Chapter 8 – Elijah
8
ELIJAH
N ormally, life was always red and black for me. It was blood or darkness, evil and virtue, nothing more, nothing less.
Life was binary, with two choices each time: the two extremes. Boring, but effective.
But ever since she got closer to me, I see something else - brown, her damn brown eyes.
My Little Nightmare with blazing eyes was the third option in my binary life, destabilizing my entire organization and making the two options I’ve always had no longer enough.
I can’t stop following her, letting her poison me with her existence without realizing it, getting so deeply under my skin that I feel it itching everywhere without really being able to remove her.
I can’t stop seeking her, even though it’s toxic, like a serpent that falls victim to its own venom.
She was killing me, just with her existence.
Isn’t the stalker always the one in control? Why is my own prey more dangerous to me than I am to her?
Those fucking eyes.
They’re everywhere, haunting me even when I shut my own. I see them when I try to sleep, when I work, when I eat, when I fucking breathe. And when I saw them tonight, looking disgusted after that bastard Zaidan said something to her, it just set me off, and I saw red again.
The problem is, Zaidan didn’t just disrespect her; he had the audacity to ask her to marry him. And for that, he better be ready to face the consequences, because he’s about to learn how to treat a woman.
His screams fill the room, it’s a twisted melody that I can’t help but enjoy. It’s my kind of music - the agony of a fucking tortured man. I know that he doesn’t deserve my forgiveness, even though he’s been begging for it for the past few minutes.
A man who wants to marry a woman but won’t fight for her? That’s pure cowardice. And in the Bratva, we learn to not tolerate weakness, especially not when it comes to our women.
If it were me proposing to my pretty Zanae, I wouldn’t let anything stand in my way. I’d move hell and earth to make her say yes, I’d burn down heaven for her to be mine. But this stupid bastard? He doesn’t deserve her, and he’s really starting to severely get on my nerves.
No one deserves her.
Not even me.
Every time I hurt him, I can feel madness tightening its grip around my soul, and I don’t even want to escape it, I thrive in that havoc caused by possessiveness and this fucking need for ownership on her. My obsession with her only fuels the fury I feel; he made her uncomfortable, knowing damn well I saw everything.
My lips twist into a grin as I savor slowly the sounds around me and his cries.
“ Dyavol , I didn’t… I didn’t know… I promise you?—”
I shut him up, driving the blade deeper into his abdomen, watching as the red pools around him before the brown of her eyes flashes in my mind again.
Fuck .
“The more you talk, the more it’ll hurt, you idiot.”
He screams louder, and I can’t shake the image of the red mark on her arm from my mind.
This frenzy is where the psychotic inside me finds refuge. Sadism .
I love killing for her. I love every ounce of pain delivered for her, and every drop of blood spilled in her name.
His agonized whimpering fills the gloomy room as I lean in, my face mere inches from his bloody one. Still smiling, I appreciate the sinister canvas before me. The fucking monster within screams for more, urging me to utterly destroy this asshole of a man. I need to make him disappear for what he did tonight.
Zanae is mine to claim, mine to own, mine to end. She’s fucking mine to agonize over.
“You thought you could touch what’s mine, Zaidan, without any repercussions? So fucking stupid, aren’t you? Now you’ll have to shut the fuck up and take it like a real man.”
I may have to make more examples to let people understand that I’m not someone you can piss off or mess with that easily. Let’s keep my reputation as high as this stupid nickname, Dyavol .
“You had the audacity to make her uncomfortable? Zaidan, Zaidan, Zaidan...You forgot about that ugly scar on your neck? I thought you’d learn your lesson back there,” I laugh and shake my head, “But I guess you didn’t.”
He looks at me with pleading eyes, as if hoping to dissuade me from something I might regret. But that’s the thing – I don’t feel regrets. “ Dyavol , I was just playing, there’s no need to do this. I didn’t even touch her.”
I meet his gaze, his face beaten up, blood everywhere, and I smile. “You proposed to her, you kissed her hand, you touched her arm and thigh, and you looked at me while whispering God knows what, big guy. You knew damn well what you were doing.”
The images of her face when he touched her flooded my mind, how her shoulders tensed, and her breath quickened. I lose it all over again, “Don’t you think you messed up here, Zaidan? This time, I’m going to give you a scar on your damn dick.”
He shakes his head frenetically. “No, you don’t understand. I was just playing, and she looked good. I just forgot... She’s just a good piece of meat. But she’s yours if you want.”
As if I was waiting for his approbation to make Zanae Dellé mine… Stupid bastard.
I paid little attention to his words, too absorbed in selecting my instruments with precision to extract the maximum amount of pain from him.
What can I say? Torture is an art not many can master. It’s not just about making the person suffer and ending it; it’s about drawing it out long enough to see the fear in their eyes, to revel in the power of holding their life in your hands.
And when the person deserves it, like this fucker does, things become even more interesting.
The metallic smell of blood fills the room as I carve a horrific threat on his dying flesh.
Am I like a messed-up poet? Because fuck it’s almost artistic.
I pause, enjoying the moment, and with a smile still etched on my face, I lean in to speak again.
“You see, this pain is just a glimpse of that fucking insanity that consumes me when she’s threatened, or when she’s uncomfortable because of someone. I know you weren’t here to do her any favor, Zaidan. Who put you up to marrying her? Her father? I know there’s more to the story, but I don’t really give a fuck about the ‘why’ and the ‘how’. What I do know is that you did have fun flirting with her even if she didn’t want to reciprocate. And I want you to remember it where you’re burning in hell for all the things you did here and wait for me there.”
Our little friend here isn’t a saint. I know plenty of stories about him – rape, betrayal – everything as despicable as he is.
I don’t have any boundaries when it comes to torture. In fact, I’m always trying new, creative methods.
But abusing a woman is something that will never sit right with me. And for that, I couldn’t care less about creativity. I just wanted to inflict on him more pain, more distress, a slow little death.
Maybe it’s because of that shit called PTSD?
Maybe it’s because of those fucking pictures.
I can’t breathe anymore.
Why is my heart beating so fast? Why is my vision so blurry?
Am I allowing those memories to resurface again? I can’t fucking do that.
Fucking hell .
Fingers marked around her throat, laying naked on the ground. Bruised and dead. Cold and empty. Lifeless .
1-2-3.
I look at my fingers, counting slowly to anchor myself to the moment, each number pulling me deeper into my own darkness. And I love it.
4-5-6.
My heart beats normally.
7-8-9.
My vision is clearer and I remember where I am and what I was doing.
10 .
Fuck.
Another stab inside his abdomen, pushing that blade deeper in his flesh, seeking for more blood.
A scream. “STOP IT! Fuck! You motherfucker!”
Now I’m finally here again.
Zaidan manages to wheeze out some shit between two tortured gasps. “You’ll regret this, Dyavol ,” he spits, blood mixing with his words. “She’ll see that you’re just the devil, and when she does, you’re going to hate yourself for that, and I will love seeing it.”
An honest chuckle escapes my throat, my grin widening as I respond, “You underestimate the depths of my insanity if you think you’ll ever live to see the consequences of this, Zaidan.”
I grab my gun and shoot him in the head. One shot, between the eyes. And he’s fucking dead. Finally, one less bastard on this earth.
Just a few million more to go. Depressing .
See what she’s doing to me? She’s making me lose my mind over someone as insignificant as Zaidan.
Making me feel that shit again.
That’s why she needed to be shattered all over again.
Because I felt it, life . So vividly that it took me back to that night.
This woman is playing with fire, and she doesn’t even know how to handle the flames.