53. Zyran
ZYRAN
Istare at the dark house that looms in front of me, my fingers itching to grab the blade sitting against my hip to drive it into Michael's throat. I want to watch the blood drain out of him as life leaves his eyes, making sure he sees me as the last thing before I send him to hell.
She’s in there—I can feel it. And as much as I want to rush in and carry her to safety, I know Michael will be rash as soon as he hears us, putting her life in danger.
So as much as I want to barge in there like a man, banging his chest, yelling that’s my girl, I wait and take a breath.
Cyran appears to my left, checking his gun with that quiet efficiency he always has around guns—muscle memory. He glances at the house and then me. “Ready to get your girl back?”
I grunt and cross my arms over my chest.
Cyran rolls his neck as I glance over my shoulder, watching Slater and Raiden move up beside us without a sound, light on their feet.
“Sybil’s going to stay back with Rhys and Oliver,” Raiden says as he tightens his grip on his AK-14.
I nod and turn back towards the house, watching the glow from the basement while everything else is pitch black. For a moment I wait for Raiden to give us instructions on the best method to move, but he doesn’t. My gaze slides over to him, and he meets me, staring back with a raised brow.
Oh fuck.
I swallow, realizing this is my mission; I’m the one telling them where I want them.
“Slater, Raiden.” My voice comes out flat and rough around the edges.
“Around back, cover the exit; I don’t want him to be able to run out.
Me and Cyran will go in first, quietly, and set up right in front of the basement while you set the match to blow the front door.
The moment you’re ready, we move downstairs. ”
Slater and Raiden nod in unison and head around the house, blending into the dark. The moment they’re out of sight, I roll my neck and grip my nine mil, finger itching to pull the trigger.
Cyran falls into step beside me as we move to the front door, stepping on the sole of our shoes as we approach the front porch.
My fingers tighten around the door handle, testing it, and growl low when I find it locked.
Shifting my gun into my belt, I bend and grab the needle from Cyran's hand before twisting it into the lock. Ten seconds later, it gives, and I ease the door open inch by inch, hand pulling my gun back out before we’re even fully inside.
We sweep left and right—clear.
Moving through the ground floor the way we were trained, our eyes focused for any sudden movement. For the most part the house is empty, even worse than Esperr’s apartment was.
We move fast and silent, clearing each room before I find the basement door. I wrap my hand around the handle and test it, making sure not to make a sound. A sigh slips through, only to be cut short when I hear her voice.
“Kill me.” It’s muffled, but it might as well be right next to me.
“I will never love you… not in any lifetime, not in any shape or form. It will never happen. And the first chance I get… the very first chance. I don’t care how small, I’m running.
Every single time. I will always run from you, you stupid fucking cocksucker. ”
The corner of my mouth picks up slightly at her words—my fiery spitfire. God, I can’t wait to kiss the fuck out of her.
I press my ear to the door, trying to hear if Michael says anything, but I only hear the faint hum of the heater kicking on. And then suddenly Esperr's voice— “That’s right, kill me. Go head and fucking do it!”
My hand tightens around the door handle, seconds from yanking it open when Cyran grabs my wrist, stopping me. Gaze swinging to his, burning, and a rage that I’m barely keeping down focuses on my brother who’s stopping me.
“Don’t,” he mouths.
Then she screams, and it’s nothing like before—not from her nightmares, or when I’ve scared her in her apartment. This is bloodcurdling, ripping out of her, and I pull against Cyran, trying to get him off me.
I have to get to her; she’s hurt?—
“Zyran.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s right there, stopping me from seething. “Stick to the plan. She’s strong.”
I shake my head, and suddenly the scream cuts off.
The silence that follows is somehow worse, and my entire body is locked toward that door.
Rage that moves through me isn’t hot—it’s not that kind that makes me shake or blinds me or even makes me stupid.
It’s the cold that sits in my chest like a stone and just stays there, waiting for the moment that I look into Michael's eyes. I have ended people for a fraction of what he’s done to her, and I have never once lost sleep over any of it.
What I’m going to do to him is going to be different.
