Chapter 16 #2
I tackle him from behind, driving him face-first into the ground. His gun skitters away as we roll, trading blows. He's stronger than he looks, fighting with the ferocity of a cornered animal.
"You should have stayed away from her," I growl, landing a punch that snaps his head back. "Should have never touched what's mine."
He laughs through bloody teeth, eyes wild with defiance. "Your woman will never be safe. My people will—"
My fist connects with his jaw, silencing his threats. I zip-tie his hands behind his back and haul him to his feet.
Wilder approaches, gun trained on Volkov's head.
"Do it," Volkov spits. "End it now."
"No," I say, voice eerily calm. "Death would be too merciful for what you've done."
Wilder studies my face, understanding dawning in his eyes. "The basement?"
I nod once. "He deserves to experience everything he made Livie fear."
"What are you talking about?" Volkov demands, panic seeping into his voice for the first time.
I lean close, my lips nearly touching his ear. "You're about to find out what true terror feels like."
Trenton pulls up with the club van, its rear doors already open. We force Volkov inside, securing him to the metal floor rings with additional restraints. His shoulder wound bleeds steadily, but not enough to kill him. Not yet.
"Diane?" I ask as Wilder climbs in beside me.
His expression tells me everything. "Didn't make it. Bullet hit her heart."
I feel nothing—no satisfaction, no remorse. Diane made her choices. In the end, they cost her everything.
"The others?"
"All neutralized," Wilder confirms. "Mason and Zach are handling cleanup. No witnesses, no evidence."
The drive back to the compound passes in tense silence, with Volkov's labored breathing the only sound. When we arrive, Torch meets us at the rear entrance, the one few outsiders know exists.
"Everything ready?" I ask.
He nods grimly. "Just like you asked. Soundproofed. No cameras. No record."
"Good." I drag Volkov from the van, ignoring his renewed struggles. "Livie?"
"Still in your room. Xavier gave her another sedative after you left. She was… upset."
Guilt flickers briefly, but I push it aside. Soon this will all be over, and we can begin to heal.
We descend the narrow stairs to the basement—a space used for fun that requires absolute privacy. The concrete walls and floor have seen their fair share of blood over the years. Today they'll see more.
The room is prepared exactly as I instructed with tools laid out on a metal table, chains hanging from ceiling hooks, and a single chair bolted to the floor in the center. Just like Livie described from her nightmares.
"What is this?" Volkov's voice rises in pitch as we force him into the chair. "You can't do this. My organization—"
"Your organization thinks you're still at the motel," I interrupt, securing his ankles to the chair legs. "By the time they realize you're missing, there won't be enough left of you to identify."
Fear finally registers in his eyes as he takes in the implements arranged on the table—pliers, knives, a blowtorch, chemicals in unmarked bottles.
"You're making a mistake," he tries again, desperation clear in his voice. "I can offer you money, protection—"
"I don't want your money." I select a pair of bolt cutters from the table, testing their weight in my hand. "And I don't need your protection."
Wilder and Torch take up their positions by the door, silent witnesses to what's about to unfold.
"What I want," I continue, approaching Volkov with measured steps, "is for you to experience exactly what you put Livie through. The fear. The helplessness. The absolute certainty that your life is in someone else's hands."
"This is justice," I cut him off. "For every scream you tore from her throat.
For every tear you made her shed. For every moment of peace you stole from her.
" I place the edge of the bolt cutters against his pinkie finger.
"She wakes up shaking every night, you know.
Dreaming of what you might have done to her.
To me." I apply just enough pressure to dimple the skin. "Now you get to live it."
I start with his fingers, one by one. Not cutting them off—not yet—but dislocating each joint.
Volkov's screams echo against the concrete walls as I bend each digit backward until the pop of separation vibrates through my fingertips.
His pinkie, ring, and middle fingers—each one a payment for Livie's terror.
"This is just the beginning," I tell him, voice detached as I move to his right hand. "We have hours ahead of us."
Volkov's eyes bulge, sweat streaming down his face. "Please," he gasps between screams. "Whatever you want—"
"I want you to suffer," I reply simply, reaching for the pliers. "I want you to know what it feels like to be utterly helpless."
I use the pliers to grip the nail of his thumb, applying steady pressure until it separates from the flesh beneath. The sound he makes isn't human anymore—a high, keening wail that satisfies something inside me.
