Page 150 of Dishonored

Not until he was ready.

She made him ready with her next words.

“You know how Caesar is,” she mumbled, staring at the floor like some poor, wounded animal in need of healing. “He made a bigger deal out of what happened than what it actually was—I only ever loved him.”

Caesar snapped out of the chair in a flash, and had Martina’s throat in his hands before she even understood what was happening. He slammed her down on the desk, and squeezed her throat for all she was worth. Despite the rage swimming in his bloodstream, and the absolute fury he felt at just having to even touch this woman to kill her, his face and voice remained cool, and calm.

“Loved?” Caesar asked. “That’s what you call love?”

He knew love.

He knew it from his mother.

And from the way he felt without Aria despite … everything. He was so lonely without her, and he wasn’t even sure when that had happened. All he knew was that she was every single thing that made him question who he was, and he thought he could be better.

For her … for Aria, he could be better.

He knew love.

And what this woman had done to him was not it.

Martina’s eyes widened, and her face reddened with the lack of oxygen. Oh, sure, she tried to fight but, in her drunkenness, it was pointless. He could have eased up and let the bitch talk—try to find another way out of this—but he didn’t care to hear her excuses.

He didn’t want an apology.

Not from her.

“Enjoy your place in hell,” Caesar murmured.

He didn’t let Martina see his anger, or the pain she caused him for all those years in her final moments. He made sure all she saw was his cold face until the last second, and he didn’t let go of her throat until he couldn’t feel a fucking heartbeat racing under his palms anymore.

And it was only when he did finally let her go that all those emotions came rushing in like a tidal wave ready to devastate and destroy him. Like a jackhammer pounding against his chest; the grief, anger, and pain swelled and spread.

He couldn’t breathe.

And his body hurt.

His mind felt broken.

And his heart ached.

He’d killed his monster; his demon was gone.

And he was still ruined.

He was still shattered glass standing there looking at her body—made up of fractured pieces, sharpened edges, and he couldn’t be made right again.

He was never going to be right again.

He couldn’t be.

It was then that he finally cried.

After all these years …

It was then that he finally broke.

TWENTY