Page 47 of Kill Feed

I hold one bottle out to him, meeting his side. He looks at it, but doesn’t take it immediately.

“I can get you water,” I say lightly. “You don’t strike me as reckless.”

He takes the bottle, fingers brushing mine briefly before he pulls it back and takes a sip. I eye him down as his gaze returns to the view below, all while pretending I don’t notice how riled up he is.

Although he seems to be dulling it down. Distracting himself.

The tension he carried at the pub has thinned. Not gone, but rather redistributed. His shoulders aren’t as high, his breathing is steady, and he looks almost—dare I say—comfortable.

I take a step closer.

The city lights reflect faintly in the glass behind us. In the dimness, I notice the pale line at the side of his neck again. A line that resembles a cut.

Alas, as much as I would like to fuck him. That’s not the point of bringing him to a secluded place. The objective is, and always was, to get as much information as I can to destroy him with later.

I lift my hand slowly, giving him time to move if he chooses to. He doesn’t, and my fingers lightly brush the side of his neck. The scar is thin but distinct; a slightly raised ridge that cuts diagonally on the side of his throat.

He stiffens for half a second, but he doesn’t flinch. His body just registers the touch. I trace it gently with my thumb, attention latched onto the scar, like it’s just idle curiosity.

“What happened?” I finally murmur.

His jaw tightens slightly, and that’s when I withdraw my hand. I lean back against the brick, bottle resting loosely in my grip, and wait.

“Knife,” he states. “It happened a long time ago.”

Hm, interesting. Must be from the time Daddy Dearest murdered his mother and sister, I reckon.

“Accident?” I ask.

He huffs softly at that, dismissive in a way. “No.” His fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle. “My father,” he adds. There’s no tremor in his voice as he says that, and I’m right on the fucking money.

I search his posture for any break, any sign of fear or retaliation. But there’s none.

Thanks to the deep dive I did on his life, I practically know everything, but that’s not the point. Not nearly. I want him to tell me what happened. I want to see if his past ignites any fire in those dead eyes. I’m searching for sympathy and the awareness of the emotions that come with it.

I came prepared. Textbook style, ready to manipulate this shit out of him for the answers I want, but to my fucking surprise, he turns to face me fully, eyes locked onto mine, spilling everything. If I didn’t know any better—and I do—I'd say he’s opening up to me.

That’s not the case with him. Adrian’s analyzing my reaction.

“My dad’s always been obsessed with the laws of nature. Said that animals know their place by design and never stray from it,” he explains, face placid and eyes hollowed. “He took me hunting for the first time when I was eight years old and explained to me his believes in excessive detail.”

“Did you share those beliefs?”

“I didn’t give a fuck,” Adrian iterates. “And he knew. He knew none of us cared for his exaggerated views on life. It got worse when he started drinking, and one day he decided he had enough, I guess.”

Adrian flexes his jaw, grip tightening then loosening around the neck of the beer bottle. “He came home from hunting one evening screaming and yelling… he started throwing things around and at that point I grabbed my sister to shield her. My mother tried to calm him down but that only aggravated him more. So, he strangled her to death.”

He’s stone fucking cold and utterly devoid of emotions as he explains this horrid death. His body, muscle memory jump-starting, but the connection is lost, like wires have been clipped in his brain.

He doesn’t stop there. “My sister rushed to her side, shaking her and yelling for her to wake up. I froze, I suppose, as I watched my father take his hunting rifle, put it to my sister’s head and shoot.” He pauses and I can practically see the coils in his mind turning as if reading his life story off a script.

“And then?”

“Then he turned to me,” Adrian continues, tilting his head. “Dropped the gun and pulled a hunting knife from his pocket. I stumbled backwards and fell. That’s when he knelt over me, pressing the blade to my neck, telling me how—if I was in the wild—I would’ve been eaten first.”

The answer is steady. There’s no pain in his eyes. No nostalgia.

“And are you weak?” I dare to ask, and to my surprise, he grins.