CHAPTER 19 - Bryan Trevor
Oh, calm down, my dear, it's been a difficult year
And terrors don't prey on innocent victims
Trust me, darling, trust me, darling
Bad liar – Imagine Dragons
I watch him stagger out of the bar, noticing he's even drunker than when he went in, and for a moment I think the alcohol itself might kill him before I get the chance.
I don't like finishing people off in this state—not fully conscious, unable to feel the agony cutting through them until the very last second of torture.
The pleasure lies in watching terror crush their lucidity.
But today I don't have that luxury. Still, I'll make sure the drunkenness vanishes once the pain hits.
Tilden Black carries the same rotten blood as the man I destroyed, the same disgusting smile I've seen on his father's face.
One worm inheriting from another.
A bastard who should never have gotten close to my girl, much less intimidated her.
I exhale cigarette smoke, watching him stumble toward his car.
It would be easier to let him go—in the state he's in, he'd probably wrap the car around a pole—but where's the fun in leaving my revenge to chance?
I don't wait for accidents.
I am the accident!
I smile when he kicks all four flat tires and looks around.
I wait patiently as he grabs his phone and, as planned, discovers there's no signal.
A bar surrounded by forest already has spotty reception, but Luke made sure to kill any chance of a signal with a blocker.
No calls.
No rescue.
As expected, he kicks the car one more time, shoves his phone in his pocket, and starts walking away from the bar.
It's pathetic how predictable he is.
Alcohol is the worst drug there is.
It gives you false confidence, makes you believe you're invincible, and it's exactly that arrogance that drags men to their doom.
If he were sober, he wouldn't dare wander the streets at four in the morning, but he's not sober, and he's not on his uncle's turf either.
Tilden isn't far from the mansion, but he's on the wrong side tonight.
Twenty minutes of walking would get him to the iron gates.
But in five, he'll be at the edge of the woods.
The perfect spot for what I have planned.
To end this bastard's life!
I watch him trip over his own feet and toss the cigarette out the window.
Only when he's close to where I want him do I turn the key in the ignition, letting the engine roar as I accelerate.
He only notices the car when it's too late.
The dull thud of the hood against his back sends him sprawling.
I climb out slowly and spot Luke across the street, hood up, arms crossed, waiting for the moment he'll need to step in.
I approach, Tilden's pathetic grunts filling the air, and hoist him up by his shirt like he's nothing but an empty sack. Before he can even process what's happening, I'm already shoving him into the bushes.
“What the fuck are you doing?” His voice comes out slurred from the alcohol, and I almost roll my eyes in contempt. Almost.
I throw him to the ground once we're far enough that no one will hear the screams he'll be letting out soon.
I was almost home when I saw this bastard on top of Noah on the cameras.
In a matter of seconds, I had Lauren running to the living room.
It was that or I was going to storm that goddamn fortress myself.
Actually, I didn't storm it because Luke held me back.
The son of a bitch was close.
Too close.
His hands had her cornered.
And the terror in Noah's eyes was unmistakable.
Every time I replay that scene, the hatred pulses harder.
Just when I think it's impossible to want to tear him apart any more than I already do, the urge grows.
“Who are you?” he grumbles, and I stare at him, pulling back my black hood.
I let the backpack drop at my feet, flash him a smile, and cross my arms.
His eyes narrow, and I wait for that delicious moment of recognition.
“You…” he stammers, trying to get up, and I don't even need to stop him because he falls again before he can. “You fucking murderer!” he shouts, finally managing to stand. “You should be dead, but since you're not, I'll make sure you are,” he yells, reaching for his waist, but I'm faster.
In a flash, I close the distance and take him down.
When he hits the ground, disoriented, I plant my boot on his neck and crouch down, ripping the gun from his waist.
Easy as taking candy from a baby.
I lean my full weight into it and watch his eyes bulge as he feels the pressure crushing his throat.
His hands grip my leg, and it's almost boring how weak he is.
When his face starts turning purple, I lift my foot and step back, waiting for him to recover as he coughs uncontrollably.
The moment he stops coughing, I move in again.
It's delicious to see the fear screaming in his eyes, but my hatred wants more, so I blend fear with pain when I kick him in the ribs.
