DIRTY BLOOD | TR ✔︎

THIRTEEN ➢ RIDDLE

I've always wondered how badly it hurts to have your hands severed from your wrists. To have them choppily sliced just above the bones where they connect, leaving jagged skin and shredded tissue.

I don't think I'll ever have to find out, but Marcus Flint?

He's about to be able to tell me.

The second I got back from Malfoy Manor, I was sprinting to find her. I'd noticed the bruises on her neck almost instantly. She wouldn't tell me who did it, but by the time I got the information out of Enzo, I was fucking fuming.

I am going to kill Marcus Flint nice and slowly.

I stand in the room of requirement, my arms crossed over my chest. A sharpened knife in one hand and a joint in the other, a steady stream of smoke twisting towards the ceiling.

I wore black today, not that it's any different from most days. But, today is especially important that I wear black. It'll be harder to see blood on my clothes if I get caught after I finish doing what I'm about to do.

I take a slow drag of the joint and make my way towards the figure sitting in the wooden chair, limbs secured to the arms and legs of the furniture.

Marcus Flint. His face is darkened with bruises, eye socket nearly black and a gash on his face that definitely would've needed stitches.

I reach forward, twisting the end of the joint into his forehead. A certain joy floods through my veins as he squirms, shrieking with pain.

No one can hear him scream for help. This room is exactly what I needed it to be. Silent.

After the sizzle stops and the smoke dies out, I pocket the stub and grab his face by his chin.

His blackened eye is swollen shut but the other is bloodshot. His hands curl and uncurl at his sides and I smirk at the sheer terror on his face when he realizes who's doing this to him.

"You think you can touch what's mine, Flint?" I hiss out, narrowing my eyes. "Especially her? When she told you to get off but you were 'too drunk' to know what you were doing?"

I chuckle darkly, pulling my hand away from his face.

"I waited until you were sobered up so you could remember who you fucked with." I shrug, rolling up the long sleeves of my black sweater. "The Dark Lord's first born, Flint. I was raised to be brutal, to show no mercy."

The black mark on my skin writhes as I speak, lightly tracing the ink with my index finger. The other arm has more, just as dark, but with skulls as the centers of roses.

"I'll be making a warning of you." I say, flipping the knife in the air and catching it by the blade.

He visibly pales, his face transforming into fear and horror as he watches me pace like a caged animal.

"I'm sorry, Riddle." He chokes out, shaking his head. "Please. If I had known Keada—"

"Don't you fucking say her name." I shout, pointing the butt of the knife at him. "You don't get that luxury after touching her the way you did."

"If I had known she was yours, I never would've laid a hand on her. Please, you have to believe me." He says, choking over his words.

"Oh. I know." I laugh, twisting the tip of the knife against my index finger. "But... you would've done it to someone else. Maybe Gryphon Bloodvest, maybe Novaline Wrath, Annabella Greenwell, Coraline Malfoy, Mona Monhagen, Hayden Potter, Pansy Parkinson, Millicent Bullstrode, Astoria or Daphne Greengrass."

I move towards him, placing my hands on his wrists and lowering my head. "And people who claim to be men, people like you, who terrorize women... they're rats. You're filth, Flint. You..." I pause, narrowing my gaze, "you're a rat."