Chapter 37 Dante #2
“No!” she screams back, stumbling a few steps away from the cage. “You’re like an addict, Dante, can’t you see that? And all addicts go through withdrawal eventually. The only thing that helps them is surviving it.”
“Jesus,” I whisper, disbelief scraping my throat raw. Another humorless, fractured chuckle escapes me as I shake my head.
“I still have hope,” she insists. “I will help you—”
“How can you be so fucking stupid?” I cut in, thrusting a shaking hand in her direction. “And how could I be even worse? I’ve spent years working with fucking imbeciles.”
Something snaps—the last thread holding me together.
Manic Laughter rips out of me, shaking through my chest. It spirals upward immediately, wild and uncontrollable, rattling my ribs like something feral trying to claw its way out.
Tears spring to my eyes, but I swipe at them angrily, smearing salt and sweat across my face until the world blurs.
“You’re angry because you’re in pain,” she says softly. “It’ll pass. Once everything is done, you will be okay, Dante. I promise.”
I won’t be okay. Not now. Not again. Not after Estella found everything out in the worst way imaginable. She spent her entire life in this world, carving her place into it with blood, sweat, and her own twisted form of devotion. And I destroyed all of it with one mistake.
Lucia’s voice trails off the second her phone starts buzzing. She checks the screen, lifts it to her ear, and steps out, climbing the stairs before the door clicks shut behind her.
The moment she’s gone, adrenaline slams into me, stealing the breath straight from my lungs.
My bandaged arm throbs, reminding me of the wound I carved open myself, the price I paid for this backup plan.
Blood has already soaked through the white cloth, and the sting beneath it whispers that there’s no going back now.
I drag the bandaged arm forward, grit my teeth, and tear the fabric apart in one violent motion.
Cold air rushes against the exposed, trembling skin.
The poorly stitched wound pulses with each heartbeat, the weak sutures shifting when I move.
More blood trickles out, thin trails carving through dried crust.
A small, coin-shaped key glints from within the wound, nestled between torn flesh. The basement light catches on its edge, the reflection sharp enough to urge me forward.
I draw in a slow, steady breath, filling my lungs as much as they’ll allow, then lower my head.
My teeth close around the soaked threads, biting down with all the force I have.
Iron floods my tongue, and I pull sideways.
The quiet rip of the stitches cuts through the stillness—a soft, deliberate tear that somehow feels louder than a scream.
Blood rushes free, warm and metallic, sliding over my tongue and dripping down my chin.
I recoil, the world tilting for a single wavering heartbeat. My arm shakes uncontrollably, shock rippling up my spine in jagged waves. Yet the pain feels far away, nothing more than a muted echo beneath the surge pounding through my veins.
My fingers dig into the wound, grabbing the edge of the loose threads. I drag them down, opening the flesh until the key sits free, glimmering like salvation in a pool of red.
Biting my lip to ground myself, I reach in with my other hand and pull the small coin-key out fully. When it rests in my palm, the relief is so powerful it melts into a low, breathless chuckle.
Hold on just a bit longer, Estella.
With shaking hands, I press the key into the coin slot of the cage’s lock. A soft click answers me as the door cracks open.
The basement air slaps against my face, but it tastes sweeter than the suffocating despair that had claimed the cage.
Quickly, I tear a long strip from my shirt sleeve.
Wrapping it around the open wound, I tie it with my teeth, pulling it tight enough to bite into my skin.
Enough pressure to slow the bleeding. Enough to keep moving.
There’s no time for pain. No time for doubt.
A muffled voice floats down from above, followed by the soft click of the door. I slip into the darkest corner near the stairs, pressing my back to the wall, breath held, waiting for her footsteps to descend.
“I let them go. They’re on their way to help you. She couldn’t have gotten far, don’t worry. Call me when you’re done.”
My lips stretch into a slow, satisfied smile as the truth settles in my bones. I knew Estella was capable. I knew she’d tear through whatever trap they built for her. And the fact that she’s out there—free, fighting, relentless—makes me so fucking proud.
Proud… and burning with urgency.
Lucia steps into the basement, tucking her phone into her pocket. She freezes mid-stride when she spots the empty cage. Her head jerks from side to side, eyes scanning frantically, trying to locate what she’s already lost.
“I built every inch of this place. Including the way out.”
She turns toward my voice, but she’s too slow.
My hand snaps across her face, the impact cracking through the room as she stumbles and drops to the floor.
