt him more. The fucking bastard. “She’ll never think of you again and while we’re building our future do you know where you’ll be?”
He shakes his head slowly, as if I actually give a fuck about his answer.
“This is the good part,” Playboy jeers. I don’t have to look to know he’s probably elbowing whoever has the misfortune of standing closest to him. “This is the part where they realize their shit has caught up to them and the consequences for their actions are severe.”
“I swear you need therapy, Playboy,” Ryker teases our brother and then my brothers laugh.
But I don’t.
I keep my eyes fixed on the prick in front of me. The one strapped to the chair in the room we made sure was equipped for just this kind of work, just this kind of pain. Sometimes shit gets messy. It’s better to be prepared.
My voice drops to a deadly whisper, each syllable menacing and monotone, “You’ll be back on the great Ferris wheel of life. Maybe you’ll be fertilizer out in the field. Maybe you’ll be fattening up the pigs.”
“No,” he gasps and starts to shake.
As the smell of urine fills the room, all I can do is sigh. Guys like him piss me off. They’ll abuse someone like Graycie, but when faced with someone who they can’t muscle into submission, they become fucking pussies. He has no idea what real power feels like.
I’d almost feel sorry for him if he hadn’t hurt my angel. Almost.
The first punch I land on him has him wheezing out a breath. As I rain more down on him, it’s not nearly as satisfying as I want it to be.
“Snake,” Ryker barks out and I shake my head as the room comes back into focus. I look down at Sylvester, and I haven’tinflicted nearly enough pain. Not yet. Still, I look toward my Prez to find him with an ear-to-ear grin on his face. “I got you a present.”
I nod toward dick head. “I think he’s present enough.”
“Nope,” Ryker declares with a pop of the p, “I think you’ll like this one.”
He holds up a whip and a giddiness I’ve only felt when wrapped up in Graycie hits me. I practically bounce on my toes toward him, loving the way the handle fits in my palm when he hands it to me.
I turn back toward Sylvester slowly to find him vibrating with fear. “Ah,” my voice is teasing, “I see you recognize it.”
Ryker’s voice is deep and foreboding, “Found it in his stuff.”
I almost drop the whip right there. This is it. This is exactly what he used on my woman.
My tone is light and conversational, “I’ve never really used a whip to do my dirty business.” I look at the man in the chair and wink, “I usually prefer my hands. But this feels like poetic justice.”
Weighing the whip, I give a few flicks of my wrist to test it out. Playboy lets out a low whistle, and I hear him say something, but it’s too low for me to catch entirely.
Sylvester is shaking his head back and forth as I advance on him. I snap the whip in his direction and satisfaction fills me when it hits the mark and a welt blooms across his chest.
Then I’m all movement. I whip him over and over again, not stopping even when my muscles are burning and begging me to stop or slow down. I don’t. I can’t.
Because he left scars on my woman’s body and on her soul. I’ll heal all her scars with my love, but he still needs to pay.
When I step behind him, wrapping the length of the whip round my hands, I hook it around the front of his neck and pull back. Even though he’s tired and hurt, he still tries to fight against me strangling him with his own tool of destruction.
I don’t let up, pulling the whip tighter around his neck. “I hope the devil takes a special interest in you,” I whisper. “There’s only room for saints here.”
As his struggling subsides and he goes lax, I hold firm until his foot twitches, and he doesn’t even attempt to take a breath for more than a few minutes.
I stand up straight and let the whip fall from my hands. I can’t touch it now, not while knowing it flayed open my Angel’s skin. It’s tainted with her pain, nothing could wash that away, not even the death of her torturer.
When I look down, I see some of his blood on my shirt, but, thankfully, my jeans and boots are unscathed. I pull my cut off and Dad is there to hold it for me while I pull off my shirt and let it drop on top of the body which will be dealt with soon. He’ll become ash and never be heard from or found.
Sylvester is destined to become just another statistic. A man lost in the world. No one will miss him.
After taking a deep breath when I step back through the door, my cut in my hands, I head toward my room without looking back. I don’t need to. Everything will be taken care of.