Page 134 of Iced Up Love: Part Two
The warehouse doors seal behind us with a dull metallic thud that kills every sound from the world outside. The air inside is already saturated, thick with the sour, metallic reek of old blood that’s soaked into the concrete long enough to turn cloying, almost sweet at the edges. It coats my tongue the second I breathe in, settles heavy in my chest like damp rot.
Paul is right where they left him.
Tied to the steel chair in the center of the empty space. Thick zip ties bite deep into his wrists and ankles, the plastic embedded so far the skin around them is swollen purple and weeping clear fluid mixed with blood.
His head hangs forward, chin resting on his chest, dried black streaks running from his nose and split mouth down his shirtfront. His breathing is shallow and wet, each pull a faint gurgling rasp that says he’s hovering right on the edge of unconsciousness, body too battered to hold much longer.
I stop. Just stand there.
Staring at him.
And all I see is her. On that floor.
The blood spreading slow beneath her.
The way she didn’t move.
The image slams into me so hard my ribs ache. Something in my chest twists, sharp, violent, like a hand reaching in and squeezing until I can’t pull air.
Zach steps forward first. I follow without thought. The hospital, the machines, her small hand limp in mine for hours, none of it exists anymore. Only him. Only what he did.
His head lifts a fraction as we get close. Eyelids flutter. Eyes glassy, unfocused, then they find us. Recognition hits like ice water. Then pure terror floods his face.
“Please, ” he croaks, voice cracked and thick with phlegm and blood. “I didn’t...”
My fist crashes into his jaw before the rest can come out.
The impact is wet and heavy, bone crunching under my knuckles, his head whipping sideways so violently the chair skids an inch, metal screeching on concrete. Blood sprays in a hot arc from his split lip, splattering my wrist, warm and sticky.
“You didn’twhat?” I snarl, grabbing the front of his shirt in both fists and yanking him upright hard enough the zip ties tear fresh skin, blood welling instantly around his wrists in bright beads. “You didn’t take her? You didn’t touch her? You didn’t think you could fuckinghaveher?”
He chokes, blood pouring from his mouth now, bubbling as he tries to speak. I feel every frantic shudder in his body, every useless jerk against the restraints.
“You had her on the floor,” I say, voice dropping lower, darker, because the memory is burning behind my eyes, too vivid, too sharp. “You had your hands on her. You pinned her down like she was yours to break.”
I hit him again. Harder. The second punch lands on the same spot, skin splitting wider, cartilage giving with a wet snap. His head snaps back, a strangled cry ripping out of him. Blood sheets down his chin, drips onto my hands in thick ropes.
I don’t stop.
I hit him again. And again.
No rhythm. No control. Just raw, ugly impact.
Every helpless second in that car racing to her.
Every minute watching her chest rise and fall on machines because she couldn’t do it herself.
Every breath I took thinking we might lose her forever, it all comes out here, in fists that split skin and crack bone.
“You thought you could take her from us?” I snarl, shaking him until the chair rattles, until more blood wells around the zip ties and runs in steady streams down his forearms. “You thought you could just...keep her? Break her? Make her scream foryou?”
Zach steps in beside me.
His movements are quieter. More deliberate.
But the violence is just as deep.
His fist drives into Paul’s ribs, once, twice, each hit placed exactly where it will do the most damage without killing him yet. The sound is sickening, wet crunch of bone, forced exhale exploding in a spray of blood and spit.
