13. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Creed
T he last notes of her voice are still bouncing inside my skull as I close the cabin door.
I stand on the porch a minute, letting the cold mountain air work its way through the mesh of adrenaline and endorphins.
My hands are steady. My pulse… not so much.
It's a rare thing, this loss of rhythm. I analyze it, run diagnostics, trace the failure to its origin: her.
Always her.
I descend the stairs with controlled force, each step compressing and releasing my anger. The gravel path is spiked with frost, crunching under boots that have walked a thousand such mornings. Overhead, the sky is dark, clouds making angry patterns.
The calm before the storm.
The lodge is bustling with early morning guests, crowding the coffee table for their fix. Noah stands, his posture rigid as he regards me, muttering some random shit under his breath
I walk past him. He follows. We head to the basement and down the stairs. The resident is sitting there, red, glassy eyes and hands clenched.
He looks up. For a moment, his face is nothing but hope. Then he registers me, and it bleeds away, replaced by the sharp edge of contempt.
"Where is she?" he asks, voice raw. “You’ve kept me here for hours. Where is Julianna.”
I don't bother answering. Instead, I step inside, let the door close behind me, and stand just inside his comfort radius. Not crowding, but occupying. He reacts the way they all do, first retreat, then resistance, then resignation.
"You're coming with me," I say. No preamble.
He slams his hands on the table. "I need to see her. Is she alive?"
"She is," I say, "and you will."
He doesn't move.
I watch him recalibrate. I can see the checklist in his eyes: exit points, angles, the thickness of my arms versus his, odds of making a run for it. He comes up weak, but tries not to show it. I respect the attempt.
He stands, slow, a deliberate show of compliance.
"Do you have any idea what's coming for you when people realize she’s gone?" he says. “Just bring her here so I can take her back. I don’t trust you. There’s something off about you and I don’t want to go with you.”
I let that hang in the air. "Do you have any idea what's coming for you if you don't?"
He flinches, just barely. Not fear, but recognition.
"Fine," he says, and stands, the chair scraping obnoxiously against the ground.
We walk out together, Noah closing the door behind us.
The doctor is taller than I thought, but soft in the middle.
His gait is hesitant, the city-dweller's instinct to avoid tripping over pine roots or the uneven edge of stone.
I set the pace fast, almost jogging, just to see if he can keep up.
He does, but only because he's afraid to lose sight of me.
Halfway to the cabin, he starts talking again.
"You don't have to do this," he says, his nerves starting to set in the further from civilization we walk. "I just need to know she's not, " he hesitates, then swallows, "that she's not hurt. She matters. People care about her. I care about her."
I stop dead in the trail. He almost walks into my back.
"Is that what you call it? Caring?" I turn, slow, and let my eyes do the talking. "Don't pretend you don't know what this is."
He steps back, but not far enough. "I—"
"You want to save her because you can’t save yourself. You want to fix her because fixing you is impossible. You’re in love with her, but she hardly notices you. You’re hoping to be some kind of white knight for her, catch her eye, live happily ever after. Tell me I'm wrong."
He opens his mouth, then shuts it.
"That's what I thought," I say, and turn away. The path narrows as we approach the stand of black pine that shields the back of the cabin. The wind is picking up, carrying with it the distant sound of running water. Maybe I should hunt her by the falls.
The doctor trips over a root, catches himself, then limps behind me. I let him. I want him tired, off-balance.
At the door, I stop. His breathing is ragged, his chest heaving like a bellows.
"Wait here," I say.
He wipes his glasses, then puts them back on. "Is this where you kill me?"
"Not yet," I reply with a grin, and go inside.
The cabin is dark. Flicking on the lights, I head back to him.
When I return, the doctor is still there, shivering in the wind. His hands are empty, but his eyes are desperate.
"Follow me," I say, and lead him around the side of the cabin, down to the concrete apron outside the basement entrance.
He hesitates, but only for a second.
Swinging the door open, I motion for him to enter, chuckling at his murmur of “what the fuck?” Pushing him further in, I led him towards where my girl is.
He turns, ready to confront me. Maybe even beg.
I don't give him the chance.
One step, and I’m inside his guard. One hard upper cut and the crunch of bone resounds. He crumples instantly, knees giving way as he collapses to the floor.
