Chapter 34 Estella
The last time my life flashed before my eyes this fast and this violently was in the asylum, during those godforsaken days when the doctors loved to start the machines on full volume.
They’d ramp up the pressure, crank the voltage, and wait for the exact moment my screams turned into nothing but a high, distant ringing.
My memories would flicker, stuttering across my vision like some broken, miserable slideshow.
But this—this is ten times sharper. Ten times more merciless.
My mouth parts as restlessness coils through my bones. A rush of electric heat whips through me, and I want to slap myself for the emotion that rises next.
Regret.
But when my blurred sight sharpens and I realize the barrel is nudging with every breath he takes, reality slams into me. A soft click snaps in my ears, blending with the faint ringing and the shuffle of rain outside.
It’s empty.
The gun was fucking empty.
Relief and fury collide inside me, clashing in a violent cocktail that sends a jolt through my veins. When I lift my gaze, he’s looking at me with a calmness I’ve never seen before—an eerie stillness, like he’s made peace with something I haven’t.
He should be trembling. He should be furious. If there’d been a bullet, he’d already be sprawled on the floor in a red, spreading pool.
Instead, he stands there. Serene. Almost grateful.
Instinct kicks in, and I pull the trigger again, only to hear another soft, mocking click.
The sound taunts me, stoking a fresh blaze of annoyance that burns hotter than the first. Tears surge, blurring everything again, but when I focus on his gaze, something inside me freezes.
My heart slams to a stop. I see the intention in his eyes, see exactly what he’s about to do, so I rip my hand from his grip and swing the gun at his head with everything I have left.
But the bastard catches it mid-arc.
His fingers clamp around my wrist, squeezing hard enough that black dots rim my vision. I try to wrench free, to fight, to claw—but my body betrays me. My bones feel heavy, useless, and the gun slips from my grasp, clattering to the floor in a loud, final thud.
I lift my free hand to strike him, but he seizes it mid-swing, too, pinning it against his chest—right over his heart. I wince, struggling, but his strength dwarfs mine, especially with despair and fury tearing through my veins, twisting tight like barbed wire.
“Let go, you fucking motherfucker!” I howl, tensing every muscle in my body to shove him back. I push, twist, even try to knee him, but he overpowers me effortlessly. Tears keep collecting, spilling, gluing my lashes together until I’m blinking through wet darkness.
“I love you, Estella,” he says, as if my screams and curses mean nothing.
The words slip into me like another blade, lodging deep, twisting harder with every inch he holds me still.
“Your suffering lives in me, and my wounds live in you. That’s why nothing in this world can destroy us when we stand as one. ”
My skin bristles under his electric touch. It should sicken me. It should drag me straight back to the cold metal tables and high-pitched buzzing of the asylum—the crackling sting of voltage ripping through my nerves long before he ever entered my life.
But it doesn’t.
His touch has always been a fault line inside me. It drags emotions out of me I didn’t even know I had, and repulsion was never one of them. Even now, his hands feel too good—like a balm spread over wounds he’s the one who carved.
But the cuts are too deep. You can’t place a soft healing cream over a gaping, ugly wound that refuses to stop bleeding.
“I’ve killed for you,” he whispers, and the words send spikes through my skin. Then, the warmth of his breath soothes the cuts, just a fraction, just enough to torture. “And you’ve killed for me. We were made for each other.”
I try to shake my head, but it’s too heavy, lolling in a pathetic twitch instead. My lungs strain for air, but it feels thick and poisonous inside them—polluted with the venom he brings with every breath he exhales near me.
“I hate you,” I choke out, the anger buzzing under the words making my vision swim while emotions crash and collide inside me.
Rage. Pain. Betrayal.
And woven through the cracks, no matter how much I want to deny it—longing. The aching, humiliating desire for his comfort after everything he’s done.
His lips ghost across my cheek, and panic sparks bright and terrified in my chest. I feel his gaze on me, feel him watching every flinch, every twitch, as he murmurs more sugary lies into my skin.
What does he feel, touching me like this while I scream? Does he feel that veil of never-ending anger coiling beneath my surface? Does he see the rupture under the ashes—those scorching coals that burn even when you only look at them?
