Cold Hatred (Book 2 & 3 of the Damned of the 2/19th) -Updated and Rewritten

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"Aine was the venom to my razor sharpness, the velvet to

my iron fist, and the cruel laughter to my mayhem. She

terrified me, intoxicated me, and made me into a monster.

And I loved it. Craved it. Reveled in it.

She taught me when I was 12 that girl's

Kisses hurt by biting my lip each time we kissed.

She encouraged me to be a monster with glee.

And she drunk the savagery she brought out in me

like it was a fine wine.

To her, it was."

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I was sitting on the back loading dock of the barracks, my legs hanging off the side. My boots thumped against the concrete face of the loading dock as I idly kicked my feet just to hear the thump. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and it was one of those nights where I could see forever. The stars were scattered across the sky like diamonds, the moon huge in the sky and so clear I felt like I could reach out and touch it.

None of that mattered. Not the stars, not the moon, not the warm summer night. All that mattered was the wedding ring I held in the palm of my hand. Gold band, diamond chips taken from the shaping of the diamonds that studded the ring's mate. The wedding ring that was a match for the one on a woman's hand thousands of miles away.

I wondered if she was still wearing it. Did she wear it when she spread her legs for that other man? Did she wear it while he fucked her? Did she see it and feel any shame at all, or was it just a trophy? Did she even remember the other ring, part of a matched set that cost me over three month's pay? Did she even care?

The diamond chips caught the light when I bounced it in my palm. Diamonds. A girl's best friend. Ice some people called them.

The nickname seemed to fit. The diamond chips were not warm, held no warmth even when the light struck them. They were empty. Cold.

Just like what she had left behind.

Beside me, next to the Wild Turkey bottle, were photographs. Color photographs full of painful details.

A petite brunette woman smiling at the camera, her arm around a smiling man. The same woman sitting on the man's lap. The man and the woman sitting on a couch with red Dixie cups in the hands, other people around them. The woman toking on a bong while sitting on the man's lap. The man and woman kissing while they danced. The woman looking down at the hand unbuttoning her blouse with a smile.

A rounded buttock with a butterfly tattoo. A face contorted with ecstasy. A pair of breasts capped with nipples sporting rings that hadn't been there the last time I had seen them, with hands that weren't mine cupping them. A close-up view of a hard cock sliding into a wet pussy that was covered with fine brown hair. Another close-up, the same cock, sliding between a pair of buttocks, the butterfly tattoo visible, the hands that held the breasts in the other photo spreading the buttocks open. The woman lying on her back, her hair fanned out, a faint flush across her breasts, and semen on her stomach above her matted pubic hair.

With one finger I stirred the photos around, expecting some kind of reaction, but feeling nothing except cold singing emptiness and the same song that had been stuck in my head since I'd opened the envelope that afternoon.