Tyrant

(𝟹5) 𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝙲𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚢

Darcio

Everything she did had been completely unexpected.

Unexpected and uncalled for. 

And completely unlike her—to address a topic with such tenacity that the strange desperation could be felt radiating from her flesh. The woman with an uncaring heart of stone, a will of steel bedecked with a burning fire so intense and unforgiving. 

A fire different than Phoenix's lovely, determined one. A fire meant to instill fear. To prompt hate and revenge. 

She'd aimed her weapon at Nix. A pistol, so black and dangerous and deadly that I'd almost shoved her slender frame down to the hard floor. Hard enough to break something.

But I had held back, my very blood pulsing in rage at the unforgivable action.

Knowing her story is the one thing that restrains the verbal blows I yearn to lash upon her. The unfortunate history of her past has my tongue stilling in its place, to not destroy those who have already been destroyed. To not further destroy the last remnant of humanity in Kenna Madigan.

A real man would do no such thing.

Because under her bullshit arrogance and haughtiness lies an interior so neglected and deserted. I should know—her raw confessions had slid out like butter in the heat of certain moments. Moments that were no more than intimate interactions between friends. Not lovers.

Like a bastard, I shove away that small bite of guilt eating at me, the guilt that claims I had used her then dumped her aside like a doll when I grew attached to Nix.

You didn't use her, I repeat for the thousandth time, a broken record within me. It was a mutual agreement. Friends, and nothing more. It is still so.

Yet that nagging guilt still clings to me like a leech, refusing to release my conscience. I shove it to the back of my mind again, damning it to hell for making me shed pity for Kenna.

With steady intensity, I focus on strapping my inky pistols to my hips and lacing my combat boots, gearing myself up for the rough, bountiful day ahead. Hoards of weapons for the picking await us.

To my discontent, white hair cascades over my forehead as I lean down—I brush it aside, recalling the way Nix had ran her slender fingers through it time and time again.

An innocent angel in love with a calm killer. How ironic.

She will be a killer, too. Soon enough.

I slide my hood atop my head—and long for the day Nix would fight and destroy by my side. My black mask finds its temporary home in one of the infinite pockets lining my sides.

Like an unwelcome phantom, Kenna's ruthless face appears in my head. As though every thought of Nix is trailed by one of Kenna.

Who knew the daughter of the devil would one day radiate desperation for a man? The idea of Mackenzie, a killer who has ended more lives than I have, pining after me like a young schoolgirl, has a low, humorless chuckle blowing past my lips. 

Weylin, strapping his black holster across his geared waist, throws a questioning look my way. I shake my head in dismissal and tighten my weapons belt, inserting each beautiful, honed dagger into its sheath.