35. It’s Poetic Justice

Icontemplated leaving for a split second when all the secrets Jax needed from Brandon came to light. As a matter of fact, I had walked away, but when I heard what Brandon said, I knew I wasn't done. A deep urge to take out all my frustrations over the years was like a tether pulling me back to him. The paper Jax handed to me, and the things he told me are burned in my brain. Branon just confirmed all the speculations to be true.

"Here."Jax points to the first line on the paper I unfolded. "Brandon's father was there within minutes of your parents" car crash."

"That could be just a coincidence," I state, thrusting the paper at him. "That doesn't prove anything."

Jax gently pushes my forearm, forcing me to keep it. "Look again." I glance over the sheet at the list of names I don't recognize with coordinating times. "When did you hire Brandon?"

The organ in my chest stalls when I peer at the date on the page. The one after my parent's death is listed. That's when Brandon started working for me. "This can't be right. He's not the type of guy that would kill people."

"Even the good guys wear masks. It just makes them appear in the way they want you to see them." His words make my jaw drop. A facade.

"Oh. My. God. You think he killed all of these people?" I ask in disbelief, but it could definitely be true, thanks to the constant reminder I'm marked with.

"No, but Finn is rarely wrong with his intuition. He thinks Brandon was planted to dispose of the people Charles killed. Allegedly. The names on the reports changed to the man I killed was Sampson's father. After further investigation, the man I killed wasn't even in the department when my mother was killed. Finn thinks he might've run the reports while Charles was trying to cover his tracks. We think Charles started to get paranoid. Someone from the department would notice if multiple reports were tampered with in a single time frame. But if it were done slowly, then maybe no one would question it. " He crosses his arms over his chest. "This is where I need your help. I'm almost positive it's Charles who killed my mother, but I was wrong once, and I can't be wrong again."

"Okay." I refold the piece of paper, handing it back to him. "What do you need me to do?"

"Whatever it takes."

After giving him a determined nod, I pull off his T-shirt and hand it over. He grabs me by the nape of the neck, pulling me in for a hard, passionate kiss. When we finally break, he reassures me, "I'll be right outside the door. If he's not as weak as I think he is and he tries to overpower you, I'll…"

I stop him with a finger over his lips and give him a little smirk. "The fixer is always watching."

Now that I'mstraddling Brandon with my nails digging into his scabbed-over wound, everything feels right. Warm greenish pus oozes out around my finger tips, and I want to play in it, make an art piece with it. Paint a mural with it. My passion for cutting into bodies has evolved into something much more… primal. The Id in my Fruedian iceberg is peeking over the surface level. I admire the way Brandon's carotids bulge when he throws his head back. It's fascinating the way the human body works so hard to keep its main organs alive—the brain, the heart, the lungs. Without one of those, the shell is sure to die.

While I tear away the hunk of crusty dead blood cells, Brandon feebly grabs at me. He's sick with an infection, zapping the strength he had over me. Even with having the upper hand this time, the stitches in my back scream in agony. Before I can gain control of his hands, there's a sharp stabbing pain in my face. A nail jutting from the back of his hand gouges a hole in my cheek. Copper drips into my mouth as I smile.

"We're about to see just how black your heart is this time," I admit with a boisterous expression.

He's weak and malnourished. His fight is powerless. I grip his hand and firmly twist it until the sharp point of the nail is aimed at his chest. Brandon screams mix with a high pitch laughter I don't even recognize as my own. Without wasting any more time, I thrust the sharp point into his sternum and drag it down his chest and stomach. It's poetic in a way. He will die by his own hand.

Blood pours from him, coating both of us in its velvety warmth. It"s a glorious mess that has me absentmindedly grinding on Brandon's shaft. I grab the meaty scab I pulled off his wound from earlier that's still covered in gelatinous green pus and shove it in his mouth. His screams are muffled as he chokes on himself.

"Look at you, just as disgusting on the outside as you are on the inside." I laugh at the pathetic man I held so much respect for as I shove my hands beneath the edge of the large gash. Blood gushes from his abdomen, and I tear him open further. The warmth of his ichor has my core clenching, needing to be filled.

"A dying corpse feels even better than a cold one. You're all slippery and warm," I groan, sliding my slickened pussy up and down his hardened shaft.

"You're sick," he cries, too weak to fight me anymore.

"It seems you've come down with the same illness because you're hard as a rock!" I scream through a bout of laughter, grabbing the base of his cock with my bloody hand. Then, I align him up with my entrance. His tip presses against me as I ease down on him, using his vital fluid as lube.

"Fuuuuck me," I moan and seat him fully inside me. Once I've gotten up a good momentum, I lean forward, plunging my hands into his stomach while bouncing my lower half on his dick. Steam from the gore and sinew snake around my arms. This is probably what it would feel like to have sex in a hot tub. Sitting back and grabbing hold of one of the loops of his intestines, I pull it out and wrap it around my neck. The blood that drips from it trails down my breast and my nipples, hardening them into peaks. I tug on them, throwing my head back. Pressure builds in my abdomen, and I ride him faster.

I admit, "If I'd known how awful you were, Brandon, I would've fucked you to death sooner."

Brandon moans and whimpers. I'm not sure if he's enjoying this or not, but his pleasure really doesn't fucking matter anyway. Just when I didn't think this could get any better, a man's heavy steps enter the room. I peer up at a hulking and hard Jax. Every muscle in his body gleams in the low yellow light. My mouth waters at the sight of him. I want to take him right on top of Brandon's dying body.

"Miss me, Dead Girl?" he asks, running his fingers through my hair, tipping my head back to meet his emerald eyes. Not even the dim lighting could damper the fire burning behind them. I nod, eager to please him and secretly hoping he will join me. Then he asks, "Didn't think I'd let you have all the fun without me, now, did you?"

Warmth that's not from the blood covering my body spreads through my core. This is it. He's meant for me and only me. A man who can accept every aspect of my being without a lick of judgment and I him.

My cheeks ache from where my smile is permanently etched on my face. Brandon's whimpers grow louder when Jax breaks our eye contact and focuses on him.

Jax kneels down by Brandon's head and, in a hushed tone, says, "I told you if you ever saw her again, I'd slit your throat and come in it, did I not?"

Brandon swallows hard, and panic is evident in his eyes. He shakes his head back and forth, trying his best to get away. He can't even lift his arms now with how much blood he's lost. Jax grips his chin, holding him in place.

"I'm a man of my word, and I always keep my promises." The snick of a knife is barely audible over Brandon's cries before it's sliding across his neck.