“Let me go!” I plead, my limbs pushing at him sluggishly, stupidly. My mind knows I need space, need distance, need him gone, but my body betrays me. It wants to lean into heat, into familiarity. Into pain wrapped in comfort.
“You know I will never do that,” he breathes, and I hear the hard swallow drop down his throat—the same throat I should’ve slit the moment I had the chance. “I will never let you go. I love you, Estella. I love you so fucking much.”
He keeps repeating it. Over and over.
And I choke on my own sobs.
My face contorts under the weight of every emotion ripping through me. My muscles seize and dig into themselves while I fight the softness he offers. The fire rises inside me, pushing bile up my throat. Dizziness blooms around the edges of my mind, making everything tilt and blur.
I feel so overwhelmed, I want to vomit. I want to pass out. I want my brain to shut off. Just for a moment.
Just enough to stop thinking.
Stop feeling.
Stop hurting.
Because the thoughts are too loud. They crash against my skull, cracking it from the inside. My body gives out under the noise, and I collapse—not because I want to, but because I can’t hold myself up anymore.
He doesn’t let me fall.
His arms grip my shoulders, and he holds me as we sink to our knees together. Lava storms through my insides as I squeeze my eyes shut, my breath hitching as his soft, gentle whispers flood into my ear.
He wants his words to imprint themselves on me. He wants his promises to stain my bones.
But I don’t want any of it. He lied to me. Stabbed through every fragile truth I believed in.
How am I supposed to know he won’t do it again?
My throat cinches tight, and hysteria devours me whole as we topple onto our sides. Our bones slam against the wood, but the shock barely registers. The thoughts are louder. They chew through me, a relentless, high-frequency buzz that won’t stop.
It just won’t stop.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his arms locking around me with a crushing desperation. We collapse together, two shattered stones tumbling down the same cliff, unable to stand unless the other holds on. “I’m sorry, baby, I’m so fucking sorry.”
My hands claw at his shirt, twisting the fabric until it wrinkles under my fists. Our tears blend, our sweat merges, our breaths overlap—two beings unraveling into a heap of pain and ruin.
“Stop talking,” I murmur against his shoulder, my voice smothered.
He only pulls me closer.
What doesn’t he fucking understand? I don’t want his apologies. I don’t want his warmth. I don’t want the comfort that keeps sneaking into my bones, making me hate myself more with every second I don’t pull away.
I don’t need him.
I don’t need anyone.
I lived before him. I can live after him.
My shaking hands drift down, fumbling for distance, pushing against anything that might free me. One palm lands on my thigh, and then, my breath stutters. My fingers slide across something cold, something familiar.
A shard of clarity cuts through the fog.
My knife. I forgot. In all this mess, all this choking hysteria—I forgot I had a fucking knife strapped to my thigh.
A dry, humorless laugh escapes me, and Dante lifts his head from my neck. His eyes meet mine, but the warmth I always saw before is gone.
Hope floods me in a hot, metallic rush. It shatters the paralysis clinging to my muscles. My fingers curl around the knife’s cool handle, and with one clean motion, I rip it free. In a flash of movement, I drive it into his gut.
His eyes widen, the darkness within them swallowing the flicker of shock before it sharpens into something more dangerous.
Betrayal.
And something else—a ghost of an emotion I don’t care enough to decode. He tries to speak, but I don’t let him, shoving the blade deeper. It cuts through his flesh like silk, and the surge of power that follows is intoxicating.
His hand finds mine, fingers trembling as they clutch weakly around my own. “Don’t pull it out,” he whispers, his breath ragged.
I hold his gaze as I begin to pull it out anyway. He groans, the sound torn from somewhere deep. Warm blood pours out, slick and thick, staining my hands instantly. Panic spikes in my chest, and before I even realize what I’m doing, I ram the knife back in, tearing more agonized sounds from him.
A chill rattles through me as I scramble backward, using the sudden weakness in his body to break free. I stumble to my feet, staring at him as the world tilts.
Dante rolls onto his back, both hands gripping the knife buried in his gut. Blood winds across his body in thick red rivers, spilling onto the floor, pooling beneath him while his face contorts in sheer, breathtaking pain.
Fuck.
Fucking fuck.
My hand slaps over my mouth, breath catching, body shaking so violently it feels like my bones might fracture.
