Griffin Colson #2
“It–it was the wall... It wasn’t you,” she stammers.
I don’t want to move wrong and fuck this up more than I already have. I study her before asking softly, “Do you need me to leave?”
She doesn’t answer me, she doesn’t move.
She’s embarrassed, like she blames herself for a reaction I should have known would happen.
It’s only been three fucking days. I’m bandaging her back at night and I shove her against a wall.
I’m the worst kind of asshole. I sigh and fill a glass of water, setting it carefully on the table next to her plate before backing away again.
“I’m gonna step outside,” I mutter, “give you space. You don’t have to answer me right now.” I pull my boots on at the door, before slipping outside.
A few hours later, I pull in and park in front of Bishop’s building.
I didn’t leave until Jax showed up to stay with Seriph.
She was in the bedroom after I came inside and didn’t come out before I left.
I’m gripping the steering wheel imagining it’s the throats of the cunts that broke her.
I’ve never wanted someone the way I want her and I can’t even touch her because they stole her peace.
I can’t expect her to trust me after what she’s been through.
I have to go slow, let her set the pace.
I have to be prepared for months, hell, years of possible panic attacks and PTSD.
When this shit is over and the threat of Sokolov isn’t hovering over her head, I’ll talk to her about therapy.
After this morning, how do I convince her I’d never do anything she doesn’t want me to?
I hope I didn’t fuck this up before I had something worth holding onto.
My thoughts are dark when I make it to the interrogation room.
It’s bare bones, concrete walls, a single metal table, and two chairs.
I stand by the door, flicking my pocket knife open and closed.
Viktor and Stepan are brought in, sporting more visible injuries than the last time I saw them; bruises, black eyes, and swollen lips.
Stepan looks worse than Viktor after the beating I gave him at the warehouse.
Bishop put them through the ringer for information on Sokolov’s whereabouts.
He already told me that they don’t know anything.
They were too low in the pecking order to be brought in on the important shit.
Luckily for me and not so much for them, they’ve outlived their usefulness.
I push off the wall and move to the table. They are forced to sit and their wrists and ankles are cuffed to the chairs, locking them in place. They glare at me, but there's a flash of fear in their eyes. They know. They know that I defended her that day in the store, that I know what they did.
I bend down to the duffel bag under the table.
I told Bishop my plans and he had the tools waiting for me.
The sick fuck thinks what I intend to do is hilarious.
He’s standing in the other corner, arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the wall.
Observing, supporting. He’s here to keep me from going too far.
Not that I am worried about keeping my soul intact. I lost that years ago.
I take the items out of the bag. A table vise, a blow torch, a thin metal rod, and a heavy mallet.
I line them up side by side. Stepan and Viktor watch me warily.
The color drains from their faces. Neither of them says anything, they have no idea of what’s coming.
Fear and anger flicker through their expressions, their bravado wavering under my slow deliberate actions.
I take the table vise and kneel between Stepan’s legs. I shove his knees apart and attach it to the front of his chair, between his thighs.
He curses in Russian, his voice rising an octave. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Viktor looks away, sweat beading on his forehead.
“No, don't look away. Since you like to watch, you get to see what I do to him. Like you watched what he did to her.” Turning to Stepan, I jerk his hips forward by his belt, then unzip his pants. Reaching inside, I take his dick out, yanking hard and placing it in the vise.
Stepan yelps in pain, his face contorted as he jerks against the restraints. His knuckles white as he grips the armrests. “Fuck you!”
I twist the mechanism, tightening it painfully. “Huh, guess I needed a smaller one. Oh well, this will work I think.”
Bishop chuckles from the corner.
Viktor is rigid in his chair, the sweat dripping down his neck. He’s perfectly still. Probably trying to figure out if the same thing is going to happen to him. He spits between gritted teeth. “You think this changes anything?”
I ignite the blow torch, the blue flame hissing to life. I tilt it slightly, letting the heat wash over Stepan’s exposed skin enough to make him flinch violently. “No.” I say calmly. “This doesn’t change anything. But you? You don’t get to walk away from what you did.”
I bring the flame closer and he thrashes violently until the vice pulls his cock and he stops. The veins bulge in his neck while he screams in Russian.
I pick up the metal rod and heat the end of it. Stepan’s entire body fights against the restraints once he realizes what’s coming. His breathing turns erratic, panicked. There’s terror in his eyes as he watches the metal rod start to glow red hot.
