“And now…farewell to kindness, humanity and gratitude. I have substituted myself for Providence in rewarding the good; may the god of vengeance now yield me his place to punish the wicked.” ― Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo
Kali sat outside in the dark packing her pipe.  She was on that little porch-like area just outside her room above the bar, the room she now shared with Liam.  Whether he woke up or not on these nights she couldn’t sleep was beyond her.  But he left her alone, didn’t question where she went, and it seemed to her he was sound asleep when she came back in and snuggled against him.

It had been a hell of a week, or two weeks, rather.  Starting with their little outing that ended them with a few injuries and making out like bandits in the end, and ending with a much, much more gruesome night.

Liam had told her he didn’t want her looking at him “like that” like he was some monster, but he was so capable of destruction, of mayhem, of downright incredible cruelty.  Even one-handed as he was now, it didn’t seem to slow him down one bit.  But he didn’t turn that on her, or on Coach’s.  No, he was protective of them.  With her he just wrapped his big strong arms around her and held her close, as if she were a feather he was afraid to crush.

But it wasn’t her outsides she was worried of him bruising, it was her insides.  She wondered if he weren’t around if she’d just laid down and let someone else walk over her, take the bar and her family.  She wondered too if that was not what he was doing?  How easy he spoke and made sense of things, how easy she deferred to him, gave in.  Did she really?

She was definitely harder now, she mused as she took the first hit off her pipe and cupped the bowl in her hand, topping it off with her lighter to hold in whatever smoke there was.  Her Prada and Michael Kors bags had been replaced by a gun.  A gun Liam had taught her to use, to take apart, to clean, to fire, and insisted she do it daily, to make sure she was comfortable with it and knew how to use it.  He didn’t ask her to walk around looking pretty and bring him drinks, that was for sure.  No, Liam’s demands lay in “Next time someone tries to grab you I better get there and see him dead at your feet” or some shit like that.

Harder.  As in slit a man’s throat in cold blood harder.  Maybe this was what plagued her this night.  It used to be Buck, thinking he’d come for her–either as one of the Infected or alive and well to kill her to make her pay back for pushing him down that ravine.  Then it was Coach’s and the family, thinking of ways to make it work, to keep them fed and safe.  Fuck, sure they could all look after themselves, but what was the point of that?  She’d wanted a family.  She got one, and she had her own business, and she felt responsible now.

Today it was Daemon’s turn to step up to the plate.  He’d raped her, he hadn’t been the first to force her to have sex.  He’d beat her, and he hadn’t been the first to do that either.  But this time it wasn’t okay.  This time she realized how her getting hurt had affected others too.  She didn’t get pitiful sideways glances like she got from the girls at the club whenever Buck had felt she needed to be taught a lesson.  She saw how everyone seemed to be ready to go to bat for her–or to take a bat to Daemon’s head.  And for once she wanted to do it herself.

She was also surprised at her reaction when the time came.  She thought she would see him and she would wail on him.  She had pictured herself rushing him, screaming and raging at him for what he’d done.  He tried to get that from her, he did.  He did bait her, reminding her how he’d fucked her, saying these things in front of Liam.  Shame had eaten at her then, kept her still and somewhat frozen.  She had figured everyone knew, they’d found her naked after all.  But aside from Ash, no one had asked the question, and she hadn’t wanted to say it.

But Liam… oh, gods, he’d taken his time with Daemon.  He’d severed his arms, broken his knees, injected him with Infected blood.  He’d been cold, ruthless, methodical in how he’d avenged her.  And when the time came he’d put a knife in her hand, stood behind her to give her strength, to encourage her, and Kali had stepped forward and just like that, very slowly and cooly, just as methodical and ruthless, had slit the man’s throat.

What bothered her wasn’t remorse, but the lack of it.  How she’d wiped his blood off her hands as if it were just paint that stained her fingers.  How she’d felt justice had been done.  How the thought that this deranged person couldn’t hurt another.   That she, as if she had any credentials or psychiatric training had figured out he’d do to someone else what he’d done to her, and she just wasn’t going to let him.

How she had taken it upon herself to decide that he wasn’t worthy of being among the living.