Chapter 13
Harlow
The day unfolded by the pool, surrounded by my cousins.
They talked in soft, hopeful tones, light conversation drifting through the air like it might carry me with it. But I remained silent.
Detached.
Present only in form.
They tried so hard to keep things normal, and I love them more for it. I saw the strain in their eyes, the quiet worry stitched into every glance.
They’re pretending, for my sake.
And I loathe that it takes so much effort just to navigate the wreckage of who I’ve become.
Mattia came home from practice just before sunset, and we had dinner together, all of us. For the first time since I’m back, I ventured out of the sanctuary of our bedroom and that too familiar bed. I still didn’t eat. I couldn’t. But I sat there, numb, listening as Elena and Sofia filled the space with light conversation, their words floating in the silence.
Mattia listened quietly, offered small smiles, and responded in a soft, careful voice. All three of them tried not to look at me too often, but their glances kept drifting in my direction, each one edged with concern they couldn’t fully conceal.
It cut through me.
And worse still was seeing the change in Mattia.
The guarded posture. The worry etched into his young face. An expression far too serious.
I despised that look, the one that asked if I was still breathing. Still functioning. Still here.
I hate what I’ve become.
It’s past midnight now, and Dante still hasn’t returned. Nor my father or brothers. They’re out there, somewhere. Doing what needs to be done, I’m sure. Dante had promised he’d be home before I went to bed.
He lied.
As the thought settles, I wince.
When did I become so reliant on someone? So bound to a man’s presence that his absence feels like suffocating in slow motion?
I shouldn’t be like this. I don’t deserve the safety his arms give me. I don’t deserve the calm that comes with his voice, or the fleeting moments of peace that slip into my chest when he’s near.
Those girls never got that. So why should I?
Sleep will not come easily. Not tonight. Not when I’m so utterly, shamefully, afraid to fall asleep alone.
But eventually, exhaustion drags me under. I don’t remember closing my eyes. One moment I’m staring at the ceiling, the next...
I jolt awake, breath tearing from my lungs, my chest heaving like I’ve been drowning.
My nightgown clings to my body, soaked through with sweat. My chest rises and falls in ragged bursts, and my cheeks are wet with tears I don’t remember shedding.
I’m rocking. Shaking. Sobbing.
They’re here.
All of them.
The girls.
Dead girls. Empty eyes. Pale faces. They stare straight through me. Their mouths move in eerie unison as they chant...
Murderer.
I clutch at my head. Shake it. Try to breathe. Try to remember where I am.
I don’t understand.
Where am I…
There are trees, everywhere.
It’s dark. So dark I can’t see my own hands.
But then, walls. I see walls.
I’m inside. I’m not outside. I’m not in the woods.
I’m safe. Aren’t I?
The bed is here. Our bedroom. The linen sheets, the lamp on the nightstand. My robe draped across the chair.
It should feel familiar.
But...
The trees. I can still see them. Still feel them pressing in from every side.
The woods. Endless.
Trees blur into one another, the same pattern repeating until I can’t tell if I’ve run five feet or five miles. I think I’ve lost him. Maybe not. I glance back. Nothing, just branches, shadows, silence.
I slow.
Crack.
No.
No, no, no, no, no.
I run. Faster. My feet are shredded, torn open and leaking blood in a breadcrumb trail. I don’t feel them anymore. Pain lances up my side, maybe a cracked rib, maybe just the echo of what he did to me. Doesn’t matter. I move.
Keep moving.
If I stop, I die.
And I won’t die here. I won’t give him that.
It took days—days of pretending I was broken, of letting him believe I’d given up, just to earn a sliver of trust. He took off the chains. He made a mistake. I waited for it. And when he slipped, I ran.
Now I’m sprinting on instinct alone, lungs burning, heart lodged in my throat. Every step is agony. Every breath tastes like blood and dirt.
I hear another sound, behind me. Wind? An animal? Him? I don’t look. I just run.
Until I fall. The ground tears at the skin on my arms and knees as I go down, my face hitting the dirt hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs. I suck in air, tasting grit and blood, pain flaring through every nerve as I push myself upright with shaking arms. I keep running.
I keep going.
I glance over my shoulder, nothing.
And then I hit something.
No, someone.
I slam into him full force, the impact snapping my head back. My gaze jerks upward and meets his eyes.
Unmoving.
Unblinking.
Wild.
A smile pulls at his mouth, slight and terrifying.
“Now you’ve done it,”
he says softly.
His hands close around my arms. I fight like hell. I kick, landing one between his legs. He grunts and folds for a heartbeat but recovers too fast. The slap that comes next is blinding. My skull rings.
