Chapter Thirty-Nine #2
And, with that knowledge, comes an indomitable drive for vengeance.
I’m nervous to even lay eyes on Lyra, who—despite her snarky streak—is bright, vivacious, and so full of life.
I don’t know what she’ll be once this is over.
Having Locke take away her phone and laptop will only minimize her exposure, not erase it.
For all I know, she was one of the first people to see the sex tape leak.
I can’t even imagine what she’s thinking or feeling right now.
The only thing I could have to offer her is Silas’s head on a platter, and that’s precisely what I intend to do.
When the party’s winding down and people are starting to trickle out of the hotel and into their luxury cars, I step out of my vehicle and slip into the back-entrance of the hotel.
One thing that’s always made Silas an easy target for sabotage is his insufferably predictable routine. Everything he does is on a schedule, including how he typically works galas.
He drinks until his social anxiety—embarassment over being a failure, really—goes away. Then, he tries his best to work the floor, mostly failing. He’s always one of the last to leave these parties, and before he goes, he enjoys himself a private little meltdown or pep talk in the nearest bathroom.
I slip through the lobby of the hotel and into the area rented out for the gala. I walk across the marble floor, now sticky and covered with dirt, and head to the hallway at the back, leading to the bathrooms.
I stop in front of the men’s restroom, taking a moment to listen.
“It’s fine,” Silas mutters, the words slightly muted through the door but still audible. “It’ll all be fine. You did the right thing. He—”
“Is going to fucking kill you,” I seethe, slamming open the door.
Silas is in front of the vanity mirror, his brow damp with either sweat or water he splashed onto his face, his eyes wild. He sucks in a sharp breath and stumbles back a step. I take his moment of surprise as the golden opportunity to close and lock the door.
Silas isn’t leaving this room until I’ve extracted my pound of flesh. Even in my rage, I know I can’t kill him without earning myself a death sentence—yet. But I will begin my scheme of revenge.
I’ve had two hours to think up endless, creative ways I can torture him, and I am literally salivating to get started.
I eat up the distance between us in three strides, grab Silas by the collar, and slam his face against the vanity countertop.
A crack echoes through the room, followed by his shrill screech.
Blood sprays—either from his nose or mouth, I don’t know and I don’t care.
I flip him over, pin him against the vanity, and punch him in the face.
If his nose wasn’t broken before, it certainly is now.
He falls to the ground with a pathetic cry of pain. I kick him in the abdomen with enough force to rupture a kidney; he retches, and blood spills from his lips.
“King,” he gasps.
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” I kick him again, forcing him to roll to his back, and press my shoe to his neck.
“You have one chance to avoid death this very second, and that is confession. I will ask questions. If you lie, I’ll cut off a piece of you.
If you tell the truth, I will still hurt you, but in a way doctors might be able to stitch up.
” I’m going to the most Senior members of The Eyes tomorrow, where I will claim Lyra as my woman and future wife, point to Silas as someone who tried to harm and kill her, and ask permission to kill him.
Family members of The Eyes are strictly off-limits and considered as protected as members themselves.
Tonight, however, I want to watch Silas writhe in agony before going home to my future wife and consoling her.
“Killian—”
I press down on his neck, cutting off whatever bullshit was about to spew from his lips. “Did you leak the tape I sent you in confidence?” I ease the pressure enough to let him answer.
“I—”
I kick him in the mouth. A tooth flies out and lands on the floor with an unappetizing splat. Silas retches again and nearly chokes on his own vomit.
“Yes or no unless I specify, motherfucker,” I seethe.
“You seem to have fallen for the persona I present to the world; the established billionaire gentleman. Have you forgotten that I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks, Cornell? I can skin you alive without breaking a sweat, and I am so fucking tempted to do so.”
“Yes!” he cries.
My foot returns to his neck. I want to crush his windpipe. Red creeps over the edges of my vision, but I manage to contain myself… for now.
“Why,” I hiss.
“You’re obsessed. She’s dangerous—”
I kick him again, and three more teeth fly out. Silas wisely shuts the fuck up.
“Were you the one who sent the men after her to mug and rape her?” I demand.
“Yes,” Silas wheezes, struggling to breathe.
“Why?”
“Same answer.”
So I give him yet another kick—this time to his side. I’ve probably ruptured an internal organ at this point, but I don’t care about the consequences. I want Silas dead. He’s been a nuisance since I overtook him in money and power, but now, he’s a dangerous nuisance who came after the woman I love.
Yes, love. There’s no other word to explain my burning drive to avenge her and to give her the world. There’s nothing else in the English language that sums up my feelings for the Little Bird who’s managed to conquer every piece of me.
“I’m going to give you a temporary favor,” I hiss. “Your life. If you value it, you will do your very best to clean up the mess you made. You will dedicate yourself to making reparations to my fiancée.”
Silas’s eyes bulge at the word fiancée. He almost looks more pained now than he did as I was hitting him, which pisses me off, so I decide to show him what true pain is.
This time, I dig the toe of my shoe into his eye. With enough pressure, I’ll almost certainly blind him for life.
“Please,” he cries. “Please—”
“Shut the fuck up,” I growl. “Pleading will get you nowhere. You should’ve considered the consequences to your actions, Silas. You have now officially made an enemy out of me… and you know the lifespan of my enemies are decidedly short.”
I pull a carving knife out of my pocket and throw it at him. It lands on the ground beside him with a loud clatter, jarring him.
“I require a price from you if you want to leave this room alive,” I say, running my hands over my suit to smooth out wrinkles.
“You hurt what’s precious to me, so now you will lose something precious to you.
” I kick the knife closer. Silas whimpers.
“You are going to cut a pound of flesh from your body,” I say.
“I don’t give a shit where it comes from—your stomach, your thigh, your foot, your cock.
But you will cut off a pound of flesh right.
Now. You have twenty minutes to do so. Before you leave this room, you will present the flesh to the men I have waiting outside, and they will weigh it.
If you’re an ounce short, they’ll put you in a cell with no sunlight, food, or water, to slowly die from your injuries. ”
My hands itch to bury the knife in Silas’s thorax. Instead of indulging myself, I spin around and walk away. I nod at the two guards I have stationed outside the door. They have their orders—one of them is holding a weighing scale—and I know they’ll carry out my commands down to the letter.
When I get back in my car, pissed and covered in splatters of blood, my driver says faintly, “You need to check the news.”
My brows slam down. My heartrate triples in speed, even though I know nothing—nothing could make tonight worse.
I’m shortly proven wrong when I fish my phone out of its compartment and power it on. I have twenty missed calls from Locke, and about a hundred texts. One comes in just as I’m gearing to call him back—it’s a link to an article.
An article written by an anonymous source, titled, NYC’s favorite philanthropist not so philanthropic…?
The clickbait title gives way to an article that chills me to the bones.
Somehow, the night managed to get much fucking worse.