Chapter 10 Daxton
Gavin wasn’t even on the list.
In truth, the asshole had another thirty-eight good years. But would you look at how he fucked himself?
Sliding my blade out of my pocket, I snap once, and my scythe gleams in all its glory, extending to its true form. I narrow my eyes at the simple-minded fucks in front of me. One has no shame, and the other is a pathetic excuse of a man.
“What the fuck?” The dumb blonde finally has the common decency to cover herself, tugging up the front of her flimsy dress over her inflated breasts—plastic, just like the other ninety-nine percent of her.
The handle of my scythe swings over my knuckles with ease, the blade singing as it slices the air, a low whisper turning into a hiss. The fucker shields her with his arm, as if she is something precious, something worth protecting, but I can hear all of their thoughts.
‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Is that a fucking scythe?!? I’m going to die because of a mediocre fuck. I didn’t even want the bitch, she just kept throwing the pussy at me.’
He really is scum, and I’m about to tell my sister to bury him at the deepest level of the Underworld. I can’t wait to taste every drop of his suffering as he passes through me.
My eyes shift to the bimbo, and I smirk.
‘Maybe if I suck him off, he’ll let me go. I can't die like this.’ Her lips quiver, but she tries to give me what I think she believes is her sexiest smile. It must be a sad existence to think you can leverage your body for everything. Good thing she’s seconds away from being put out of her misery.
“No,” I answer her thoughts, my voice a low, deadly rumble. My eyes narrow on her.
“W-what?” Her whole body trembles behind the idiot trying to act as if he isn’t afraid as well.
“No,” I repeat, my grin widening, “Even if you sucked my cock until your bloody jaw locked, I wouldn’t let you live.”
The waterworks start then, tears streaming down her cheeks as her perfect makeup smudges. No tears for her betrayed bestie, but the thought of her imminent demise is the only thing that invokes an ounce of emotion.
Figures, fucking mortals.
‘Oh my god, oh my god. A scythe. The man has a motherfucking scythe.’ Mackenzie’s thoughts tremble behind me. ‘Is he really going to kill them? Was he serious about everything he said? Think. Think. Think, Mackenzie. How do I stop him?’
“You don't, ma belle ame,” I say, my eyes never leaving my prey. “I'm unavoidable—Tiffany’s soul belongs to me already…but your boy toy here, he’ll die simply for your tears, because those are mine alone.”
Swinging my scythe, I slice through arteries, slip clean like butter through bone—the fucker, Gavin’s arm tumbles to the ground, a strangled scream leaving his throat.
I continue to slash through their bodies, a hand tumbles free from Tiffany, leaving her with a stump—beautiful butchery even as they scream, even as they beg for mercy.
Finally, sealing their fate with my scythe, I cut through one neck and then the other, decapitating them.
Pure artistry. Blood splatters against the walls, painting the crisp white with my loathing, spraying my face and clothes with their sweet release, what’s left of them hits the floor with a thud, one after the other.
I exhale, feeling their souls snap into place inside me. Humans think their options are heaven or hell, up above or down below, but the Underworld is where every soul resides—where you end up will be retribution for how you lived your life.
I turn to face Mackenzie, her tear-filled eyes vast with the shock of her friend’s sudden departure, and I’m sure the scattered body parts aren’t an easy pill to swallow.
“Don’t shed any tears for them,” I tell her. “ As far as most mortals go, they were both vapid.”
Her eyes blink rapidly, but she doesn’t form any words. She stands there, mouth agape, eyes overflowing with tears. I’m pretty sure she’s in shock. I step toward her, and she steps back, knocking the door behind her shut.
“Don’t be afraid of me, please.”
“W-what do you mean?” Her voice trembles. “You. Just. Murdered. My. Friends.”
Friends? That’s almost laughable.
“I can tell you what she thought of you.” I smirk. “Spoiler—none of it was friendly. But I’m sure, deep inside, you already know that. You’re not even truly convinced that you were friends.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” She scoffs, letting her hand slip up to the doorknob behind her as if she might run.
“What are you doing, Mackenzie?”
Broken hums flood her mind, as if she’s trying to shield her thoughts. Clever mortal.
“Are you going to kill me too? Like you killed them.” Her heart clatters in her chest, and it makes my cock so hard it presses viciously against my zipper.
Tilting my head to the side, my eyes track her every movement—the way her chest heaves, the way her throat works as she swallows her fear.
The fact that she looks like she’s ready to run ignites something almost primal within me.
Because if she were to make a move, she would find out exactly why you can’t cheat death.
“I’ve already told you they were not your friends,” I purr.
“THEY WERE!” she shouts, tears slipping from her eyes.
“And yet, she was here fucking your boyfriend,” I remind her, dusting a stray piece of intestine off my shoulder. “I don’t think that’s very friendly, do you?”
“She was drunk!”
“She was a whore,” I correct her. The truth may hurt more than the lie, but I’ve never been in the business of covering up obvious credence with fabricated fantasies.
“And for the record, she wasn’t drunk at all.
She loved the feel of him, she loved the way he tasted, the way he smelled, and most of all, she loved that you didn’t know that they’d been fucking for months.
She loved that you were so paranoid about it, as if you couldn’t quite put your finger on it…
but you knew. She loved being his dirty, slutty little secret.
” Turning back to my fine display, I crouch down next to the bloody pool forming under their severed limbs, shifting Tiffany’s heeled foot away from his severed head—dead eyes shocked, mouth agape.
I catalog the features objectively. “I’m not sure why, though. He’s average at best.”