I lunge again, but he’s already got a syringe in hand.
“No—!”
I scream, or maybe I just think it. The needle punches into my neck, as ice floods my veins.
One by one, my limbs go dark. Legs first, then arms, then jaw. My mind is still aware, still me, but my body is shutting down like a dying machine.
I can’t move.
Can’t scream.
But I see.
I see as he lifts me like I’m nothing, my arms hanging and head lolling back.
I’m trapped inside myself, watching the world tilt and blur.
Tree branches slide out of view as the sky slips away.
I know where he’s taking me.
Even through the haze, my body reacts, my heart is pounding against my ribs that won’t respond.
Every nerve screaming beneath dead weight. The house comes into view. Not a memory. Not a nightmare. Reality. My reality.
He takes me through the door, down the stairs, into the dark that waits for me like it never left.
I feel the shift in temperature, the wetness in the air.
The stink of old blood and rust coats the inside of my throat.
My back hits the floor.
The cold concrete bites into my skin, real and unforgiving.
Pain blooms up my spine.
Chains scrape the ground, he locks one around my ankle with a cruel snap, biting into my already broken flesh.
I want to flinch, curl away from the pressure, but nothing moves.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling I learned to hate.
The cracks are still there. So is he.
“Don’t worry,”
he whispers, calm, almost tender.
“I’ll be back soon. You’ve earned what’s coming.”
Time fractures.
Minutes, hours, I can’t say.
The drug releases its grip slowly, excruciatingly.
First, I manage to twitch a toe.
Then sensation creeps into my leg, a jolt of fire waking up dead nerves.
I shift my foot.
Next, my neck, just enough to turn my head, to lift it slightly off the cold floor.
My vision sharpens, and with it, my instinct.
I scan the room, searching for anything, an edge, a flaw, a fragment I can weaponize. There has to be a way out. And I will find it.
Because this ends with me walking out of here. Not crying.
Not begging.
Fighting.
He thinks he’s won. He has no idea who he’s dealing with.
The door creaks open, too soon. My spine locks in place, every nerve igniting in warning.
Something’s wrong.
I hear it before I see it, the scrape of weight dragging over wood, the thud of heavy footsteps descending the stairs. Slow. Laboured. He’s hauling something.
Or someone.
A sound follows. Fragile. Cracked. A muffled cry that fractures the air. My heart stumbles.
He’s dragging a girl by the arm, her limbs slack, her feet barely skimming the ground.
She’s young.
Far too young.
Pale.
Frail.
Her hair veils her face, but when it shifts, I freeze. She doesn’t look exactly like me, but close enough. Same build. Same length of hair.
Enough resemblance to make my stomach twist into a knot. Her lower lip is torn and bloodied.
He laid his hands on her. Inflicted harm. Dragged an innocent soul into the depths of his twisted spectacle
With a careless shove, she’s dropped in front of me. She doesn’t fight back. Doesn’t flinch. Just stares ahead, vacant.
Broken.
I look up at him, searching for logic I already know doesn’t exist. He’s smiling.
“This,”
he announces, far too brightly.
“this is your punishment.”
“What are you—”
He cuts me off with a wave of his hand, crouching beside the girl.
“I’m not going to touch you,”
he says, his tone syrupy.
“You know the rules. Not until you ask me to. And clearly, you’re not ready. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have tried to run today.”
His voice drips with counterfeit affection.
“But I’m a patient man. We have time.”
He strokes the girl’s hair, and she recoils.
“But her?”
His eyes flick back to me.
“She’ll pay for your sins. I didn’t want to involve anyone else, but you left me no choice. Actions have consequences, Harlow. You brought this on her, by trying to escape me.”
A chill spreads through me, numbing thought, movement, reason. Why would he involve someone else? He doesn’t want her, it’s me he wants.
“No. Let her go. What the hell do you think you’re doing? She has nothing to do with—”
He’s already grinning. Euphoric.
“Let’s make things interesting.”
From his pocket, he produces a revolver, gleaming under the flickering light.
“We’ll play Russian roulette.”
The blood drains from my face. My heart crashes against my ribs, then plummets. He meets my gaze unblinking, as he delivers the verdict.
“You, darling, will have the distinct honour of pulling the trigger.”
“You’re insane!”
I shout, fury slicing through me.
“Let her go! Punish me, me, not her! She’s innocent! I’m the one who deserves it after trying to run.”
He laughs, the sound dark and delighted.
“Oh, Harlow.”
He says my name like it’s sacred.
“I love you too much to kill you. Even after everything, I could never do that. But that doesn’t mean I’ll let you defy me. You need to learn. You need to understand, there is no escape. Not from me.”
