I crouch beside him and rest my wrists on my bent knees. Kyle’s good eye turns toward me, pleading for me to show him mercy. Funny that this bastard thinks I’ll give him that when he didn’t do the same for Dahlia.
“I have so much planned for you,” I murmur, and lean into him to ensure he hears my every word. I sniff, twisting my lips to push away the blood dripping from my nose to my busted lips. When that doesn’t work, I swipe it away and study the dark crimson stain on the side of myfinger. “Close to ten years of a grudge I hold for you”—I look at him and grin—“but it’s not just because of me.”
A bloody tear trails down Kyle’s cheek, and his chin quivers with his soft sobs.
“Please,” he croaks.
Ryder snorts. Aiden laughs. And I just keep smiling, though the action is more like baring my teeth than being mildly amused by Kyle’s begging.
I swipe my fingertip over a smear of blood on the corner of his mouth and draw an upside down cross in the middle of his forehead. It reminds me of that band all the girls are crazy for—Satan’s Priest. Tilting my head, I admire the symbol and can’t help but widen my grin. Fitting for what my group is called. Satan’s Deplorables. We were once the losers in school, but the losers turned into bitter, angry men who formed a gang with a long list of those who wronged us and Dahlia.
“Let’s get you back in bed, hm?” I say.
Kyle sobs quietly until the whining turns louder and grates at my every raw nerve. I don’t know how he has it in him after being beaten to the last inch of his life.
Aiden stands and grabs Kyle by his wrists, then drags him back to his room. If I listen close enough, I can hear the static that plays twenty-four-seven. He’s been in that room for three weeks straight, with nothing but that sound and the occasional shitty food we give him to keep him alive. I don’t want to just kill Kyle Rife. I want to drive him mad before I send him straight to hell.
“You need stitches,” Ryder says.
Touching the tender flesh where Kyle punched me, I wince at the sharp sting that pulses through the rest of my skull and down my neck to my shoulders. I follow Ryder to the kitchen we keep stocked with canned items and medical supplies we use for ourselves and the people we bring here to torture. I fold myself into the chair, and all the heaviness fromthe last thirty minutes settles deep into my bones until I can barely keep my eyes open.
I let Ryder do his thing as he grabs the first-aid kit and pulls out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. It reminds me of earlier today, when I did the same for Dahlia. Even through my exhaustion, my body responds to the fresh memory. I bite back the groan threatening to slip past my lips as blood rushes to my dick.
“You lost your shit back there, man,” Ryder says as he cleans my wounds.
I wince with each dab of the cotton ball soaked in peroxide. Fuck this. I fish in my pocket and pull out the rolled joint that miraculously made it through the fight. After sparking my lighter, I hold the tip to the flame, suck in the skunk smoke, and relax further into my seat.
Ryder sighs and finishes cleaning my wounds before he pulls out the needle and thread to stitch me up. I take another hit, forming donuts with the smoke and inhaling it. Ryder turns to me, warning me with a look before he stitches the wound at my temple. The sting of the needle piercing my skin and his gloved fingers holding the flaps together become a faded memory as I get high.
Ryder shifts and his eyes flick down to mine, like he’s mentally preparing himself to have a talk with me. I inwardly sigh, not in the mood to be scolded like I’m his child.
“I’d be careful about who you allow to see you break. Eventually, one of them will have enough brain cells to figure out that Dahlia is your weakness,” he says.
If I didn’t know better, I’d also think he’s prying for more information.
I cut him a dangerous look. “Are you implying that I shouldn’t trust you?”
“Not at all.” He pops the needle through my skin, and the thread snakes through with tremors as it pulls the flesh taut.It’s an odd sensation, especially when I’m smoking. It’s like my skin is wax with very few nerve endings. Thank god for the Indica strain I’m inhaling.
“What’s your point?” I mutter.
“I don’t understand why you’re so protective of your sister.” He finishes the last stitch and ties the ends before he snips it off his needle. “What will you do when she dates?”
I stiffen and curl my fingers into tight fists until my knuckles turn white. Red fills my vision as an uninvited image of Dahlia sleeping with another man pops into my mind. I refuse to allow some other man to touch her.
“You’re her brother, dude,” Ryder whispers, pulling me out of the spiral.
He gives me a knowing look, full of sympathy and understanding. He’s been nothing but a great friend since we were five, so it’s not surprising that he knows how I really feel about my sister.
There are a lot of complications and history between Dahlia and me. She and I are two atoms colliding and creating a new universe from the explosion. It’s only a matter of time before we’re discovered.
I wait for him to say it aloud, to point out the big elephant in the room. Instead, he turns his back to me and cleans up the area he used for first aid.
Once upon a time, I gave a shit about my weird fascination with Dahlia. I used to be embarrassed, but I can’t bring myself to give a damn anymore. The world might not understand the level of obsession and love I have for my sister, and I’m fine with that. She just needs to come around and accept it, too.
I unfold myself from my seat and fix my jacket lapels. I glance at Ryder’s back and consider ending his life. The thought is fleeting, and one that I should feel guilty over. Maybe deep down, I feel awful, but when it comes to Dahlia’s safety—including her mental health—I’ll do anything for her.If she doesn’t want anyone to know yet, then I’ll silence everyone for her. I’m her hand, and I’ll do whatever she asks of me.
And if Ryder’s dead, then no one else will know about me and my sister.
