CHAPTER 308

CHAPTER 308
ALEXANDER

Five days. For five days, I had kept Santos alive in that cell.

Not because I was merciful.
Not because I had forgiven him.

Because death was too easy. Too clean. Too quick.

I wanted him alive long enough to understand exactly why he was still breathing—

I wanted every passing hour to remind him that the only man standing between him and the end was the husband of the woman he had hurt.

And fuck… it still wasn’t enough.  
It would never be enough.

I had thought finding Alina alive would be the end of it. That the moment I had her back in my arms, the moment I could see her breathing beside me, the rage would finally have somewhere to go.

I had been wrong. It hadn’t disappeared.
It had only settled deeper, sinking beneath my skin until it became something colder, darker, and far more dangerous.

Santos had laid his hands on my wife. He had taken her. Chained her. Hurt her. Terrified her.

And worst of all, he had put our child in danger—before either of us had even known there was a child to protect.

I had spent years believing there was nothing in this world capable of making me lose control.

Then I found out there was.  
Alina. She was home now.

Alive. Safe. And, thankfully, still capable of insulting me—which she occasionally managed even while half-asleep, because apparently unconsciousness had done absolutely nothing to improve her manners.

Our baby was still holding on too.
Stubborn little thing. Clearly, it had inherited that from its mother.

I stood in front of him, staring down at the man bound to the chair.

He looked smaller than he had five days ago. Diminished somehow, as though those five days had stripped away every ounce of the arrogance he once wore so effortlessly.

The confidence was gone. So was the smugness. What remained was a hollow, watchful expression—and, for the first time, the unmistakable look of a man who had finally realized he was no longer in control.

Every time the door opened he flinched, just slightly, as if he still hadn’t decided whether this visit would be the last. Good.

He could sit in that chair and wonder when I would come back.  
He could listen to every footstep outside the door and ask himself whether this was the moment his luck finally ran out.

Because I wasn’t rushing. I wasn’t emotional. And I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of believing this was simply revenge. This was consequence. And I was nowhere near finished delivering it.

I tightened my fist and slammed it into his face.

The nauseating crack of bone under my knuckles reverberated through the room, instantly followed by his agonized scream.
The sound was so fucking satisfying.

I tangled my fingers in his hair and jerked his head back, forcing him to meet my gaze. 

His eyes were so swollen that he struggled to keep them open. A deep gash sliced across his forehead, pulling the skin back and revealing the bone beneath.

I grabbed my knife and pressed the handle firmly against the wound.

Santos jerked violently in the chair, a strangled sound tearing from his ruined throat as I twisted the handle just enough to make him understand exactly how little mercy I had left.

The screams he'd been capable of earlier had dwindled into broken, breathless whimpers after hours of pain. 

I watched him for a moment without expression.

Then I noticed the blood. Too much.
It was running faster than before, darkening his clothes and pooling beneath the chair.

I clicked my tongue in annoyance.
"Don't you fucking dare pass out on me yet."

I pulled the knife away and stepped back, watching the wound carefully.

Not because I cared about his suffering. Because I wasn't finished with him..Not even close.

Leo stepped in, applying a towel to the injury to staunch the bleeding. I couldn’t let him bleed out. Not yet. I still needed him alive.

"How does that feel Santos?" I taunted, infusing my words with all the contempt I could muster. 

"Feels good, doesn’t it? It’s a refreshing change to be on the receiving end, isn’t it?"

He coughed violently, doubling over.
I shoved him back into the chair and brought the knife to his chest.
I didn't press hard enough to break the skin. No.

That would have been too easy.
I wanted him to feel the blade.
To feel the uncertainty of it.
To wonder whether the next movement would be the one that finally crossed the line.

Just as he'd spent years making Alina live with that same uncertainty.

I dragged the edge slowly across his chest, barely touching him.
His eyes followed every movement.
His breathing turned ragged.

He trembled, exhaustion finally beginning to overwhelm whatever defiance he had left..His eyelids fluttered.

I caught his face with a sharp slap before he could lose consciousness. His eyes snapped open.

"Don’t you fucking dare. I’ll cut your dick off if you fucking pass out."

His eyes remained fixed on mine, filled with hatred despite everything.

Even half-conscious and terrified, Santos still had enough arrogance left to glare at me like he hadn't yet understood whose mercy was keeping him alive. I almost admired the nerve.

Pressing the blade deeper into his chest, I felt him gasp sharply. 

Still, I didn’t break his skin. There were already numerous cuts across his chest and body. But at that moment, I had other intentions. 

The blade travelled slowly down his right arm.

Santos went rigid the moment he felt the pressure increase against his skin.

