Woke Up And Chose Violence Romane & Geschichten

“What are you doing?” “You shouldn't be out of bed,” I tell her before tucking her in and covering her with the quilt again. Bending down, I grabbed the drip and attached it to her hand which she had ripped off her skin probably to save that fucker. If it wasn't for her, he would have died today. “Well blame yourself for it. Honestly, why can't you ever not choose violence as an option?” She hissed at me. “I can never think straight when it comes to you, Alina. Having someone else claim you as theirs, is a whole another thing. That fucker was asking for war when he even dared to think he could take you from me.”

"Now he is disappointed. But he is also more interested than ever. You did not break. You just bent in your own way. He does not know what to do with that." I looked at the door where Victor had left. I came for revenge. I wanted to become hard so nothing could hurt me. I held the gun. I aimed it. But I chose not to fire. This was not the ending I had planned. But as I stood there, alive, I realized something. I had found a different kind of power. It was small and new, but it was mine. The war for my soul was not over. It had only just started. And for the first time, I felt I might win.

There was a strange comfort in violence when the cause was righteous; it stripped away every doubt and left only purpose. Before the lead guard could even pull his trigger, I lunged forward. I slapped the barrel of his rifle hard to the right, stepping inside his guard. The gun fired a single, deafening shot into the dirt before my left hand clamped around his throat and my right fist crashed into his nose with a sickening, wet crunch. He crumpled, and I barely registered his weight leaving my grip before pivoting toward the next threat. My pulse hammered, not with fear, but with the singular clarity that came from knowing exactly what I was fighting for.

Each person was like a powder keg. This clash was the spark that ignited them all. At first, they were fighting for the gun. But before long, bloodlust took over. No more rules. No more reason. See someone—kill them. The violence spread even further, and even Ray could no longer stay out of it. Someone grabbed a chair and charged at him, eyes bloodshot, face twisted with the thought, 'If it's the end of the world, then let everything be destroyed.' Ray kicked him away with a single blow.

No struggle, no chase, no sleeping herbs or shadows or planning. Just a single choice. My hand trembles as I reach for it. My fingers hover above the hilt, shaking so badly I have to clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering. Kill him. Avenge my father. Protect my people. End it. I grab the knife. The moment steel meets my palm, something inside me snaps—not into resolve, but into motion. I don’t think. I don’t hesitate. I don’t look at him again. I bolt.

He was lucky that I didn't kill him that night when he wanted to force himself on Serena. I hate his guts but now I realise that I hate his folly even more. But I am sure that someone must be lying to him that they got his back but I want him to realise that the one doing that isn't man enough and that's why they can't face me. I choose violence because the violent can only be faced with violence. May the best alpha win.

And for the first time since I’d landed in this nightmare, I finally realized with dawning clarity that maybe there was no way back. In a bizarre stroke of bad luck I’d woken up inside of a romance book, which looked like more and more of a war biopic everyday. If I was going to survive this, I needed to get serious. I looked around and spotted a small knife on the ground near my feet, then I picked it up and held it out in front of me, trying my hardest to be brave. Let them come.

Amidst the chaos, the drug addict seized an opportunity to strike back, driven by a potent mix of anger and the grip of addiction. With a swift and brutal motion, the drug addict plunged the makeshift weapon into Susan's vulnerable body. The room fell into a haunting silence as Susan crumpled to the floor, lifeless and devoid of hope. Her existence was abruptly cut short, a tragic consequence of the violence that had consumed her life.

They keep both of them upright, kicking and punching them with such brutality. I realise I've been untied, so I carefully and silently ease my hands around to my front. The rogues are too caught up in their violence, so I look around. Soul is sat on a chair, fast asleep. I grit my teeth. 'I fucking wonder.' I think to myself. I pull myself up and grab the closest thing, which is thankfully a large, sharp knife and stalk over to Soul. This is my fight and damn it, I'm going to fucking kill him.

I needed air and I needed action. Out in the alley behind the club someone offered me a fight like a dare. I took it because pain is honest and neat and it makes things simple. He swung and I shoved back and his nose broke and blood spattered like a stupid piece of art on the brick. The onlookers cheered and I felt something cold and calm settle in me. Violence cleared my head for a second. It made the edges sharp and precise. I could hear the echo of Jax in the boy’s cry and it made me grin ugly.