He writhes.
I kick again.
I can almost hear ribs cracking, the sound mingling with the grunt from his disgusting mouth.
Then comes the third, fourth, and fifth kick.
“Get up,” I say for the first time, fury dripping from every syllable, and he stares at me, breaking into a cold sweat. “You're man enough to corner a woman? Then be man enough to face me, you piece of shit!”
He crawls backward like a frightened rat.
The only sound is his groan of pain as he drags himself along.
And the birds singing in the background.
An almost macabre, delicious song.
“I told you to get up, damn it!!” I hiss, grabbing him by the shirt and hauling him up.
“What... what do you want with me?” he babbles like a whimpering child. I hear liquid trickling, and when I look down, I see he's pissed himself. “Don't kill me, please,” he begs desperately. “I swear I won't tell anyone you're alive.”
I let go of him, but before he can collapse, I slam my fist into his face.
When he falls, I land another punch, then another.
He curls up, moaning, and I spit in his face, contempt coursing through every inch of me.
The rage burns, and the pleasure of watching him writhe in agony fuels me.
“I came to show you that nobody touches what's mine,” I say, grabbing the backpack and opening it, “and gets away unscathed.”
“I...” he starts but can't finish.
“I know exactly what you planned to do when you got back.” I grab what I need and straighten up.
“No. No. No.” He shakes his head frantically, then spits blood. “I won't touch her. I promise. I swear!”
“You won't.” I raise my kitchen cleaver, and all the color drains from his face. “Her or anyone else.” I move closer, set the cleaver aside, and drag him by the collar to the nearest tree.
He struggles, and I crouch down in front of him.
“What do you know about your uncle's basement?”
“Nothing...”
“I'm only going to ask one more time, and if you don't answer, I'll cut out your tongue,” I say with disdain. “What's in your uncle's basement?”
“I've never been down there, I swear, but I know he holds meetings there.” The words come out steadier now—a sign that panic is overriding the alcohol in his system.
“About what?”
“I have no idea.” He knows, but he won't tell. “I really don't know,” he repeats.
“Meetings about what?” I yank his hair back, bringing my hand to his throat.
I start squeezing slowly, savoring how with each passing second he grows more terrified, more suffocated.
“With...” He tries to speak, and I loosen my grip. “With the members of the Primordial House.”
“What the fuck is this Primordial House?”
“A cult...”
“What kind of cult?”
“I don't know...” I squeeze a little harder. “I only know he said I was ready to join now that I turned eighteen.” I ease up, letting him breathe. “You're going to kill me anyway, aren't you?”
“But you get to decide how it happens,” I lie shamelessly. “It all depends on your cooperation!”
“Then get this shit over with.” He spits in my direction, and I punch him in the face one more time. “I'm not giving you any more information. None!” he shouts, glaring at me with hatred.
I grab the cloth I stuffed with pepper and shove it in his mouth to keep him from screaming loud enough for anyone to hear.
His eyes water, and I can't tell if it's from desperation or the pepper taking effect as I tie the cloth firmly behind his head.
“If you try to take that cloth out, I'll rip your hands off,” I warn with a smile, grabbing a rope and quickly tying him around the waist to the tree, cinching it tighter than necessary.
It'll be perfect—his organs will be starving for air while I finish the rest.
When I step in front of him again, his hands are clawing at the cloth.
I force both hands down and step on them while putting the cloth back where it needs to be.
He grunts, and I lean down to grab my favorite tool.
“Remember what I said if you tried to take it off?” I ask with a smile, and he shakes his head. His desperation only makes me want to see him suffer more. “I'm a man of my word, Tilden.”
I warn him, grabbing his hand while the other stays pinned under my foot.
I raise the cleaver, breathing slowly, and bring it down hard on his wrist while staring at him with a smile.
Hot blood sprays against my clothes, and the roar that tears from his throat is more animal than human.
Tilden writhes against the rope, but the tree trunk doesn't even creak from the force of his movement. He kicks at the ground, throws his head back—maybe trying to disconnect from his own body and the pain consuming him.
His breathing turns ragged, uneven—a mixture of sobs and screams that nearly make him choke. Veins bulge in his neck, and cold sweat runs down his pale face.
