Demon (Brotherhood Series #1)

Brothers in Blood: A Pact Sealed in Revenge

Tony

As Hank's cries pierce the tense air, Slasher's voice cuts through the chaos, commanding attention. "Don't end him just yet," he bellows, urgency lacing his words. "I've got a little surprise tucked away in my truck, just for him. Won't be long."

"We're barely scratching the surface, Hank," I declare, my gaze fixed on him, absorbing every grimace etched on his face as I press another glowing cigarette into his flesh.

"How's it feel, Hank?" My voice reverberates off the walls, dripping with venom as I ignite yet another cigarette. "You tell me, you sick son of a bitch." Each word is a dagger thrusting into the air between us, a release of the pent-up fury boiling inside me.

I was a thirteen-year-old boy when Hank molested me and orally raped me. As I grew older, he raped me repeatedly, and I was young, weak, helpless, and couldn't do anything to stop him.

At the age of seventeen, I finally managed to escape. At twenty-five, my loathing for Hank burns just as fiercely as it did when I was thirteen, a festering resentment that refuses to wane.

Presently, Hank ignores me and continues crying like a little bitch. "Nobody will save you just like nobody saved us."

"You will all rot in hell for what you're doing to me." He weeps as I burn his skin with another lit cigarette. Again, I inhale and exhale, finding my new favorite scent. Burnt flesh smells fucking delicious, especially when it's the flesh of the mother who hurt you most in the world.

Presently, Hank's sobs echoed through the room like a lost soul crying out for help. He paid no attention to me, his tears falling in heavy droplets like rain on a windowpane. His cries were loud and unrestrained, like that of a wounded animal.

I could see the pain etched on his face, his body shaking with emotion as he wept uncontrollably. It was as if he had been stripped down to his most vulnerable state, completely exposed and defenseless, and that made me feel happy for the first time in a long time.

"I hope you understand," I say, my voice low but charged with fury, "that no one's coming to rescue you. Just like no one came for my brothers and me." The flames of my animosity towards him flicker brightly in my eyes.

Through tear-streaked eyes, Hank's voice trembles as he mutters, "You will all rot in hell for what you're doing to me." The lit cigarette hisses against his skin, each sizzle punctuating his words with a chorus of torment. His cries, muffled by pain, echo off the walls, a haunting aria of suffering.

In that moment, the weight of his anguish becomes palpable, seeping into the very fabric of the room, a testament to the depths of his torment.

Once more, I draw in a deep breath, relishing the taste of the air tainted with the aroma of singed flesh. It's an intoxicating sensation, one that curls around my senses like a lover's embrace. The scent, thick and heavy, fills me with a perverse pleasure, especially when it emanates from the very person who inflicted the deepest wounds upon my soul—my own mother.

As the cherry on the cigarette slowly dims from a bright, fiery red to a soft ash, I carefully lift it off his chest and let it fall to the floor. The lingering scent of smoke wafts around us, its tendrils curling through the air before dissipating into nothingness.

"We're going to hell?" I spit the words out, anger coursing through my veins like a wildfire. My grip tightens on Hank's hair, holding him down as I snatch the pliers from the floor. "No, Hank," I growl, my voice dripping with venom. "You'll be in hell by the end of the night."