Page 264 of What We Become

He holds it out. Handle first. The way you offer a key.

I take it.

Hank opens the door for me. The man who taught me how to take a body apart, holding the door.

The room is cold. Concrete floor. A single light. A drain in the center. And in a chair, zip-tied and gagged, my uncle.

He’s older. Smaller than I remember. The body that once filled every doorway is just a body now. Ordinary. Breakable.

His eyes find me in the doorway. They widen.

He knows me.

Of course he does.

I step inside. The door stays open behind me. My husbands stand in the corridor, giving me the room the way they gave me the room at Freely’s—positioned at the edges, out of the way, because this isn’t their kill.

It’s mine.

I walk to the chair and stop in front of him.

This is the man who built the first locked room inside me.

He can’t even lift his hands now.

“Normally, I give a speech,” I say to my uncle. “I tell them what they did. I make them understand why this is happening.”

He stares at me, eyes wet and desperate above the gag. I can smell him from here—sweat, fear, the sourness of a man who hasn’t bathed properly.

The man who once filled my childhood with shadows smells like any other trapped animal.

“But you already know why you’re here, don’t you?” I crouch in front of him, bringing us eye to eye. The knife rests against my thigh, blade catching the light. “You knew the second you saw me in the doorway.”

His head moves—almost a nod, but it’s more of a plea.

I stand, and he fights his restraints, crying behind the gag. The chair scrapes against concrete as I circle him, and I let my fingers trail across his shoulder, light enough to make him flinch. He can’t tell if I’m going to comfort him or cut him. That uncertainty is its own small revenge.

“I used to dream about this,” I continue, coming back around to face him. “Standing over you. Making you feel what I felt. Small. Helpless. Waiting for someone to decide what happens next.”

His eyes track the knife.

“But I realized something.” I tilt my head. “You’re not special. You’re not powerful. You’re just a man who found a child who couldn’t fight back, and you mistook that for strength.”

I step closer. The knife rises, and he squeezes his eyes shut, breath whistling through his nose.

“Open your eyes.”

He doesn’t.

“Open your eyes,” I repeat, and something in my tone makes them fly open. “Look at me. I’m not fifteen anymore. I’m not trapped. I’m not alone.”

I glance toward the doorway. Knox’s massive frame blocks most of the light, but I can see Eli’s hand at the doorframe, Micah’s shoulder pressed to his, Milo’s restless energy contained for once, Holden’s stillness.

“This is my family,” I tell my uncle. “They found you. They brought you here. They gave me a choice. You never gave me one. So I’m returning the favor.”

I raise the knife and plunge it into his chest.

He screams behind the gag, thrashing, crying.