Chapter 55
“Please, let him go,” I wail, the words ripping out of me as I collapse to my knees on the floor.
I don’t remember deciding to kneel. My legs just stopped holding me. Maybe they shoved me down. Maybe my body just gave up trying to stay standing while he dies in front of me.
My father had his men drag him, Judas, Cain, and Wes and chain them up, kneeling on the ground.
They tied him to that fucking chair—strapped his arms down so hard his wrists turned purple.
And then they got creative.
They didn’t just clip the wire on. No. They pierced him with it.
Shoved into the thick of his shoulder like they were trying to mount him on the chair, not just hurt him.
There’s blood all over him, smeared down his chest, pooling under the chair. He twitches when he breathes. He winces when the wire shifts. And every time that sadistic bastard presses the button, he convulses so violently I think his spine’s going to snap.
He built him into the fucking circuit.
And I’m standing useless, watching the man I love be torn apart with every fucking breath.
That’s when fear crushes into me again, and it feels violent and suffocating. The fear of losing him rots through every thought. The fear of him dying because of me.
He jerks against the chair again, his muscles locking, his teeth bared around a sound he won’t let out.
And that smell … Oh, that horrible smell. Burning dust. Ozone. Something metallic and … blood.
I can’t breathe.
“Stop,” I hear myself say, but it comes out thin. The girl I always was.
My father doesn’t even look at me. He watches him. Watches the way his body fights the current like it’s personal entertainment.
“Please,” I try again. “I’ll come back. I’ll do whatever you want.”
That makes him glance at me.
“Isabella, no,” Adam pants, exhausted.
“No,” he says calmly, almost amused. “Now, it’s personal.”
Another switch flips.
His body bows off the chair. A strangled sound finally tears out of him, and something inside my chest tears with it.
“I don’t want you anymore,” my father says.
“Then let him go,” I say, tears finally streaming down my cheeks.
He watches me cry, the sound clearly irritating him. His mouth twists with disgust. He steps closer slowly, savoring the moment. His eyes drag over me with disappointment.
“You thought this would end with begging?” he says, voice low. “You still don’t understand who I am. Who you are. What you are.”
Adam’s head lolls forward, then he starts laughing, spit and blood running down his chin. “I’m going to carve you open and make you watch what falls out,” he rasps.
Father snorts under his breath, annoyed more than threatened, and presses the button again just to shut him up. The current slams through Adam, and his body jerks against the restraints.
“Pathetic,” Father mutters. “This is the man you threw everything away for.”
“Stop it!” I wail. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
“You were always weak,” he says, backhanding me so hard my cheek splits open. “But at least now you’re useful. Even trash has its purpose.”
Adam forces his head up again. “I’ll tear your throat out with my teeth.”
My father steps in and punches him across the face.
“You sick, fucking shit,” Cain hisses.
“You know, I can still be merciful. I can still give you a fucking choice.” He nods toward the chair without taking his eyes off me. “Kill him yourself.”
He can’t be serious …
He holds the knife out to me.
The same knife he took from him.
His voice stays calm, bored even. “Go on. Prove you love him. Or maybe you want me to peel him apart while you scream and piss yourself.” He steps closer, the knife digging into my palm. “This is what your love costs. You opened your legs for a dead man. You made the debt. Pay it.”
“Isabella,” Judas barks, as if he’s commanding me to stand back.
I take the knife, swallowing against the bile crawling up my throat, forcing my fingers to close around the handle. My mind tears itself apart, searching for hope that doesn’t exist.
I can’t kill him, I can’t save him, and I know my father will enjoy either outcome.
I kneel beside him.
The wires buzz inches from my skin, and the heat licks across my face and hands. The air smells of burned skin, plastic, and copper. It sticks to the back of my tongue and makes every breath feel contaminated.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, as more tears run down my face. “I’m sorry I brought you here. I’m sorry you got hurt because of me. I’m sorry I was selfish enough to think I deserved you.”
He lifts his eyes to mine, strands of blood-matted hair clinging to his face, and smirks. It’s faint, crooked, smeared in pain and blood, but it’s there.
Why the fuck is he smirking still?
“Hesitation is mercy,” he whispers weakly. “Mercy is death.”
There comes a point where you stop resisting what people pushed you toward, and you accept the shape they forced onto you.
Every insult, every dismissal, every moment of being overlooked hardens into something darker. You stop trying to be understood and start existing as something that makes others uneasy. Something that carries anger and pride without hiding it.
The patience you once had corrodes and leaves behind distance, and a willingness to let others feel the weight of what they created.
I was convinced everything changed when Adam entered my life, and I believed that was the moment my mind hardened. I believed that was when tolerance died.