When I've removed three nails, I pause, allowing him a moment to anticipate what comes next. Fear can be more effective than pain itself.
"Your men," I continue conversationally, selecting a thin, curved blade from the table, "they touched what's mine. Put their hands on my woman."
I press the knife against his cheek, just deep enough to draw blood. "So now I'm going to take your face. Piece by piece."
Torch shifts uncomfortably by the door but doesn't interfere. Wilder's expression remains impassive, his eyes hard as he watches Volkov's punishment unfold.
I carve a thin strip of skin from Volkov's cheek, not enough to kill, just enough to make him understand what's coming. His screams have given way to sobbing now, pride abandoned in the face of true terror.
"Do you know what they would have done to her?" I ask, leaning close to his ear. "If they'd had more time with her? If I hadn't gotten her out?"
I describe the possibilities in graphic detail, each potential violation, each degrading act they might have inflicted. With each scenario, I inflict a new wound. Small, precise cuts across his chest, his arms, his face. Nonfatal, but all excruciating.
When the blowtorch comes out, Volkov loses control of his bladder, urine soaking through his expensive pants. The acrid smell mingles with the copper scent of blood already heavy in the air.
"Please," he begs, voice raw from screaming. "Kill me. Just kill me."
"Not yet," I promise, igniting the torch. "Not until you understand exactly what you took from us."
I apply the flame to the wounds I've already created, cauterizing them one by one. The sizzle of flesh and Volkov's renewed screams create a symphony of retribution that should satisfy me, should quench the rage burning in my chest.
But it doesn't.
Because no matter what I do to him, it won't erase the fear from Livie's eyes. Won't stop her nightmares. Won't restore what he stole from us.
Hours pass, marked only by Volkov's diminishing capacity for pain. I've worked systematically, ensuring he remains conscious, ensuring he feels everything. I've removed three toes, shattered his kneecaps with a hammer, dislocated his shoulders, and carved intricate patterns across his torso.
Through it all, I've narrated exactly why each punishment is being inflicted, connecting each wound to a specific moment of Livie's terror.
"This," I say, pressing the blade beneath his eye, "is for the gun they held to her head."
The knife sinks in, not deep enough to damage the eye itself, but enough to create a perfect half-moon scar beneath it—a permanent reminder he'll never live to display.
"And this," I continue, moving to his other eye, "is for making her watch while they touched me."
Matching wounds, perfect symmetry in his suffering.
When I finally step back, my hands covered in his blood, my rage has transformed into something colder, more focused. Volkov hangs limp in the chair, barely conscious, his once handsome face a roadmap of pain.
"You know what I've realized?" I tell him, cleaning my blade methodically. "No matter what I do to you, it won't be enough. Because you'd do it all again. Men like you always do."
I turn to Wilder, who hasn't moved from his position by the door. "Your turn."
He steps forward, eyes locked on Volkov's broken form. As Livie's father, he has his own reckoning to deliver.
I move to the corner, watching as Wilder approaches with deadly calm. His methods are different from mine—less theatrical, more efficient. Military precision in every movement as he selects a serrated hunting knife from the table.
"My daughter," he says simply, and drives the blade into Volkov's thigh, twisting it to sever the femoral artery.
Blood pulses from the wound in rhythmic spurts, each beat of Volkov's heart pushing him closer to death. He doesn't scream anymore, lacking the strength to do so. His eyes, though, remain aware, horror dawning as he realizes this is the end.
"Wait," he gasps, blood bubbling from his lips. "I can still—"
"You can die," Wilder interrupts, voice devoid of emotion. "Knowing that everything you built will crumble without you. We'll make sure of it."
We watch in silence as Volkov's life drains away, his eyes gradually losing focus, his breathing becoming shallow and erratic. When the final shudder passes through his body, Wilder checks for a pulse, then nods once.
"It's done."
* * *
I stand under the scalding spray of the shower, watching Volkov's blood swirl down the drain in pale pink rivulets. The water can't wash away what I've done, but I feel no remorse, only a profound sense of completion. Justice has been served. The threat has been eliminated.
After scrubbing every trace of him from my skin, I dress quickly in clean clothes. My body aches from the exertion of the past few hours, but my mind is clearer than it's been since the night we were taken.
