33. Juliette #2
I’d taken self-defense classes over the last two years. Mixed martial arts. I even earned myself a black belt, but it didn’t mean I was a fucking weight lifter.
I was dressed in all black: black jeans, black T-shirt, black combat boots—okay, snow boots, but whatever—and I was fully prepared to get dirty.
With my strength and my breathing back to normal, I shot to my feet and made my way toward the slumped, unconscious form.
I had bound his wrists and feet. Just to be safe.
I studied the man. Gray hair. A scar slashed across his face.
He was in his sixties. He fit the description of one of the Russians that had set my birth parents’ house on fire.
There were ten men responsible for our parents’ death who attacked their home.
Killian had hunted down and killed four of those men.
I had killed only two so far. After tonight, it’d be three, taking my number of hits to a grand total of five, including the pieces of shit from high school.
It was strange how easily the killing came. The first one had been the hardest to stomach. The piercing screams. The begging. But then I’d remind myself what they did to me. To my parents. To my brother.
Killian told me how it all went down. The screams. The cries. The torture. He blamed himself because he’d remained hidden, holding me. I was just a baby at the time, but Killian wasn’t. Some nights, in his sleep, he was still that eight-year-old boy witnessing our parents’ torture.
The anger buzzed under my skin. They took—-actually stole—-our parents from us. They had given Killian years of nightmares, of trauma. That spurred me into action.
I kicked his foot. “Wakey, wakey.”
A soft groan vibrated against cellar walls and I kicked his foot again. He slowly roused from his unconsciousness. I watched with rapt fascination as his eyes darted around and locked on me before a myriad of emotions passed his face.
Confusion.
I’d imagine I didn’t look scary at all at my barely five foot five.
Surprise.
He probably couldn’t believe that I’d managed to capture him. But it was the last one that intrigued me.
Recognition.
“What are you doing?” he hissed.
“Chasing old ghosts,” I drawled lazily. “Do you know which ones?”
He just stared at me blankly. Bruises had formed on his forehead and the side of his cheek. I’d wager he had some on his body too.
Just as I was beginning to think he wouldn’t answer me, he uttered, “Aiden and Ava Cullen.”
A smile curved my lips in a cruel way. So he did remember and he did recognize me. I was told I look a lot like my mother, but it would seem I have my father’s temperament.
“Time to get what you gave,” I taunted, watching as realization settled in his gaze. “There’s no way out.”
Maybe it was sadistic but I quite enjoyed seeing the panic on his face. I imagined it was how my parents felt as their home burned with all of us trapped inside.
He attempted to struggle against the ropes, but it was pointless.
Even if he managed to free one hand, he’d be dead by the time he went for his other hand.
And fuck, I’d enjoy filling him with bullets.
But even more, I was going to enjoy cutting him with a dull knife and listening to his screams. He might not be burning in a fire, but he’d scream just the same.
By now, I was an expert and had learned what worked and what didn’t. Fucking with their head seemed to break them the easiest. Physical torture—not so much. I turned on the stereo and Lana Del Rey’s song “Season of the Witch” came on.
“It’s my song,” I remarked, smiling savagely. “Do you know why?”
He shook his head, so I said, “Because I’m hunting. Except it isn't the season of the witch. It’s the season for bad Russians. Specifically the ones that killed my parents.”
God, I loved fucking with their heads.
“You fucking bitch,” he shouted, struggling against the ropes more vigorously. “Unbind my hands and see how brave you are. Psycho, like your father.”
I should have injected the entire tranquilizer into the bastard. Maybe he’d shut the fuck up with his own taunting.
“Now, now, you don’t want to hurt my feelings,” I purred sweetly as I grabbed the overhead circular light and shone it into his face. “Tell me where Sofia Volkov is and I’ll make this quick. If not, I’ll make it more fun for me. But it won’t be so fun for you.”
“I’m not telling you anything, you crazy bitch,” he spat.
The light illuminated him, and I grabbed his hair, then slammed his head against the wall in the back.
“Good thing the ropes are secured and long enough,” I said in a taunting tone. “It makes it so much easier to smash your skull against the wall.”
The fucker had a hard skull. More bruises formed around his eyes and forehead. “I have to say, you have a thick skull. Every other guy I’ve done this to was knocked out cold after I smashed their skull the first time.”
“You fucking psycho,” he spat again.
“And you don’t even have a concussion,” I continued pensively, ignoring his outburst. “You can still form words. In English, nonetheless.”
