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It won’t work.
My fists clench, my fingernails bite into my skin. I grind my jaw and revel in the sound my molars make. That of hate.
“I need…” Red seeps into the corners of my vision.
I take a deep breath, inhaling the faint scent of Killian’s cologne and the coffee he’s holding.
A little better.
Who the fuck am I kidding? I’m nowhere near better.
“I need to slash into that motherfucker’s chest. Carve out his heart.” My voice is a low, menacing growl. “I need him to suffer. Cut his ear off and feed it to him.”
“Carter.” Killian’s eyes flicker upstairs, where Amara sleeps.
The only person who can calm me long enough for me to fuck her. To love her.
“Only when he’s vomiting and having a seizure. When he’s crying for his mother,” I continue, ignoring the warning in his tone. “That’s when I’ll let it go. I’ll watch him die, and my laugh will be the last thing he hears. That’s what I need.”
Violating Amara, using my knife on her, it helped for as long as I was inside her. The thrumming anger beneath my skin nipped at me while I was sleeping. Wouldn’t let me rest.
By the time I woke up, my homicidal urges reached their peak.
No one threatens my family and gets to keep their life. Fucking no one.
“Cut it out.” Killian places his finished coffee on the counter. “For her. You have to calm down for a few more hours. We have the—”
“I will not calm down.” Cyclone is still up in our bedroom. I turn, stalk to our knife block, and grab another, inferior knife.
“Carter, we’re giving her the—”
Killian continues to try to talk some sense into me.
Truthfully, I don’t really hear any of it.
Blood rushes between my ears. The wrath in me seeks an outlet. I spin, spin, spin the knife between my fingers as Killian watches. He doesn’t take a step back, as most people would. I’ll never hurt Killian, and he knows it.
Three, two, one seconds pass.
Better.
I’m still mad, just not as deafened by the rage. Killian sees through me and prowls forward. One moment I have the knife, the other he steals it from me, slamming it back next to his coffee.
“He could see what she means to us,” I growl. “Every second he’s breathing means she’s in danger.”
Killian and I are practically bumping heads. Two bulls ready to fight.
“No one’s going to hurt her. Make no mistake, Carter, Christopher is a walking dead man.” The violence of Killian’s words helps to soothe me further. “We have people on him. Until then, we stick to the plan. We’re giving her the”—he whips his head back and then to me again when he doesn’t see Amara there—“shop. She deserves this happiness. Christopher won’t steal it from her.”
“We have a more important gift to give her.” I slam my palm at his chest. “Her safety. Her honor. Hand her his head on a motherfucking plate.”
“We will.” Killian’s brown eyes darken into a dangerous shade of black. “Or are you suggesting I don’t care for her safety?”
“I’m suggesting you don’t look as freaked out as I am about her going to work today.”
“Don’t I?” He grabs my hand, pinning it over his heart. It beats wildly. Like that of a madman. He releases my hand once he witnesses that I get it. “I care. I care about other things too. She’s been stressing over the shop for long enough. Luna’s wedding is behind us. We have everything set. This is happening, and it’s happening today.”
“He killed one of our own, Kill. It took guts.” Through my ever-growing cloud of rage, I remember this isn’t Killian’s fault. One person is responsible. Christopher. “He’s got nothing to lose. We have everything.”