He gestures lazily toward the girl.
“And this? This will break you. Because underneath all that strength is a wound I’ve yet to carve open. And what better way to teach you than to make you take her life? To force you to live with what you’ve done.”
He steps behind me and places the gun in my hand. My fingers close around the cold, heavy steel before I can think. His hand folds over mine, steady, confident, guiding the barrel toward the girl.
I try to shift my wrist, turn the muzzle on him instead, but he’s already watching. Anticipating. His eyes darken.
In a flash, he’s in front of me. His hand cracks across my face, hard enough to twist my neck.
“That’s your second strike,”
he growls.
“You keep testing me. You keep trying to get away. But each time you do, someone else will bleed. Another girl. Another life lost to your defiance.”
He speaks as if she’s already dead. But she isn’t. She’s still breathing. And she will keep breathing. I’ll get her out of here. She won’t die in this basement, not because of me.
“Run!”
I scream, desperation splintering in my throat. “Run!”
I swing the gun toward him and pull the trigger.
Click.
He laughs. Laughs right in my face.
I fire again.
Again.
Again.
He needs to die. He has to die. This girl will live. I will live.
Click. Click. Click.
My hands tremble, relentless. I keep pulling the trigger, blind with rage, with the hope, desperate and burning, that one chamber holds a bullet.
Then the room stills. The rage drains from my limbs as I blink, trying to make sense of what I see. The first thing I notice is his expression, smug and satisfied. My brows draw together in confusion.
Something’s wrong.
I scan the room.
And there she is.
The girl.
She’s lying on the floor.
Blood.
A dark, blooming pool beneath her, spreading fast, far too fast.
“No.”
The word slips out as a breath.
How?
I was aiming at him. He was on the right. She—
She was on the left.
I look down at the gun. At my hands, slick with something warm.
There’s nothing there, but I can feel it.
Too real to be imagined.
Too real not to be.
I look back at her.
She’s not moving.
How? I don’t understand…
I was aiming at him. It should’ve been him.
I killed her.
Oh God.
I killed her.
I was so blinded by rage I didn’t—
My lungs seize. My stomach lurches. I twist to the side and retch, though there’s nothing in me left to give. Still, I heave, over and over, the air thickening in my throat. I can’t breathe. It’s like someone’s squeezing the air out of my lungs, one crushing second at a time.
Why can’t I breathe?
I choke on the air itself.
I glance up at him. He’s grinning, basking in the sight of me unravelling.
“You never learn, Harlow,”
he says, almost pitying.
“I knew it would take time to break you. But I will.”
He steps over the girl’s body like it’s nothing more than an object. A prop. He crouches in front of me, brushing my cheek with obscene gentleness. I flinch, and he hates that, it’s no surprise when the next blow lands, the back of his hand sharp against my face.
“I love you,”
he whispers, his voice soft, tender, like the violence never happened.
“You took your punishment better than I expected.”
He rises.
“She’ll stay here with you for a while. Keep you company. But don’t worry...”
His voice turns to a hiss.
“Your next gift is already on the way. You tried to kill me after all. That won’t go unpunished. Another girl will die because of your disobedience. Was it worth it?”
His tone is almost gentle, but his eyes burn with cruelty.
“Is your freedom worth all these stolen lives?”
No.
No it’s not.
He watches me, as though he hears the thought, then throws his head back and laughs, a sound so jagged it scrapes down my spine.
“This is just the beginning,”
he says, and turns his back.
And I’m left here shaking, shattered, crumpled on the cold stone floor.
My breath won’t come. My mind won’t quiet.
I can’t look away. She’s here.
The girl I killed.
Her eyes are empty, but they won’t stop staring. And I can’t stop seeing my own reflection in them.
I am wrenched from my nightmare.
No.
No, this isn’t a nightmare.
It’s real.
It happened.
God...
Where am I?
My eyes sweep the room, frantic. Marble floors. Brass fixtures. The scent of smoked leather and vanilla clinging to the air like memory.
Our bathroom. Dante’s home. Our scents entitled together.
Home.
I’m home.
I’m…
Safe?
Safe.
The word turns my stomach.
I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve any of this, the silence, the illusion of peace. I don’t deserve breathing, not after what I did. It should’ve been me.
Should’ve been you.
Murderer.
The voices are back. Louder. Closer. Inside me. Everywhere. I grip the edge of the vanity to steady myself, but the marble feels foreign beneath my fingertips. My skin’s clammy. My vision swims.
No, no—please.
Make it stop.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t think.
This is too much.
It’s too much.
I want it to end.
End it.
Just, end it you coward.