It’s not going to be clean or quick. And when it’s done, there won’t be enough left of him to identify.
Cyran keeps his hand on my wrist and doesn’t say anything else because he knows me well enough to know that talking right now is the wrong move. He just holds on and keeps a watchful eye on me.
It’s not long before Slater and Raiden appear at the end of the hall, moving silently, Slater already reaching into his vest, giving me a curt nod before they press themselves against the wall next to us.
The device goes off with a crack, punching through the front door, and I don’t wait—grabbing the handle, I rip the door open and go down the stairs with deadly precision.
My eyes sweep it in under a second—latching on Jessi in the chair in the middle of the room, and I know just from looking at her that she’s gone and then?—
Esperr.
The cold thing in my chest gets colder and quieter and even more lethal than anything I’ve ever felt in my life.
Her eye—the slice through her left brow all the way down her face to her lip.
Blood has dried on her shirt, and new blood has coated half of her face.
My gaze then shifts to the blood-soaked shirt and the way she leans to one side.
Her hazy gaze lands on me; the corner of her mouth tips up and winces as her lip splits back open, more blood dripping down her chin.
But as soon as I look over her injuries, I notice Michael-Eli—scooting behind her with his arm across her chest and a knife at her throat.
The look he gives me is that of a man who has just run out of road and is aware of it.
He’s breathing harder than he wants to, and he’s trying to control it but fails miserably.
Cyran fans left, Raiden right, and Slater takes the stairs at my back, cutting off the only exit.
I take a single step forward, gun raised—waiting for him to flinch just so I can put a bullet between his eyes.
“Don’t!” Michael screeches, hand shaking against the knife. “Don’t move… don’t move, or?—”
“Or you’ll what?”
I take another step forward, handing my gun off to Cyran, who takes it with ease and slides it into his belt.
“You’ve had her down here for hours.” I rolled my eyes as my gaze swept across him from head to toe. “And this is what you’ve got to show for it.” I make vague gestures at the knife and his shaky hands, like the pussycake he is. “Embarrasing, honestly.”
“I’m warning you?—”
“That what? You’re a poor excuse for a hitman?
I mean fuck, you’ve had all these years, watching her, following her.
Dude, you cut your own face open just to get close enough to her…
” I pause and smirk, leaning forward a bit like I’m telling a secret.
“And yet she still came home to me every night.”
A twitch in his eye and the faint pause in his breathing tells me I’m getting closer. “Shut your mouth.”
“Did you ever wonder what she felt like when she kissed you?” I ask, tilting my head. “I mean did you imagine it? Think about it when I showed up with her? When I held her hand, and she kissed me?—”
He growls a weird sound as he moves around Esperr, swinging the knife toward me. I almost laugh at how quick it was to get under his skin as I step toward the knife instead of back—one hand catching his wrist and twisting until something pops and the knife hits the concrete.
In my periphery, I see Cyran working on getting Esperr out from the chair, her hissing echoing through the basement.
Michael swings wild and desperate, all those years of his obsession finally coming apart at the seams, and I let the first one hit my jaw because in a sick way I want him to think he has a chance. I want him to feel it for just one second—the idea that this might go his way.
And then I plant my feet; the feeling of what comes naturally to me slips over—this is what I do.
For the first time, underneath it all, there’s this feeling that has nothing to do with being a professional and everything to do with the girl in the chair beside me, what she looks like, and what he did to make her look that way.
Michael swings, and I block it, slamming my fist into his ribs, the first crack, and he stumbles, grunting in pain.
He tries to recover and swings again, but I block it.
Dude’s sloppy and throws a weak punch—I easily duck under it and drive my elbow into his ribs from the other side; another crack and he wheezes.
“Fucking pussycake,” I chuckle.
Michael throws himself at me, and I sidestep him, grabbing his other wrist just as it goes back, and twist. The snap is clean and immediate—Michael screams, the sound bouncing off the walls, and he drops to one knee, cradling his wrist against his chest.
Stepping back, I drop my hands at my side and wait.