“Nyet! Nyet!” His voice cracks. “Stop! I’ll tell you anything!”
Viktor looks like he might be sick. His skin is pale and clammy. His chest rising and falling too fast. I don’t have to tell him to watch this time. It’s like he can’t look away. Bishop remains silent in the corner, present but not interfering.
“Too late for that.” My breath ghosts over his ear. “This is for her.”
I press the tip of the rod to the slit on the head of his penis and push it in.
His skin sizzles when it makes contact. The vice holds it in place so I can watch his face as I shove the burning hot metal into his urethra slowly.
The scream that tears from Stepan’s throat is raw and guttural.
It doesn’t sound human. The scent of burning flesh fills the room, thick and acrid.
Viktor starts dry heaving. His whole body trembles as he squeezes his eyes shut.
Bishop grabs his hair and forces his head up. “No,” he snarls. “You don’t get to look away from this.”
I pump the rod in and out repeatedly as Stepan writhes in agony.
His screams echo off the concrete walls.
I continue methodically moving it until the metallic scent of blood mixes with the smell of seared flesh.
I only stop when Stepan slumps forward barely conscious, his eyes broken and glassy.
I toss the rod onto the table and turn to Viktor.
I grab Viktor by the back of the head and slam his face down onto the metal table. I make sure he’s staring straight at Stepan, pinning him there as I reach for the torch again.
“You like watchin’?” My voice is gravel and ice. “Then that is the last thing you get to see.”
I bring the torch down on his eyes. The scream that follows when the flame meets skin and viscous eye matter, is raw and animalistic.
Viktor’s body jerks violently against my grip as his eyelids blister under the heat.
There’s a subtle pop and milky white fluid leaks down his cheeks, leaving him with nothing but gaping sockets.
He’s trembling and mumbling incoherently. I grab the heavy mallet.
I smash his hand, shattering bone and breaking his fingers.
It’s merciful in comparison to what I did to his eyes.
Skin splits and white shards break through, his fingers are at odd angles and mangled.
The spray of crimson is warm across my face and arms. By the time I start on the second hand I’m in a frenzy and Bishop has to pull me off.
When I step back, both men are barely conscious, shaking messes of blood and ruined flesh.
Bishop calls some of his guys in to bandage them and work on clean up.
I toss the mallet onto the table and walk out the door.
I’m pacing the pavement, taking one long breath after another.
The scent of burnt flesh clings to my clothes, branding the inside of my nose.
I don’t feel better, but I don’t feel worse either.
The only thing that feels different is the knowledge that they’ll never touch her again.
And she’ll never know how far I went for her.
I look down at my hands covered in their blood, clenching and unclenching my fingers. The door clicks shut behind Bishop.
He leans against the brick, studying me with that same unreadable expression he’s had for years. “Cartel’s en route,” he says gruffly. “You good?”
We found out Stepan, Viktor, and Yuri fucked over the cartel a few months ago and there is a pretty hefty price on their heads. It works out for me because it guarantees bodies I don’t have to clean up.
I flex my hands, once, twice more. “No.”
“Good.” He pushes off the wall and steps closer. “Means you’re not a fucking sociopath.”
We stand in companionable silence for a while before he speaks again. “You get what you needed out of it?”
“It didn’t change anything.” I exhale in frustration. “She’s as broken as she was before.”
Bishop hums. “Takes time to heal,” he says quietly. “You know that better than most.”
My jaw clenches, fingers tightening into fists again. “Time doesn’t erase scars. Just makes ‘em harder to see.”
Bishop studies me for a moment before nodding once. “No,” he agrees, “but it gives you room to learn how to carry ‘em without breaking.”
“I hate it when you pull out that fortune cookie bullshit.” I turn to head inside. He chuckles and claps a hand on my shoulder, falling into step beside me.
The two cartel enforcers follow me to the interrogation room, with their polished suits and cold eyes.
They don’t speak as I jerk my head at the door, motioning for them to go inside.
One of them steps forward and hands me a thick envelope from his inner jacket pocket.
I tuck it away without counting it. The amount is right, they always pay upfront for high value targets.
They go into the room. We stand in the hallway while we wait for them to come out with Stepan and Viktor.
“Remind me not to piss you off, man,” one of them says.
Viktor stumbles and falls against the wall. I smirk and nod as they pass by. Stepan’s stilted gait fills me with dark satisfaction. Neither man fights, they know they’re already dead. And after what I did to them, they might be grateful for it.