Page 117 of My Dark Divine
“Baby, listen to me,” I urge, tightening my grip on her face just enough to assert control. She feels so soft and vulnerable, malleable in my hands. “I don’t want you to feel guilty about any of it. You did what you had to do, and no one knew what you were going through. Don’t let anyone tell you what you should or shouldn’t have done. Do you understand?”
She nods weakly, though uncertainty glimmers in her eyes. It’s as if she’s waiting for some catch, some judgment to spring out from me.
In my eyes, she did nothing wrong. That piece of shit deserves weeks of torture, but she couldn’t have done that back then. She did the best she could.
“I will never judge you for anything, and this is no exception,” I say, my eyes following the trembling of her lips before they form a faint smile. She pulls herself into my arms, her hands wrapping around my shoulders as I bury my face in her hair, holding her as tightly as I can. “I’ll be by your side until my very last breath.”
She was a child robbed of her chance at happiness. No one asked her what she wanted; they threw her into a boiling pot, never expecting her to rise. They wanted her to burn, to disappear. But she rose from the ashes, doing what was best for herself and taking over a business that was on the verge of collapsing.
I still remember the first day we met. When I saw her, I thought she had just gotten lost—that’s how young and inexperienced she seemed. She looked like she had no place in a pit full of sharks.
Little did I know that she was just like me. Neither of us had a chance at childhood or even a fleeting moment of joy. We did what we were forced to do, fulfilling everyone’s desires but our own.
And while I don’t give a shit about myself, for her, I’ll tear down anyone who’s hurt her, ensuring her past never casts a shadow over her again.
My fingers clench around the button as the defibrillator—a white box against the grim canvas of his body—springs to life. A jolt of electricity tears through him, pulling him back from the abyss he’d fallen into.
“Wake up, sleepyhead.” I strike, landing a punch square on his jaw. A sickening crunch follows, sending a few teeth flying from his mouth, their white edges quickly lost in a sea of crimson.
Grabbing him by the hair, I yank his head down, making sure this piece of trash doesn’t choke on his blood before I’m ready for him to die. But he presses his lips tightly shut, holding it all in on purpose.
“I know you want to die,” I say, surprised by his stubbornness as he refuses to spit it out willingly. “But it’s too early for that, Logan.”
With my other hand, I pry his mouth open, pressing harder when he falters. At last, he coughs it all up, straining so hard that blood begins to trickle from his nose, even dripping from his ears.
“Please, stop this,” he begs, his words garbled and nearly incoherent, most of his teeth missing. I release him, and his head bows like a puppet on a string. “This is madness?—”
“Madness, you say?” I taunt, stepping closer to the table of knives. They’re laid out in different shapes, sizes, and sharpness, each tempting. For once, I want precision—I’m not the only one who’ll have to look at what I do next.
That word, though. Madness.He didn’t call it that when I used him as a punching bag, breaking him down and readying him for this next phase. When he blacked out, I hooked up the defibrillator to snap him back to consciousness. It wasn’t urgent—his heart hadn’t stopped—but it was slowing, and I needed him awake fast. I’ll admit, I’m disappointed. I thought he’d last longer.
“Ah, Logan,” I say, doing my best to ignore the fact that his name churns up a bitter ball of bile in my throat. “What’s wrong? A big, tough man like you can’t handle a little game?”
“W-what the fuck do you want from me?” he whines. I snap my head toward him, wondering if he’s genuinely confused or if I’ve fried his brain completely. “I was bluffing!”
Oh, so I haven’t fried it completely after all.
“This is the funniest part for me,” I say, turning my attention back to the knives. Some assistance would really come in handy right now. “Tell me, did you honestly think I’d let you lay a finger on my girl?”
He mumbles something under his breath as an idea sparks in my mind. Ignoring his rambling, I pull out my phone and call Grandma. After a few rings, she picks up, exhaling a cloud of smoke I can smell through the line. “West. What’s up?”
“I need your help,” I say, getting straight to the point. “Ceramic or butcher knife?”
A pause. “Don’t tell me you’re killing someone again.”
“He hurt my Venetia.”
“Butcher knife,” she blurts out without hesitation, and a grin spreads across my face.
“Thank you,” I reply, reaching for the right tool and hanging up as I do. “Tell me, Logan,” I begin, slowly turning back to him. He lets out a sob, though I doubt he fully grasps what’s about to unfold. “Do you think the suffering you’re feeling now compares to what you put Venetia through?”
He shakes his head, frantically trying to wriggle free from the ropes. “It wasn’t just me! It?—”
“I know,” I cut in, aware that this is only the beginning. The other one is still blissfully unaware that today is his last. “But you were the most enthusiastic, weren’t you?” I stalk toward him, the urge to slash his throat pounding in my ears, barely contained. “It was your idea.”
“Fuck!” he cries, his voice breaking as realization spreads across his battered face. He understands there’s no way out, and I feel a surge of adrenaline and satisfaction, knowing I’m finally delivering justice for Venetia. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry?—”
“No, you’re not. You’ve been drugging and raping her since she was fifteen, and you never felt sorry for it. Not until your life started hanging by a thread.”