“Shut up! Shut up!” I look over my shoulder, brow raised as she squeezes her hands over her ears, turning away from the bloody display, glossy-eyed. “That’s not true,” she whispers to herself, voice breaking. “It can’t be.”
I hate to see her this way, but I’ve never been good at lying. So, I won’t start today.
“Truths are all around you…even when you feel it, you refuse to see it,” I tell her, standing back up to my height. “Like the only reason she was dating Stormie is so that you wouldn’t suspect she was fucking him.”
“You don’t own a shred of decency or empathy, do you?” she snaps, turning to face me as tears freely roll down her face.
I hate seeing her cry, I hate the pain in her eyes, but if there is one thing that I will teach her while I am here, it’s that truths are better than lies, no matter how much they hurt. Truth gives you the agency to look before you leap.
“I didn’t come all this way to show empathy.
I came to collect the souls I am in debt of.
I told you that. When. We. First. Met,” I remind her, as I level my eyes with hers.
“Don’t blame me if you didn’t believe it until you saw my scythe,” I snap once more, and the large weapon becomes compact again.
With an effortless flick of the wrist, it snaps closed before I shove it into my back pocket.
“So what? You came here to kill us all?” The bunched-up sleeves of her sweater fall over her palms as she gestures to the pile of limbs.
“You, her…” I say, jutting my thumb behind me at her now officially dead friend. “You're both already dead. At least you were supposed to be. I don’t know how this happened,” I huff.
“And you think I do?” she snips, placing sweater-covered hands on her hips.
“Why are your clothes always three sizes too big!?” I growl, annoyed at her insistence on defending them, annoyed at being here, annoyed that this form feels too tight, too suffocating. “Mortals are pitiful.” I scoff, turning away from her.
“Being mortal—feeling, living, breathing—is beautiful.” She storms around my right side, stopping in front of me as she pins me with a hard look. “At least my mortality makes me feel something.”
“I feel.” I smirk down at her scowl, listening to the way her heart runs a marathon in her chest even though she’s taking a stab at being tough.
“I feel as though mortals are asinine.” Her lips part in the type of shock that makes me chuckle.
“The insanity is, you all know. If life is what you make it, then why wouldn’t you believe death is so too?
You’ve all heard different accounts of what happens when people die and come back.
All unique. All different.” I run my fingers through my hair as I exhale a calming breath to satiate the constant drum of my exasperation.
“And yes, living is beautiful. Most mortals live long lives. You grow, you build families, legacies—some that are written in history, remembered for generations—things that are written in textbooks, and filed away for thousands of years. The truth is…no one living today knows if half of it is accurate, and yet you trust that knowledge, you believe in it. You trust stories and depictions made up by men, and then…you fear me. Even when you don’t know what the reality of meeting your end means.
You come to me in fear, fueled by the imaginings of men—flesh and blood—who can’t even see the truth within themselves. The blind leading the fucking blind.”
“Well.” She sighs, wiping away her tears as if she’s arming herself for battle. And something about it entices me—vulnerability melting to ferocity. “That’s obtuse.”
“What?” I grit out.
“You say we come to you screaming in fear. Well, yeah. We cling to the imaginings of men—flesh and blood as you say—because it is all we have.” She tilts her chin definitively.
“We are not afforded, as mortals, the knowledge that you have. And though some of us may know, it is not widely commonplace knowledge, as are the things in textbooks you so eagerly mentioned. Only a small few can tell the tale based on personal accounts. And instead of understanding, you scoff at our ignorance? You detest us? It’s the exact definition of the word obtuse. ”
Well, well, well. I think I’ve met my match. She’s everything I believed her to be, and yet, so much more—I want to see what her soul looks like outside of its prison. It’s probably even more magnificent.
And I can’t help the way my lips curl on one side. “I didn’t know I was due for sensitivity training. I’ll let my boss know.”
“Jesús Cristo!” she growls. And honestly, she is more irresistible with that fire in her eyes. “You are such a fucking ass!”
“Ah, yes.” I chuckle. “A scholar, indeed!”
“FUCK YOU!” she yells.
“When?” I ask, a devilish grin stretching across my face as I inch closer to her.
She backs away, knocking into the chest of drawers behind her as I pin her against it. “Answer me, ma belle ame,” I say, peering into shimmering eyes that seem to gleam like the darkest obsidian. “When?”
“I don’t even like you.” Her throat bobs as she struggles to find her words. “Why would I fuck you? ”
“Why do you mortals insist on lies?” I whisper, nuzzling against her neck, smearing her friends’s blood along her alabaster skin.
Nethrian gods below, she’s so soft, so warm.
“I can hear all of those naughty thoughts that race through your head. I can smell your arousal. Even covered in your lover’s blood, you still want me to devour you. ”
My fingers curl into her dark hair, tugging her head back so she can’t escape my gaze as my other hand grips her face. “Even covered in your best friend’s decay, you’re still wondering how my lips taste.”
A low, primal growl rolls out of me that causes her thighs to draw together tighter, desperate to hide her dirty secret, and I don’t miss the deception that lies in her awestruck stare. She wants to pass it off as fear, but all I see is desperation. So desperate, but not desperate enough.
My hand slips into her baggy jeans, my fingers finding just the right spot to make her body quiver, and she doesn’t stop me.
“Oh, God,” she moans.
“Not quite.” Her warmth envelops me as my fingers thrust inside her. She’s so tight, so perfect, better than anything I could have ever begun to fathom.
And all I want is to tear her apart.