“That’s better.” Roman smiles in the same way a tiger would before tearing through its dinner’s neck. He may like inflicting fear, but what he loves most is making them beg. “Apologize to my girl.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say, it’s fine. He doesn’t have to. But I want to hear him say it. I want him to beg for my forgiveness.
The duct tape is ripped from Marcus’s mouth for the second time tonight. But like the idiot he is, the first words out of his mouth are, “Please, let me go.”
The words earn him a knife to his stomach. I flinch back from the suckling sound combined with his howling. Whether from morbid fascination, a sense of responsibility, or some sick need for closure, I keep my eyes open, staring at the gruesome sight through new tears.
“Apologize,” Roman growls, twisting the knife.
My chest tightens. Watching this kind of thing on TV is different from seeing it happen to your foster brother. I wish I had the strength to hurt Marcus the way Roman is, not just for vengeance, but to prove to myself that I can take care of myself in every possible way.
Marcus screams. What if the neighbors hear? What if the police come? What if Marcus lives and tells the police that I was an accomplice, like I know he would?
Marcus’s lips quiver, spit and blood flying out as he looks at me. “I—I’m sorry.”
I grit my teeth. His apology doesn’t make me feel any better.
“You can do better than that,” Roman says.
“I’m sorry!” Marcus cries as Roman applies more pressure to the open wound. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “Please, just let me go.”
“Keep going,” Roman says.
I dig half-moons into my palms and watch Marcus beg. “Please. I swear—I swear I won’t tell anyone. Do whatever you want with that slut—"
I suck in a sharp breath as the blade rips through tendons and sinews before my tormentor can finish his sentence, but the damage is already done. The rage vibrating from Roman is a living, breathing thing I can taste in the back of my throat.
An endless stream of blood pours from the yawning slit across Marcus’s neck. The crimson waterfall soaks his chest and rushes down his legs before pooling onto the floor.
I start heaving, but nothing comes up.
Inch by agonizingly slow inch, Roman turns his head in my direction, and I’m frozen in my spot. Dark hair falls over his beautifully vicious face, covered in my foster family’s blood.
Electricity cracks in the space between us, and every cell in my body is a live wire under his stare. When his eyes snap up to mine, it’s like I’m finally looking at him and seeing him for the bloodthirsty beast he is. And he’s found his next kill.
Me.
Pure animalistic instinct takes over with the single-minded need to run from the apex predator. My foot slides backward as he steps forward. One foot back, another forward. Stalking me. Hunting me.
The all-consuming urge to run has nothing to do with his strong strides or the knife fisted at his side. No, it’s the glint in his eyes. He isn’t warning me not to run.
He’s hoping I will.
Reason left me a long time ago. Logic is still tucked away in my bed, oblivious to the chaos below.
You should never run. You can climb, and you might be able to hide, but you never run.
Yet, that’s precisely what I do.
I run.
Chapter 4
ROMAN
8 Years Ago
Roman: 14 years old – Isabella: 12 years old.
“Damn it, Mickey,” Bella sighs, dabbing an alcohol-soaked pad to the cut on my face.
I smirk up at her, bouncing my leg on the concrete as I sit on the edge of the deck. “Yeah, but did you see the other guy?”
The glare she shoots my way is enough to make Hell freeze over. But knowing her, I’ll say a few choice words here and there, and it’ll melt like it’s just another day in paradise.
Steve is going to have a field day over this. He’ll probably try to get a couple more hits in himself or decide my weekend would be better off spent in the basement. He’s figured out that it’s far more effective than a belt or a “good ol’ fashion beatin’,” as he’d say.
“Yes, I saw the other guy.” She throws her hands up, but the exasperation doesn’t reach her eyes. “You pushed him to his knees and made him beg me for my forgiveness.”
I lift a shoulder. “You should have said you didn’t forgive him. Make it more exciting for me. You can forgive me by playing tag.”
We might be too old to play those types of games, but I just love the way her eyes widen right before I catch her. Screw hide and seek, or hacky sack. Tag is the only game I’ve ever wanted to play with her.
This time, when she looks at me, she really does seem exhausted, but it disappears when I wince from the sharp sting of the cotton on the open wound on my cheek.
I have to hand it to the kid from before; he didn’t look like much, but he could throw a punch. Caught me completely off guard. I almost had respect for him, but then I remembered why he ended up there.
“It was an accident.”
She’s been saying that all afternoon. It looked like no accident from what I saw. The lunchbox I gave her when we were kids somehow ended up in his bag. My Bella doesn’t have accidents like that.
This was deliberate.
I don’t take kindly to that.
Bella and I—not me and Bella (she’s been helping me with my English homework)—have been playing this little cat-and-mouse game since day one. I’m the cat, everyone else is the mouse, and she’s the dog from Tom & Jerry that would try to mediate. Or simply stand to the side and flinch every time someone lands a hit on me.
I like her flinching far more than I should.
I squeeze the stress ball the little princess got me using as of last month. I’ve already gone through two of them—not that she knows. If she did, she’d probably burst a vein from being overly worried about me. I’ve just been pocketing them from the department store instead and replacing them before she figures it out.
The stress ball is a handy little gadget that has stopped me from bashing my head into a wall. Or Steve’s, maybe even Josh’s, too. We have a new kid staying with us, about five years younger than Bella.
At first, I liked Jeremy because he was quiet and kept to himself. Then Bella sniffed him out and decided to take that little shit under her wing. If he’s under her wing, then by extension, that means he’s under my wing, which gets fucking exhausting when I only have two wings. Half the time, I’m walking myself into the basement before Steve gets the chance to drag me in there.
But it’s easier now.
Down there in the cold.
Now, I have the handy dandy stress ball, a pen and paper, and the MP3 player I stole from Skinny—or was it Ugly?—all because they looked at my girl the wrong way.
At least her hair isn’t so ridiculously wonky anymore. She means well and tries her damn best, but I usually end up redoing it for her before we walk to school. If not, I just can’t stop staring at it in all its chaos.
Every morning, I hold my breath to see if she tried braiding it because, unless she brings a hairbrush, there’s no way I can salvage it.
She frowns at me, and I frown, too.