Nathan shakes so hard the chair rattles beneath him, his eyes rolling back like he’s about to pass out, but Misha simply reaches over and taps his cheek lightly to keep him upright.
“Nuh-uh,” Misha murmurs calmly. “You don’t get to quit yet.”
Nathan sobs behind the tape, this horrible keening noise—broken and soundless—while his chest heaves and sweat mixes with blood across his skin.
I crouch again with the knife still warm in my hand and tilt my head at him, calm. “That hurt?” I ask quietly. “Good. He hurts too.”
Nathan whimpers.
The finger on the carpet is still twitching when I straighten. He's shaking so violently the chair legs scrape against the laminate floor, a pathetic symphony of panic and cheap motel furniture. His breath is wet and fast, muffled behind the tape, eyes blown wide like a cornered deer that finally sees the car coming.
I wipe the blade on my thigh slowly and deliberately, like I’m preparing for a ceremony instead of a kill, which in a way I am, because this isn’t business and it isn’t a hit—it’s an exorcism, a cleansing, a correction.
Misha steps back and leans against the wall with his arms folded, watching the whole thing like he’s sitting comfortably at the opera.
“You done screaming?” I ask lightly, tilting my head. “Good. Because now I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen.”
Nathan is trying not to cry, trying so hard it looks painful, his chest shuddering while his throat bobs uselessly beneath the tape as if he thinks tears might somehow save him.
They won’t.
“Four days,” I say, pacing slowly in front of him. “Four days away from him, and every hour felt like a punishment. You know why?”
His eyes flick up, suddenly sharp with fear.
“Because he’s in my head,” I continue calmly. “Because even while I’m hunting you, I’m thinking about how he looks when he falls apart, how he says my name, how he begs for pain because you taught him to confuse suffering with being wanted.”
Nathan’s whole face collapses inward at that—shame, horror, the dawning realization that it’s all far too late.
“You didn’t just break him,” I say, stopping in front of him again. “You rewired him, twisted him so badly he thinks he deserves ruin, that he’s only worth the hands that hurt him.” I lean down slowly until I’m close enough to feel his breath shaking against my cheek. “You made him believe love is violence,” I whisper. “Now I’m here to return the favor.”
His eyes slam shut, so I slap him once enough to force them open again. “No,” I murmur softly. “You look at me.” I place my hand on his chest and feel the frantic stutter of his heartbeat through his shirt, the terror and despair and dawning realization thrumming beneath my palm. “This is how I save him,” I murmur quietly. “This is how I wipe you off him.” I press my forehead to his. “You hurt what’s mine,” I breathe against his skin, my voice low and steady. “So I’m going to kill you slow enough for him to feel the moment you stop existing.”
Nathan whimpers helplessly behind the tape while Misha mutters, “Holy shit,” under his breath somewhere behind me.
I drag my hand up to Nathan’s face and cradle his jaw almost gently, the gesture an obscene parody of intimacy. “Julian deserves closure,” I say calmly. “He deserves to sleep without your shadow on his chest, so I’m going to take that shadow away.”
I tip his head back and look straight into his eyes, letting him see the devotion burning beneath the fury. “This is for him,” I whisper. “For every night he cried your name, forevery time he begged for pain because he didn’t know what tenderness was supposed to feel like, for every time he opened that fucking locker with your ghost in his hands, and for every breath you stole from him.”
He’s sobbing now, silent and shaking, his body trembling against the chair.
“And when he sleeps tonight,” I continue softly, “he won’t know why his chest feels lighter, and he won’t know why he breathes easier, but I’ll know.” I lower my voice. “Because I killed the man who made him believe he was unlovable.”
Then, calmly, I end it, driving the knife into his neck so deep it comes out the other side—clean, almost pretty—a mercy he never gave Julian.
Nathan goes still, but I hold him upright until the last twitch fades, until the final breath leaves him and the shadow that clung to Julian like tar dissolves into nothing, and only then do I let the chair tilt back and step away.
Misha exhales slowly behind me. “Boss… damn.”
I put the knife away, my hands steady, my pulse steady, everything inside me quiet. “I’m going home,” I say. And for the first time in four days, I feel like I can breathe.
21
JULIAN
It’s past midnight and he still isn’t back. The walls of the container are sweating with heat and rot, or maybe it’s just me—I can’t tell anymore. I’m folded over the edge of the cot, forehead pressed to the side of a plastic bucket I’ve already emptied my stomach into twice tonight. Maybe three times. Nothing left now but bile and air, and even that comes out dry, like my body’s trying to peel itself inside out for fun. My skin’s crawling. No—worse. It’s slithering, inching, shifting like something is buried under it and wants out. And if I had nails left, I’d tear it off to make it stop.
I want a hit. I want a fucking hit so bad I can taste the craving—bitter, sharp, metallic like blood and pennies pressed to my tongue. My body is begging, screaming, sobbing through every nerve-ending like a child being drowned. I know what I need. I know exactly where to go. Kai would give it to me, if I begged right. If I cried. If I got on my knees and told him I wanted to forget the world for a little while.