He jerked his arms, but the bindings were too strong. It was another little handy thing I’d learned. How to tie knots, just like the military guys. He jerked his arm again and an ugly pop filled the air and I shook my head.
“Now you’ve gone and dislocated your shoulder.”
He didn’t heed the warning nor the pain. He kept struggling against the ropes, kicking and screaming and warning of retribution. The sounds were an unrelenting warning. The kind that my parents never got.
“Where the fuck did you come from?” he barked, glaring at me, but it was all in vain. He’d never get away from me. “How did you get into my home?”
He jerked his head from side to side when I put the lamp closer to his face. He kept squinting his eyes, his eyeballs probably burning.
“Where I came from is irrelevant,” I noted. The four stone walls in a small cellar were the setting of every creepy nightmare. It was perfect for torture. “The only relevant location is Sofia Volkov’s.” Pulling a knife out of my boot, I pushed the sharp blade between his ribs. “Where is she?”
His scream pierced the air, shattering my eardrums. “I don’t know,” he roared. “Nobody knows. She shares her location with nobody.”
“Impossible. Someone has to know where she is,” I snickered, twisting the blade in his flesh.
The warm liquid soaked my hands, reminding me of the sins I was collecting. I didn’t fucking care. I wanted revenge. For my parents. For my brother who had to watch our mother and father tortured. He hunted. Well, so did I.
The music switched from Lana Del Rey to “Crazy Train” by Ozzy Osbourne just in time for this asshole’s screams to increase in pitch.
Ozzy’s heavy metal drowned out all the screams coming from this Russian.
Blood seeped onto the floor, painting the gray stone red.
The musty scent of the basement mixed with copper.
“It’s Jovanov, right?” I asked as I sliced at the skin between his ribs. He continued to scream, but Ozzy drowned out most of his pleas. By the time I was done with him, he’d pissed himself, shit himself, and passed out.
A smile curved my lips. I wasn’t ready to let him go into oblivion yet, so I reached for the first aid kit and patched him up. I even made him take some Advil and forced water down his throat. His one eyelid opened and terror filled his expression seeing me instead of death.
“Yeah, it’s not a dream,” I said. “I’m not done with you, not until you tell me why you killed my parents and walk me through every single thing you did to them. You will tell me, or I’ll kill your family like you killed mine.”
He must have read the truth on my face because he broke down, sobbing fiercely.
“Why are you doing this?” he hissed, his brows pinching in confusion. “She’ll never let you get away if she learns you’re alive. You and your brother should hide.”
I gritted my teeth.
“I’m going to be her worst fucking nightmare.” I cut another piece of flesh from him. “Now start talking or I’ll get your pretty grandson. Slice him and dice him in front of you until you start talking. I know they live just two blocks over.”
He didn’t need to know I’d never hurt his family. I wasn’t of the same caliber as these assholes.
My threat worked, although Jovanov glared at me, but he didn’t dare say anything else.
“It was an order by Sofia Volkov,” he started, wheezing.
“Kill the entire family and burn the house down with the bodies inside.” I stilled, a rage burning through my veins.
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard about this order, but it still hit me the same way every fucking time.
The pure fury and hate. “Th-the woman, some men raped her while her husband watched.” He swallowed while my own stomach twisted and bile rose in my throat.
“She screamed and screamed. The husband fought but he was tied up and each move he made to save her earned him another beating.”
“Why did she want my family dead?” I asked, my voice deadly calm.
“Your grandfather on your father’s side—Cullen—helped kidnap Sofia Volkov’s daughter.
” And there it was. The single detail I didn’t know.
“Sofia’s men killed your grandfather, but that wasn’t enough.
She wanted the entire bloodline extinguished.
Burning the house with everyone in it was a way to erase you all. ”
Images painted my mind and I lost it. I screamed and screamed like a madwoman. Then I slashed the blade over his thigh. Over and over again.
Jovanov shook with fear, his eyes wide and his body trembling. The color started to drain from his face. He turned as white as the ghosts I was chasing.
I wanted to make him pay. I wanted him to feel the pain that my father felt as he watched my mother raped. I wanted him to feel the pain that my mother felt when they hurt her over and over again.
The blade dug into his yielding flesh, splitting it into two. Then I started at his ear, left, then right. He screamed and cried, but I heard nothing aside from the angry buzzing of adrenaline.
Until he was finally dead.