Page 135 of Iced Up Love: Part Two
“You drugged her,” Zach says, voice low and steady in a way that makes the words cut deeper. “You kept her like that. You watched her while she couldn’t fight back.”
His jaw clenches so hard the muscle stands out in sharp relief.
His next hit lands harder, another rib gives with an audible snap. Paul folds forward as far as the restraints allow, body convulsing, gasping wetly for air.
“You carved into her,” Zach adds, and there’s a crack in his voice now, just a hairline fracture showing the grief underneath the steel. “You tried to take what wasn’t yours.”
Paul wheezes, tries to speak. “I didn’t, they told me—”
I hit him again, my fist slamming into his cheekbone. It collapses under the blow with a wet, crunching give. Blood sprays across my shirt, my arms, hot and coppery.
“Don’t,” I snap. “Don’t you fucking dare try to explain this.”
My chest heaves. Hands shake. Knuckles are split wide open, blood slicking every punch, mixing with his until I can’t tell whose is whose.
Zach grabs Paul’s jaw, forces his head up, locks eyes with him.
“She’s ours,” he says quietly, dangerously quiet. “You thought you could win. That you had her. That you would get away with it and now you are going to die here, forgotten, alone and with no one coming to save you.”
Paul makes a broken, wet sound, half sob, half choke. His body sags, eyes rolling, consciousness starting to slip.
“No,” I growl, grabbing him again, shaking him hard enough fresh blood wells from his wrists. “No. You don’t get to check out. You stay awake for this.”
I hit him again.
My knuckles split wider. Pain flares up my arms. I barely register it.
It goes on longer than it should.
Longer than I thought I could keep going.
Until my shoulders burn, my arms feel leaden, my breathing comes in harsh, ragged pulls.
Until every punch feels empty, nothing left but exhaustion and the echo of rage.
I step back first.
Not because I want to. Because if I don’t, I won’t ever stop.
Zach steps back with me, chest rising and falling hard, eyes still fixed on Paul like he’s measuring how much more the man can take.
Silence falls. Thick. Heavy.
Then Elijah moves.
I feel the shift before I see it, the air turning colder, heavier, like the room itself is holding its breath.
He steps forward slowly. Deliberately. Face completely blank, no rage, no flush, no tremor. Just smooth, emotionless calm that makes something cold and tight coil in my gut.
He picks up the knife from the metal tray.
Not grabbing it.
Selecting it.
Turning it once in his hand, studying the edge like it’s an instrument he’s used a thousand times.
Paul tries to lift his head. Tries to focus. Breathing uneven, broken.