I need to see Livie.
The prospect is still at his post outside my bedroom door, standing straighter as I approach.
"Any change?" I ask.
"No, sir. Dr. Blane checked on her about an hour ago. Said she was still sleeping."
I nod and enter quietly, the room bathed in the glow of late afternoon sun filtering through the curtains. Livie is curled on her side, face peaceful in drug-induced slumber. The bruises on her skin have begun to fade to a yellow-green, healing marks that will eventually disappear completely.
Unlike the invisible scars beneath.
I sit carefully on the edge of the bed, drinking in the sight of her. Safe. Whole. Mine. Something settles in my chest, a weight I've been carrying since that SUV ran us off the road finally lifting.
It's over. Volkov is gone. His men are dead. His organization will soon learn what happens when you target someone under the Devil Souls’ protection.
I brush a strand of hair from Livie's face, my touch gentle against her warm skin. Her eyelids flutter at the contact, consciousness gradually returning as the sedative wears off.
"Greyson?" she murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
"I'm here, baby." I cup her cheek, thumb tracing the delicate line of her jaw. "Right where I belong."
She blinks slowly, focusing on my face. "You came back."
"I promised I would." I lean down to press my lips to her forehead. "Always."
Full awareness returns to her eyes as she searches my face. "Did you… Is he…?"
"It's done," I confirm, the same words Wilder spoke in that basement. "Volkov won't hurt anyone ever again."
Relief washes over her features, tears gathering in her eyes. "And Diane?"
I hesitate, wishing I had better news. "She didn't make it, Livie. Volkov shot her when we breached the room."
Pain flickers across her face, not surprise but confirmation of what she'd already suspected. "At least she's not suffering anymore."
I gather her into my arms, careful of her injured ankle, and hold her as silent tears track down her cheeks. She's mourning not just Diane's death, but the friendship that was lost long before today.
"It's really over?" she asks after a while, her voice small against my chest.
"Yes." I pull back enough to meet her eyes, needing her to see the certainty in mine. "His organization will fall apart without him. Torch is already working with his contacts to make sure of it. No one connected to Volkov will ever come near you again."
She studies my face, reading the truth of what I've done in my eyes. I don't try to hide it from her. She deserves honesty, even about this.
"Did he suffer?" she asks, and there's something in her voice I've never heard before, something hard and unforgiving that matches the coldness I felt in that basement.
"Yes." I don't elaborate. She doesn't need those details.
She nods once, satisfaction flashing briefly before guilt replaces it. "Is it wrong that I'm glad? That I want him to have felt everything he made us feel?"
"No." I brush away a tear with my thumb. "It makes you human. It makes you a survivor."
She leans into my touch, her eyes closing briefly. When they open again, something has shifted—a shadow lifting, not completely, but enough.
"I want to go home," she says. "Our home. Not the clubhouse, not my dad's place. Ours."
"Are you sure?" I search her face, looking for any sign of uncertainty. "Xavier said your ankle—"
"I don't care about my ankle." Her hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with surprising strength. "I need to start reclaiming my life. I need normal again. Or whatever our version of normal is."
Pride swells in my chest at her resilience. Even now, even after everything, she's fighting to move forward.
"Then that's what we'll do." I press my lips to hers—a gentle promise. "Let me talk to Xavier, make sure you're cleared to leave. Then I'll take you home."
She smiles, the first real smile I've seen since before that night, and the sight of it nearly stops my heart. "Thank you," she whispers. "For keeping your promise. For coming back to me."
"Always," I vow again, the word carrying the weight of everything I feel for this woman. "There is nothing in this world that could keep me from coming back to you."
As I hold her, feeling her heartbeat against mine, I know with absolute certainty that we'll get through this. The nightmares may continue for a while. The memories won't disappear overnight. But Volkov's shadow no longer looms over us, and that's enough for now.
Enough to start building something new from the ashes of what was taken.
Enough to remind us both that some things, the most important things, can't be broken, no matter what horrors try to tear them apart.
Our love is one of those things.
And as Livie's breathing evens out, her body relaxing trustingly against mine, I silently thank whatever fate or God or cosmic force brought her into my life. Because without her, I would be nothing but darkness and rage. With her, I am whole.
Complete.
Home.