What’s building inside me now goes further than that, and it strips away whatever hesitation was left.
I grab the wire running into Adam’s side and rip it out.
He screams. The sound tears straight through me. Blood runs instantly over my fingers.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, shaking, pressing my hand over the wound for half a second. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
The wire jerks in my hand, still connected to the box. Still live if the button is pressed.
My father rolls his eyes. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
I pick up the knife.
My burned fingers barely close around it. I press the blade to the exposed copper. Sparks spit against the steel. The metal hums. My skin sizzles where I’m gripping it too hard.
“Look at you,” my father says, voice curling with contempt. “Crying, shaking, leaking all over my floor. You were born useless, and you’re going to die useless. You’re just the mess that refused to stay buried.”
He raises the remote. “Let’s finish this.”
He presses the button.
The blade vibrates violently in my hand. Heat surges through it. I move before I can think.
I slam the knife into the exposed joint of his mechanical leg and drive my full weight behind it.
His body locks. Then convulses. His hands claw at the knife, but his fingers won’t close right. Smoke curls up from the seam of the prosthetic.
“Fucking—” he chokes, foam and spit spraying. “You—”
I shove the knife deeper. The metal screams. Something inside the leg pops. The smell changes. Burned wiring. Burned meat.
He collapses sideways, slamming into the floor, body jerking uncontrollably.
“Isa-Isabella—”
I push the knife in until the handle hits metal.
“Feel that,” I whisper, leaning in close as he twitches. “That’s every fucking thing you did rotting its way back through your bones.”
His eyes roll. His body spasms one last time.
Then nothing.
The room is silent except for Adam trying to breathe.
His men look at each other. No one moves. No one speaks.
Without him, there’s no command, no reason to keep going. He kept them in line through fear, not loyalty. And now he’s a smoking corpse with a knife wound through the metal he was so proud of.
One of them steps back. Another drops his weapons.
They’re not soldiers. They were never going to die for him.
Behind me, Adam coughs. I turn back to him and drop to my knees beside the chair.
His head lolls toward me, blood still running from the side of his mouth.
Then he smirks. Again.
“Damn, little orchid,” he rasps, voice shredded. “Remind me not to piss you off.”
I let out this broken, choking sound that’s half laugh, half sob.
“You’re an idiot,” I whisper, brushing blood off his face.
His smile softens. “Yeah. But I’m your fucking idiot.”
“I thought I’d lost you.”
“You’re stuck with me,” he says, smug as ever. “After all that? Kind of rude to die now.”
I press my forehead to his and close my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t be,” he breathes. “You saved me. And you made it look hot.”
I press my lips to his. He kisses me back, slow and shaky, his breath hitching. His mouth tastes like blood and iron, but he’s okay. He’s here.
“Hey, Ken doll,” Cain shouts from across the room, voice annoyed. “Tell your psycho murder girlfriend to let us the fuck out, yeah? I’ve got a girl waiting at home, and I’d rather not show up looking like a corpse.”
Adam groans softly against my mouth. “That idiot’s still alive?”
“Unfortunately,” I mutter, pulling back just enough to glance at Cain.
I stand up and start untying him. His skin is torn where the straps held too tight, but he doesn’t flinch. He just watches me with that worn-out smirk.
I help him to his feet. He’s shaky but standing. He takes three steps before stopping.
“Wait,” he mutters, his breath still uneven. “This isn’t over. Cops will be here soon.”
I grip his arm tighter. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
He gives a tired laugh and shakes his head. “No, it’s really not. I’m not built for quiet. I’m not gonna fake smiles or shake hands with people who’d rather see me in a cage. I can’t settle for anything less than being myself.”
I stare at him, unsure if he’s trying to warn me or convince me.
“What are you saying?”
“You’re free now, little orchid. You can run. Start over. Be whoever the world says you’re supposed to be.”
He wipes blood from his mouth. “But if that doesn’t feel enough … if peace feels more like a fucking cage, there’s another way.”
He leans in, grinning sinisterly.
“Liberation. Chaos.” His eyes widen, wild and burning. “You already know what it feels like to feel powerful. Let’s never give it back.”
The words hit something in me I don’t want to admit exists.
I look at him, and for a second, I almost say yes. Because part of me wants it. Part of me wants to follow him into that storm, to feel that high again. Louder. But the rest of me is still shaking. Still stuck in the blood, screams and the sound of my own voice begging.
This isn’t me.
Or it wasn’t.
Now, I don’t know.
And now I don’t know if I’m standing here because I survived, or because he dragged me far enough into the dark that I don’t know how to crawl back out.
He tilts his head, that familiar edge creeping back in.
“So, what’s it gonna be, Isabella?”