I am stronger, I tell myself. I say it, I think I do, but my voice is gone or maybe it never left my throat.
Am I stronger?
No.
No, I’m not.
No, you’re not.
I look down at my hands. A shard of glass rests between my fingers—sleek, jagged, its edge delicately stained with crimson. It glints beneath the bathroom lights, with an elegance that feels almost cruel.
Where did it come from?
Was it already broken, or did I fracture it myself in some moment I no longer remember?
I can’t seem to hold onto the memory. My thoughts are a cacophony, defective, discordant, impossible to follow.
My hands begin to tremble as I stare at it, uncomprehending. The weight of it is unfamiliar, and yet, in some deeply buried way, it feels like it belongs to me.
The voices return—whispers, chants, overlapping.
Girls.
Too many to name.
Too many to forget.
All gone because of me.
Their lives...taken.
I took them.
Even if I didn’t pull the trigger myself, my defiance, my resistance, my very existence was provocation enough to condemn them.
You did pull the trigger.
One of them hisses.
And it’s true.
Once, I did.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing it all away.
Still here.
I open them again.
Still here.
I am in the woods.
I am in the basement.
I am holding a gun.
I am standing in our bathroom.
I am home.
Something brushes along my arm. When I glance down, I see a thin trail of blood.
How did that happen?
Am I imagining it?
Is this part of the memory, or the present?
I can no longer tell the difference between what was and what is. The glass touches my wrist. I press it in, not forcefully, just enough to feel its kiss.
More blood.
It drips down in slow, lazy trails. Red, or is it black? It seems darker than it should be.
Too dark.
Why is it so dark?
Too beautiful in a twisted way.
I stare at it, detached. I feel nothing.
No pain. No panic. No fear.
Why don’t I feel anything?
Perhaps none of this is real.
Or maybe I feel too much and my body no longer knows how to process it.
Why can’t I just feel something?
I press harder now, almost desperate.
Still nothing.
Maybe I’m dreaming.
I close my eyes, my breath coming in shallow, uneven gulps. They’re all around me now.
The girls. The dead girls.
A chorus of whispers rising in unison, until it isn’t.
The chanting stops.
Now they’re just staring.
Silent.
Still.
Lifeless eyes locked on me.
I open my eyes…
But they’re still here.
Lingering behind my vision like ghosts I can’t blink away. I shake my head, desperate to ground myself. I look around.
Home.
I shut my eyes again.
Open them.
I’m in the bathroom. Our bathroom.
What am I doing here?
My gaze drops to my arm.
It’s covered in blood.
Blood?
Why?
Why is there so much of it?
Too much.
I am a murderer.
Not just someone.
Not just anyone.
I killed an innocent girl.
He was meant to kill me. Not her. Not the others who followed.
I no longer understand what’s happening to me. My mind doesn’t feel like mine. My thoughts splinter and slip, scattered. I tell myself I can be stronger than this.
But I don’t want to be.
I don’t deserve...
Not the love Dante gives me.
Not Mattia’s quiet devotion.
Not my family’s unwavering hope.
I am not strong.
I was. Once.
But that strength died somewhere in that basement. And I let it die. I didn’t fight for it. Not after taking an innocent life, and so many more after.
I didn’t stop him.
Why did I run?
Why did I try to escape, to shoot him, to save myself? What was there even left to save?
I should’ve stayed. I should’ve saved them. I should’ve convinced him to let them go. I should’ve fought harder. Begged louder. Offered myself.
Anything.
But I didn’t. And now their blood is on my hands.
I didn’t just fail them. I stole from them.
Their futures.
Their families.
Their right to live.
When I blink again, my gaze falls to my arm. The long gash seems deeper now, it glares back at me. Blood pools across the tiles, creeping toward me in wide, glistening ribbons.
So much of it.
Everything is flickering. My vision cuts in and out, the bathroom tilting at angles I can’t correct.
What am I doing here?
I blink, slower this time, trying to focus. To stay grounded. But nothing makes sense, everything is distorted, spinning, wrong.
What have I done?
Dante.
Mattia.
I whisper again that I’m stronger. But the voice in my head answers first.
No, you’re not.
You should have died in that basement.
It should have been you.
The voice is mine, but colder now. Crueller. I used to argue with it, challenge it.
Now, I just let it win.
The blood beneath me gleams. My body sways. I can’t tell if I’m sitting, or standing, or already falling. The last thing I hear is the sickening crack as my skull meets the tile.
Coldness kisses my cheek.
Stillness wraps itself around me.
And for the first time since I was taken...
I feel free.
This is for the best.
It should have always been me.
It was always meant to be me.