I stabbed him.
Not an empty gun. Not a harmless click.
A real wound. A real chance he might die.
Thunder crackles outside, the sound sharp and violent as it tears across the sky. For the first time, my hearing is painfully, terrifyingly clear.
I look up to the exit, an idea shooting through my brain.
“Estella,” he sobs, dragging my attention back to him. His eyes lock onto mine, wide and pleading, a silent cry for mercy he has no right to ask for.
But I know better than to help him. Not after everything he’s done. Not after the way he broke me.
I bolt, stepping over his body and sprinting toward the exit. His voice echoes behind me, calling my name, cracking with pain—but I press my palms to my ears, refusing to let it in.
I have to leave him. He doesn’t deserve my hands, my help, my anything.
The moment I burst outside, a violent gust of wind slams into my face, cold enough to slice through my already failing strength.
Exhaustion drags at my limbs as the relentless downpour soaks into my skin, urging me onward.
The drops strike my face and eyes, blurring the world, making it harder to see, harder to breathe.
But I don’t stop. I can’t. I need to get out of here before I do something unforgivable—like turn around and save him.
My soaked fingers fumble for my phone. Rain spatters across the screen instantly, distorting the light into a blinding smear. I squint, blinking hard, trying to focus as the storm roars around me.
There’s only one person who’s ever known how to fix everything—only one who’s dragged me out of a pit deeper than this.
But I don’t even know if he’s still alive. What if calling him makes everything worse? What if they’re tracking him? What if they’re waiting?
“Fuck!” I scream, and just then, a bolt of lightning tears through the sky, striking the tree beside me. It splits in two with a deafening crack before crashing onto the road, cutting off the path to the left.
If I stay here any longer, I’ll be next.
My thoughts snarl and collide, so loud I want to claw them out of my skull. Sniffling, half-sobbing, I tap the phone’s screen, but nothing happens. I tap again, dragging a wet streak across the glass.
“Come on, you piece of shit!” I shout, slapping the phone with the flat of my palm. The sound is wet and dull, drowned by thunder.
I’m shaking uncontrollably, and I’m only spiraling further. Calling Cane is my only shot. My only chance that someone will pick up before I do something irreversible.
It takes several frantic attempts before the call finally goes through.
A shaky breath escapes me as I press the phone to my ear.
It rings while I walk blindly down the flooded street, wiping rain from my face with trembling hands.
My hair sticks to my skin in soaked strands, each one another irritation I can barely stand.
The ringing cuts abruptly.
I’m unavailable right now. Please leave a message after the beep.
“Cane!” I scream into the storm, my voice tearing through the rain as desperation scrapes against every syllable. “Where in the fucking Fucktopia are you?!” The words rip out of me, and underneath them pulses a quiet, foolish hope.
A few seconds of silence stretch on, and tears burn their way to the surface again. I swallow hard, tasting rain and salt.
“Listen,” I breathe, licking my lips, trying to steady myself. “I fucked up, Cane. I fucked up so fucking bad. I need you.”
A sob shudders through my chest as I stumble forward. My shoes sink deep into the mud, each step sending cold splatters across my bare legs. I flinch at the sting but keep moving.
“Call me back,” I whisper, my voice cracking as I wrinkle my nose and force myself to focus. I stop walking, slide the phone away from my ear, and send the audio message with my trembling thumb.
“You better be fucking alive,” I murmur into the night.
A sharp snap of a twig slices through the chaos. My head jerks toward the sound, pulse kicking up. I blink into the darkness, straining to decide if it’s real or just the storm playing tricks.
I turn slowly, scanning the dense, dripping woods closing in around me, but there’s nothing—only shadows and the relentless rainfall swallowing every surface.
I take a cautious step, and then, something thin and sharp pricks the side of my neck. I hiss, slapping my hand to the spot, only to feel a brief sting and the faint warmth of blood on my fingertips before the rain washes it away. My pulse stutters, and I feel my knees buckle.
My limbs go too heavy as my thoughts blur. My body folds toward the ground despite my will to stay upright. My eyelids sink, weighted by something far stronger than simple exhaustion.
And then, with a final breath claimed by the storm, the darkness consumes me whole.