Michael sways as he gathers himself up, standing back up.
He lets out a weak growl and charges. I let him get close enough before I move, one hand yanking his shoulder and turning his momentum against him, my fist slamming into his face—the cartilage giving in on impact.
Blood pours down his face instantly, and he reels sideways into the shelf, sending it crashing to the ground.
He tries to straighten, but can’t quite get there.
His legs are shaky, his wrist is broken, he has at least two cracked ribs, a nose that sits incorrectly on his face, and blood is running into his mouth.
And he's looking at me with those rotting, obsessive eyes that show no fear even in this situation. Only rage that he’s losing.
I walk towards him slowly and laugh when he throws one more punch with everything he has left and let it graze my jaw.
Then I sweep his legs.
Michael goes back hard, nothing to catch him, and his head hits the concrete with a crack that echoes through the entire basement. He lies there gasping, blinking into the room at nothing in particular.
Standing above him, I crouch down and grip his jaw, turning his head to look at Esperr, who is still sitting in the chair, leaning towards Cyran, watching us.
“You spent your whole life trying to own something that was never made for you.” I tighten my grip on his jaw, making him moan in pain, tears falling from his eyes.
“Every nightmare you gave her, every scar—she survived all of it. And I’m going to be the one to kiss her pain away.
I’m going to be the one she lays with and touches.
” I crouch down until my face is inches from his.
“Look at her, because I want you to remember that look when I see you in hell. Because I’m going to find you there and in every lifetime I’m going to kill you. She’s mine.”
Yanking his face forward, I place my thumbs over his eyes and push forward, sinking until my knuckles breach his eye socket—Michael screams, feet kicking out, blood pouring down his face until I feel each eyeball pop and seep out of the bone structure.
Hooking my thumb into his eye sockets, I tighten my grip around his face and lift his head off the ground before smashing it down.
Over and over again, I slam his skull into the ground until the crack becomes nothing but slush, with brain matter seeping through the broken pieces and between my fingers.
Long after he’s stopped moving, my hand finally breaks through the skull; only then do I stop and sit back while breathing heavily.
I roll my shoulders and stand slowly, looking down at what’s left of him. Then I wipe my hands on my tactical pants and turn around, walking towards her.
Esperr looks up as I approach, and that smile pulls at her busted lip, but she doesn’t seem to care as I step in front of her. Bending down, I slide one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her off the chair.
She wraps her arms around my neck, face tucked against my shoulder. “Hi, my love,” she whispers into my neck.
I shiver, fighting the urge to tighten my arms around her. “Hi, mio cuore.”
There’s a beat of silence as I stand there for a moment, and then she’s mumbling, “I told him you’d kill him.”
The corner of my mouth moves, just barely. “Yeah?”
“Mmm.” She shifts slightly, wincing, fingers weakly gripping the collar of my shirt before they move up to my hair, twirling the ends. “He didn’t believe me.”
“His mistake.”
I turn toward the stairs, thanking Raiden for standing in front of Jessi’s body so she can’t fully see it. Moving forward, I keep her against me, as I carefully climb the stairs, trying not to jolt her too much.
It’s not until I reach the top that she lets out a sigh, like she’d been holding her breath the entire time down there.
“Hey baby?” she mutters.
“Yes?”
“You think you can run me a bath?”
I glance down at her, stepping through the broken front door and out into the cold night.
“I’ve got a killer headache,” she added, and I can feel her lips weakly tug up into a smile.
“Yeah,” I grunt. “I can do that.”
She nods once and slowly, like every bit of fight she’s been holding onto for the past three years fades away. Her body goes soft and heavy against mine as she melts into me. Trusting me to hold her and keep her safe.
Something settles in my chest that I don’t have words for—it’s not relief; that’s too small for it, too clean. It’s something that I can’t explain or put into words.
But I’ve got her, and I find myself looking up at the sky, hoping that her parents can see it too. Esperr is finally safe.
She’s right here, breathing against my chest. I’ve got her, and I’m not letting her down, not for anything.
She was never his—she was never anyone’s.
She’s free.
The End