I stopped when I reached the back of his hand. For several seconds, I didn't move.

I simply held the knife there, letting the silence do the work for me.

My gaze never left his. And there it was.
Fear. Raw and unmistakable.
I watched it flicker behind his eyes.

A slow smile pulled at my mouth.
That was the part I wanted. Not the blood. Not the pain..The understanding.

For once, Santos knew exactly what it felt like to be powerless beneath someone else's control.

And I intended to make sure he remembered it.

“Don't… don't…” he pleaded.

I gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “Don't? I'm sure my wife said those exact words to you. More than once.”

My voice hardened. “Don't touch me. Don't come near me. Please, just leave me alone. Didn't she?"

I other hand pressed against his windpipe, feeling his pulse beneath my fingers.

My grip tightened around his throat. His face began to turn red, then purple from lack of air, I released him.

"You never stopped." I glared down at him. "Years of her telling you no, and you never once stopped. So tell me — why should I?"

I held the knife up where he could see it. Leo stepped behind him, pinning his arm steady.

I positioned the blade against the back of his hand. His eyes locked onto it, and I watched the fear take over completely — the trembling, the useless attempts to pull away.

“This is what it feels like,” I said quietly, my voice almost calm. “To have no control over what happens to you.”

I held his gaze. “Remember that feeling.”
My eyes dropped slowly to his hand.

“That’s the hand you used to touch my wife.”

My jaw clenched, a muscle ticking violently beneath my skin.

“You put your fucking hands on her as though you had the right.”

I looked back into his eyes, letting the silence stretch. “You didn’t.”

I looked back into his eyes. “So now you're going to learn something else.” My voice became almost frighteningly quiet.

“You should have kept your hands to yourself.”

His gaze was fixated on the knife. I watched him tremble in fear. 

I chuckled darkly at his suffering as I retracted my knife, savoring the moment before plunging it down with a force that sent a shiver of satisfaction through me. 

The blade sank deep, and he howled and howled, his cries echoing throughout the dimly lit room like a twisted symphony. 

Fuck. It was music to my ears, a sweet melody that resonated with the chaos I thrived on. 

The fool, in a desperate attempt to escape his fate, tried to pull his arm away, but I twisted the knife with a cruel precision, keeping his hand firmly pinned to the table. 

I gazed down at my handiwork, my eyes tracing the length of the blade, which was now half-embedded in Santos’s hand. 

Blood flowed around us, pooling on the floor, but I was indifferent to the crimson tide. That was the least of my worries in this moment of exquisite torment. 

“Do you know why I keep this knife?” I asked, almost conversationally.

He stared at the blade. I smiled.
“Because it doesn't kill you quickly.”

I turned it lazily between my fingers, admiring the edge.

“It gives pain time to settle in. Time to crawl through every nerve. Time to make you wonder which part of you is going to hurt next.”

His breathing hitched. I crouched in front of him, my smile widening.
“Hurts like hell, doesn't it?”

I tilted my head..“Your hand feels like it's about to fall off?”

I chuckled softly. “Good.”
I leaned closer..“Because that's the point.”

My voice dropped to a near whisper.
“I don't want you unconscious. I don't want you dead.”

I tapped the blade lightly against my palm. “I want you awake.”

His eyes flicked toward mine.
I smiled wider.

“I want you awake enough to remember every second of this.”

A quiet laugh escaped me. “And the funniest part?”

I held his gaze. “You still haven't experienced the worst of it.”

His screams intensified as I twisted the knife once more, relishing the sound of his pain. 

I could hear the sickening squelch of his flesh giving way, the crunch of his bones—snapping under the pressure of my relentless assault. 

The sound of skin tearing and blood mingling filled the air, a grotesque symphony that only fueled my dark delight. 

“But don't fret, my friend.” I tilted my head, studying the panic spreading across his face. “It's not going to fall off.”

I paused deliberately. “Not just yet, anyway.”
His breath caught. “Pl…please…”
The word barely made it past his lips. I smiled.

There was something almost pathetic about the way he said it. Not because I didn't understand what he was feeling.

Because I understood it perfectly.
And I wanted him to feel it a little longer.

“Please what?”

His eyes squeezed shut..I leaned closer, my voice dropping to a soft, almost reassuring murmur.

“You're going to have to be more specific.”

His breathing became ragged.
I let the silence stretch between us until his desperation filled the room.

"Please...."

I chuckled quietly beside his ear.
“That's the problem with begging,” I whispered. “Once you start, you never know how much you'll have to do before someone decides they've heard enough.”

I pulled back just far enough to look into his terrified eyes.
“And unfortunately for you…”

My smile returned. “I haven't heard enough yet.”