I catch him before he hits his head. No need for him to die without the audience I intend to watch. There's no blood, just the slow ooze of unconsciousness. For a moment, I admire my handiwork. Weak chin. Weak man. Pulling him by his ankles, I take him to the room where Julianna is staying.
She watches with detached interest.
I drag him to the chair in the corner, the one with the welded steel brackets. I secure his wrists, his ankles, and wait for the first twitch of return.
The first thing he hears when he resurfaces is her laughter.
It's not loud, not mocking. It's the kind of sound that happens when two people see a dead bird on the sidewalk and one of them can't help but point. She sits on the floor, back to the wall, knees drawn up under the long t-shirt.
I drag the chair with the unconscious idiot to the middle of the room, the scrape of steel on concrete loud enough to shatter teeth. Julianna tilts her head, watching with the lazy interest of a cat at a fishbowl.
"Going to kill him?" she asks, nonchalant.
"Yes," I say, finally. "I'm going to kill him."
She shrugs, like I've just announced the weather. "Will you use the hammer, or something slower?"
I turn to face her. "Do you have a preference?"
She laughs. This time, it is softer, not for show. "Surprise me."
The doctor groans, a wet, sloppy sound. His head lolls, chin to chest, and he opens his eyes. His pupils are different sizes. He registers the restraints, the chair, the absence of daylight, and then me.
"What, " he says, voice shredded. "What are you, "
"Saving her from you," I say.
His gaze flicks to Julianna, then back. "You're insane." Then he turns to her. “I came here to save you!”
“I didn’t need saving.” She giggles. “I don’t even know your name.”
His mouth falls open like a fish before he starts stammering how killing him isn’t necessary and how we can work through this.
"Incorrect," I reply.
“But… you have patients… a career… what the fuck is this? Some sick kind of roleplay?” His flabbers are ghasted, but that only serves to make me grin.
“Something like that.”
I watch the doctor process that. There's a little betrayal, some outrage, but mostly just defeat. He tries to wrench an arm free, fails. Tries the other. Sweat beads on his upper lip.
"You're both sick," he says.
"Sick is for the weak," Julianna says, smiling, "We're predators."
The guy spits at my shoes. "You don't have to do this," he pleads, but it's rote, the kind of bargaining they teach you in medical school.
I step closer, hands loose at my sides. "If you were really here for her, you would have brought a weapon. Or the police. Or at least tried to fight. But you didn’t. You came here to be the hero, to show up just in time to save the damsel. It's pathetic."
He flinches. "I just— "
"You just wanted to see if you could." I say. "And now you have."
He pulls in on himself, shakes his head. "What about her?" he says, nodding at Julianna. "You think she's going to thank you for this?"
I look at her. She looks back, clear and unblinking.
"She already has," I say. “With the screams I coax from that pretty little throat of hers.”
The doctor screams then, a high, ugly sound. He thrashes in the chair, tries to tip it, but it’s solid. The struggle is all spectacle. Julianna laughs again, but this time it’s raw, a little ragged at the edges.
"You want to know the best part?" I say, voice low. "When you disappear, the world will forget you. There will be a week of searching, a month of grief, then nothing. You’ll be less than a footnote."
He sobs, the fight draining out. "Please," he says. "I can help you. I can help both of you. You just have to let me go."
"Would you let us go?" I ask.
His eyes flicker. "I, I don't know."
"Exactly," I say.
I pull the chair back a foot, just enough that the doctor can see the steel drain set in the floor.
Julianna speaks up. "What did you do, Creed? Before this?"
I smile, slow. "I made things work. I fixed broken systems. I removed obstacles."
She nods, as if this is exactly the answer she expected.
"And you?" I say, "What did you do?"
I’m not asking about her career. No. I’m asking for who she really is.
She stares at her hands for a long moment, then looks up at me. Her eyes are flat, glassy, but not dead. Alive in a way that most people can never understand.
"I killed patients," she says. "The ones who wouldn't make it. The ones who made everyone else's life harder. The ones who were a waste of space."
My naughty little kitten. There it is. Out in the open. The doctor gapes at her, mouth open, unable to process.
"I did it clean," she says, "painless. No one ever suspected. I picked the ones who wouldn't be missed."