The gaze that was once arrogant is now nothing but pure panic.
He tries to press his arm against his body, as if that would be enough to stop the bleeding, but the contact with his jeans only makes the pain worse.
My eyes follow every nuance of his desperation.
His mouth opens and closes without forming words—only hoarse sounds mixed with murmurs of pain.
“You think it's over?” I raise the cleaver, noting how the blood on the blade gleams under the moon. “I don't usually leave anything half-done.”
Before he can recover from the first mutilation, I grab his other hand and pin it against the ground.
I stare at him and see his eyes begging for mercy, but there's no room for pity—only coldness and the desire for revenge remain in my chest.
With the same skill as before, I bring the cleaver down in one stroke.
The sound is dry and brutal.
The crack of breaking bones is music to my ears as I tear off the second hand in a single blow.
This time, the scream is even more animalistic.
The cloth muffles it so it doesn't carry through the woods, but it courses through every cell of my body, letting satisfaction fill me.
Tilden thrashes, his body shaken by spasms, his face contorted into a mask of agony.
His head falls forward, and he chokes on his own blood.
“Now then…” I say, wiping the blade on the soaked fabric of his shirt.
“No hands to try to escape or touch my girl.” I stand up, watching the blood drain along with the life from his body.
“Did you really believe you could open that filthy mouth and threaten the only pure thing I have in this world?” My voice comes out firm, heavy with authority.
Even as he fades, he stares at me.
There's no regret because, just like his father, he takes pleasure in intimidation.
Only now, I'm the one intimidating him, showing him what terror and desperation feel like.
I know what he would have done when he returned to the mansion, and that's what makes his suffering necessary and deliciously beautiful to watch.
“I hope you find your bastard father in the depths of hell,” I declare coldly, grabbing the gun from my waist. “Oh, tell him I send my regards.” I flash a cruel smile in his direction and pull the trigger.
The shot pierces his skull with surgical precision.
The body falls, inert, and a welcoming silence envelops the woods.
Relief and satisfaction wash over me at finally destroying another Black.
This is the second to fall, but more will follow soon.
Each of them is a piece on my board, and I'm the player who moves, controls, and decides who survives—just like in a game of chess.
Whoever dared to threaten or touch my girl now carries a target on their back—a death sentence that cannot be ignored.
I'll destroy them one by one.
I'll turn them to ashes because they don't even deserve a grave.
“You can go now—it's my turn.” My brother's voice makes me spin on my heels. “I would've liked to enjoy some of that,” he says with a cruel smile.
“Who says you can't?” I arch an eyebrow while gathering my materials. “Cut him into little pieces, then burn him.” My brother nods, staring at the corpse. “Oh, keep both hands. They'll make a nice gift soon.”
“I'll deliver them whenever you want,” he responds, approaching the body.
“I fixed the tires so no one will notice they were slashed, and now…” He stops talking and searches the corpse, then holds up the cell phone.
“I'll pull whatever info I can from this and send Gavin a message saying 'I'm going hunting with some friends. '” He smiles, pretending to be Tilden.
“Try to find anything about the Primordial House,” I say, remembering what the wretch said before he died.
“What the fuck is that?” he asks, confused.
“He said it was a sect, and I want to find out more about it,” I respond. When he nods, I start walking away, heading out of the woods.
I find the car exactly where I told my brother to hide it for my return. Before pulling out, I check that no one's around, and only when I'm certain no curious eyes can spot me do I head home.
The silence of the night is my accomplice as I let images of that bastard writhing in agony flood my mind.
A satisfied smile spreads across my face as I hit the road.
I need a shower—to wash off the blood of that wretch that splattered on me, but also to wash away the sensation of power still pulsing through my veins.
I light a cigarette and feel the tension drain with each drag.
I arrive home minutes later and sit down in front of the monitors.
Noah, my butterfly, is sleeping peacefully, the way it should be.
Watching the serenity on her face fills me with a sick sense of possession and protection all at once.
I want her for myself, just like I had her five years ago.
I need her to share every smile, every look, every dream, fear, trauma, mannerism, and quirk with me.
I want Noah completely, and I’ll carry hell on my back again to get her.