Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions novel Chapter 60

The room reeks of sweat, blood, the sour tinge of fear, and the reckoning of consequences. It’s soundproofed, sealed off, and lit only by a single overhead bulb that nickers like it’s afraid of me.

I didn’t bring him here because he has answers. I brought him here because I need to bleed out the rage that’s curling under my skin before it

rots me from the inside.

I don’t let my head of security handle this one. Not today. Not when I need something or someone to scream.

Ipeed this.

Not the truth, not even the intel–just the break. The snap of control, the shift of weight, the moment something gives beneath my hands.

The man in the chair before me once swore allegiance to me–swore it in blood and ancient vows. He once sat at my table and even took my coin. And still, he sold out my security perimeter last month to an associate with too many shadows on his name and too few answers. We handled that breach swiftly at the time. But I never dealt with this.

Until now.

The man’s tied to the chair, his wrists bloodied from his own useless struggles, slouched forward, and has a split lip and one eye that’s swelling shut. His eyes flare when I step into the light, and I can see the moment he realizes this won’t be about information.

“I didn’t sell you out,” he rasps as he spits out blood to the side.

I crouch low, tilt my head, and let the silence stretch out in the room until it’s unbearable. “No. You just sold yourself to someone who thought they could challenge me. You mistook my patience for peace.”

His bottom lip trembles as he looks down in shame that has come too late, “I didn’t know…”

“You knew enough ”

I slam my fist into the chair next to his head, and the sound echoes like a gunshot, causing his breath to catch. “Who else knows?” I demand.

His only answer is to mutter something into his chest that I can’t catch. I could compel him. I could dig into his mind like turning the pages of worn book. But I don’t. Because this isn’t about that.

This is about the thrum in my chest that hasn’t stopped since I saw her on that screen.

So I move again–this time more slowly–and he flinches, just as I wanted. My usual interrogator and head of security–Nico–waits outside out of respect, or maybe out of fear, as I bleed my rage from this turncoat’s body. Even Griffin hasn’t dared wander in.

Until now.

The door creaks behind me, and Griffin’s shoes distinctively click once against the stained concrete.

He doesn’t respond to my snark, but he does say sarcastically, “Oh goody, I see we’ve progressed from brooding to bloodletting. That’s healthy.”

I sigh and wipe my knuckles with a towel, as if I can scrub away the internal guilt or the disappointment. But they don’t budge. Shocking.

“Do you need something?” I mutter.

Griffin’s tone is deceptively neutral when he returns to work mode, saying, “You’re late for three meetings and the board’s already whispering about your moods again.”

I run a hand down my jaw, exasperated, and step back. “They can whisper louder. I’m busy.”

“Clearly,” he deadpans as he glances at the man still tied to the chair, who’s now blinking blood from one eye with a dazed look on his battered and bruised face.

Griffin crosses his arms, waits a beat, and then asks, “You ready to stop playing God and maybe act like someone who gives a damn about fixing

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