I'm hard for you.
Harry slammed his fist into the man's stomach and he cried out, attempting to bend over to protect himself. Except he couldn't. He was strung up on the makeshift cross Mark had constructed. Arms and legs restrained.
And you're hard for me.
He struck the man again and again, knuckle dusters sending blood flying.
Harry went after the man's face, pounding away until he no longer felt his hands. He couldn't get away from that persistent voice in his head. Tom Riddle's voice.
You're hard for me.
Aroused by Tom Riddle.
He no longer saw the man's face. He was punching Tom, bloodying him, pulverizing him in an effort to stop those words. It was one thing to lie out loud, but inside his head there was no escaping the truth anymore.
He was aroused by Tom Riddle. By the way he spoke. The way he fought. The way he bled. The way he looked at him
Fenrir's killer.
That anticipation he'd experienced, the fire in his belly when he thought about Tom. It had a name.
Not anger. Not hatred.
Want.
His chest threatened to cave in on him, and his arms grew heavy, so he stopped and yanked off the knuckle dusters before flinging out a hand to Mark who stood silently at his back. Harry hadn't come for this. Mark was beyond capable of doing the dirty work, but he'd needed it.
The spilling of blood was supposed to calm him, but it made him think about Tom licking his blood off that knife.
The bat Mark handed over settled into his palm, and he gripped it then swung.
The man's head snapped back. He'd long stopped screaming and begging for his life. Now he simply made low, moaning sounds. His blood scented the air, strong and acrid when mixed with the piss that soaked the front of his shorts, the only article of clothing Mark allowed him to wear.
Harry put every bit of his frustration into his swings. Hitting the man everywhere, head to toe. He was about to die, and Harry saw it the second the man gave up. His body went limp. He was a mangled mess of red.
Done.
But Harry couldn't stop.
He kept going, blood coating the bat and loosening his grip. He couldn't stop.
I'm hard for you…
Fenrir's killer.
There was betrayal. Then there was this. Tom took Fenrir from him. Stole his life, stole the only person he'd ever cared for… Tom had stolen his home…
Yet Harry wanted to touch him. Wanted to do all the things Tom had spoken of in order to hear him beg. He was losing control. Losing his mind. Losing Fenrir all over again.
"Sir!"
Mark grabbed his arm, stopping him from going after the man's face again,
"We need them to recognize him."
Much like the one before him, the man's demise would send a message. And his body parts would be dispersed to the different members of Russian's gang… If they could identify the victim…
Right now, the man was a pulverized mess.
Harry wanted to keep going.
Beat him into a puddle. A surrogate for the one he wanted.
Wanted to hurt. Maim. Kill. His captive.
Tom was in his head constantly now. His sharp voice goading Harry into kneeling for him. He'd set out to break the vampire and instead the captive was turning out to be the captor.
"Sir?"
He jerked away from Mark's tight grip and dropped the bat. It hit the floor with a loud echo, and he lifted his gaze to find Mark watching him warily.
He was falling apart. Was that what Mark saw? Because it was the way Harry felt. Like his world was crumbling down around him again. Going up in smoke again.
"You are coming undone, my friend."
Fraser had seen this coming, why hadn't Harry?
Tom Riddle had been the architect of that the last time. He was back to finish the job, helped along by Harry himself.
He turned back to Mark,
"Do it."
Mark nodded then got the buzz saw. Together, they went to work dismembering the body.
Legs, from the hip down, with the tattoos declaring him part of the Russian's organization. Hands, cut from the shoulders with even more tattoos. The gold rings on the fingers of his right hand.
Torso, with the healed knife and bullet wounds.
And finally, his head, eyes still open.
Harry took pleasure in this, dealing with his enemies. It was a love he'd gotten from Fenrir. But Fenrir never liked getting his hands dirty. Harry was the one who got aroused by the sight of blood and anguished screams. When he'd taken over things from Fenrir, he'd been the one settling the scores. Killing for the organization. Spilling the blood. Soaking up the screams.
He got a high from it, and he refused to feel bad. Fenrir had understood his desire… He'd understood him
"Done."
He swallowed and dragged a hand over his face, wiping away any traces of the turmoil inside him as he faced Mark again,
"Handle it,"
He said,
"You know what's next."
"Yes, Sir…"
Looking at the concern on Mark's face eased some of the stress inside him and inquired,
"What is it? What's on your mind?"
Mark shrugged, gaze searching,
"Something's wrong."
Perceptive… Much like Andrew,
"What makes you say that?"
Hands shoved into his pockets; Mark remained silent for a while…Finally he replied,
"I don't know… You seem…angry."
If it were anyone else questioning him, Harry would have handled it differently. But this was Mark. He was one of the four people he trusted with his life,
"I am angry."
He chose to go with the truth,
"But not at you."
Mark nodded with his lips pressed into a hard line,
"What is it?"
His gaze narrowed,
"Problems with the vampire?"
Mark had been there to help Harry drug Tom and get him from Lisbon to the States but after that Harry had made sure to keep him out of the loop on everything else having to do with his captive. He didn't want any of it falling back on Mark's or Andrew's shoulders
"Nothing for you to concern yourself with."
He threw an arm around Mark's shoulders,
"How are things going at the training facility?"