Her phone shoots from her pocket, skidding across the concrete in a clatter.
She scrambles instantly, crawling toward it with a pitiful instinct for survival.
I trail after her, letting her get close—close enough to believe she has a chance. Her fingers stretch, trembling, reaching for the phone. The moment they twitch to curl around it, my boot slams down. The device shatters under my heel with a sharp, final crack.
A broken sob wrenches out of her. She whips her hands toward my leg in a futile strike, and I kick her sideways, sending her sprawling.
“No,” she chokes out, the single word collapsing under its own despair. She rolls onto her back, pushing herself away, face streaked with tears, snot dangling as she sobs. “Oh, God—”
“No, no,” I interrupt, waving my finger in disagreement. “No God, Lucia. The only authority over your fate is me.”
Her cheek is already swelling, painted red with the shape of my hand. “I should’ve known it would always end like this—”
“No. NO, it didn’t fucking have to!” The words rip out of me as my fists cut through the air, fury spilling unchecked. “You and Jason are too fucking blind! Ungrateful, spiteful—every one of you!”
I step closer, voice sharp enough to cut. “I made you special. I gave you purpose. And you were too arrogant, too selfish to see what you had when you followed my orders.”
I climb onto her, pinning her down, her body trapped beneath mine. She swings at me, still fighting, still delusional. Seizing her wrists, I slam them above her head, the bones jolting under my grip as I pin them against the floor.
“You wanted to know how I killed Jason and the others?” I murmur, leaning in until my breath grazes her cheek. “I’ll send you straight to them.”
My mind tunnels, vision narrowing as darkness floods my body.
My hands close around her throat, fingers locking tight.
She thrashes, slaps at me, drives her nails into my skin, but nothing reaches me.
Nothing matters. I squeeze, harder, harder, until her resistance falters, until her movements quiet, until her eyes go glassy and hollow as they stare into mine—then drift away as her head lolls to the side.
The walls shudder beneath the scream ripping out of me—a raw, animal sound that tears my throat open. The agony scorching through my body is nothing compared to the pain detonating in my chest as I sit hunched on the bed of hot coals and scattered ashes beneath me.
Heat devours my skin. Muscles convulse, straining against themselves. My lungs shatter with every gasp.
I rise on shaking legs, my entire body vibrating with poisonous, directionless rage. It leaks through my pores, coils through my veins, and pushes me upward. I climb the stairs, each step trembling under the weight of what I’ve done and what’s been done to me, until I burst out of the basement.
The sight that welcomes me steals the last air left in my lungs.
The base—once loud, alive, a nest of voices and movement—is now a carcass.
Dust clings to the corners. Bodies lie twisted on the floor.
Blood streaks across the walls in uneven splatters, drying in rusty patterns that look almost deliberate. A graveyard masquerading as a home.
An engine roars nearby, slicing through the silence. Two gunshots crack a second later, sharp and immediate. Before I can even string a thought together, the door slams open, and every emotion inside me halts. Stillness falls through me like a stone when I see him.
Fuck. Me.
The bastard is alive.
Cane stands framed in the doorway, eyes widening as he takes in the wreckage of me. His gaze sweeps from my blood-soaked clothes to the ash smeared across my skin, and he lets out a breath that sounds like disbelief twisted with fury.
“I’m not going to ask if you’re okay,” he says, voice flat and cutting. “Two reasons. One, it’s a stupid fucking question. And two, you don’t deserve it.”
I close the distance between us despite the weight in my limbs and the anger radiating off him. “Is she—”
“She’s fine.” His answer slices through my desperation. “Come on. I’m taking you somewhere safe.”
He turns, already moving toward his car. I follow, squinting against the bright beam of headlights that pierce the fog rolling through the trees. The storm has died, leaving only a pale, ghostly veil drifting between the trunks, the scent of rain and pine hanging thick in the air.
“Did she tell you what happened?” I ask, tone sharp with impatience as I yank the car door shut.
Cane drops into the driver’s seat. “Not much. But she’s pissed. Prepare yourself—she’ll probably grab the kitchen knife the moment she sees you.”
Warmth stirs beneath my skin, curling in my stomach, and a laugh escapes me despite everything. My hand drifts instinctively to my abdomen, pressing over the stitched spot.
Cane’s gaze snaps to me. “What?”
“She already stabbed me,” I admit.
His laughter erupts before he shakes his head, amusement rolling off him in waves.
“Welcome to the club.”