“Monsters…” He cries out.
She smiles, and for a moment I see the child she must have been, alone in a corner, deciding how to outlast the world.
This asshole screams again, wordless. He pulls until his wrists bleed, until the veins pop out along his arms.
"You see?" I say, addressing him but never looking away from her. "You think you're different, but you're exactly the same."
He weeps, and it is a disgusting, sniveling sound. I reach into my pocket, retrieve a single-use scalpel, and toss it on the floor at Julianna's feet.
"You want to do it?" I ask her. “I kept yours from your purse.”
She considers, then shakes her head. "No. But thank you for asking. Besides I’m still chained."
I nod.
She watches as I approach our victim. There’s no rage, no performance. A twist, a press, a line of red. It’s over before it’s begun. I could have drawn it out. Taken my time. But what was the point. Dead is dead.
When it's done, I turn to Julianna. "Do you feel better?"
She smiles, sharp as broken bone.
"Yes," she says, "I do."
In that moment, I know she is mine.
And I am hers.
The doctor was right about one thing.
We are both monsters.
But monsters, at least, never lie.
Her eyes don’t leave me as I clean the blade. Not once.
I toss the scalpel into the bucket, wipe my hands on a rag, and turn to study her. She is beautiful in the aftermath, lips parted, pupils blown wide. Her bare feet tap an arrhythmic code against the concrete, some language only monsters know.
“You’re a bad girl,” I say, voice low. “No soul left at all.”
She grins, feral. “You would have been disappointed, otherwise.”
I step closer. She doesn’t shrink back. The chain between us is the only thing left.
I kneel, careful not to crowd her, and tilt my head so we are face-to-face. “I could let you out,” I say. “You could run. You could fight.”
She laughs, not mocking this time, but with genuine delight. “I’d never make it past the tree line.”
“You might,” I say. “If you tried.”
She shakes her head, hair falling in dark waves. “Not unless you wanted me to.”
I let the silence draw out, savoring it. “I want you beside me, Julianna. I want you to choose it.”
She considers, and in that heartbeat I see the whole universe reflected in her. The need, the calculation, the bleak, bottomless hunger. She is the only other animal in the world that could run with mine.
She nods, once. It is all the answer I need.
I take the key from my pocket, slot it into the cuff. The lock releases with a soft, decisive click. I repeat the process on the other wrist. The chain falls to the floor, a corpse of its own.
She doesn’t rub the red marks. She doesn’t flinch. Instead, she stands, stretches, and looks down at me.
“You’re still kneeling,” she says.
“A Queen deserves a King on his knees for her.”
I rise, grabbing her by the back of her head. She smells like sweat, like blood, like the sharp edge of victory.
Our mouths find each other, not a kiss but a collision. Teeth, tongue, the press of lips so hard it hurts. Her hands tangle in my hair, nails digging into my scalp. I grip her waist, fingers bruising. For a moment, we are one organism, devouring, fusing, burning alive.
She breaks away first, breathless. “You want me?” she whispers, voice gone ragged.
“Yes,” I growl. “Every ruined piece.”
She grins, bites my lower lip hard enough to draw blood. “Then take me upstairs.”
I do.
I scoop her up, carry her like the bride she’ll never be, and mount the steps in three strides. In the kitchen, I set her down on the counter, next to the fruit bowl. I want to suck the soul right out her chest, but she has other plans.
She shoves me back, hops down, and opens the fridge. “Let’s eat,” she says, as if we didn’t just kill a man together.
I find myself smiling, a real thing, unpracticed and awkward. I help her. We move around each other with a new rhythm, the old violence transmuted into something almost domestic.
She makes coffee. I slice bread. Our hands brush as we reach for the same knife. She laughs, low and satisfied.
We sit at the table, food between us, and watch each other.
There is no need for words now.
We’ve said everything that matters.
There is a peace to eating with someone who understands you.
No masks, no pretenses. Just the quiet exchange of glances, the measured reach for salt, the silent calculation of how best to slice an apple for mutual consumption.
The world outside is fucked by a storm, the wind dragging claws down the glass, but inside it's all warmth and caffeine and the afterglow of violence.
Finally…
Finally, she chose me.
And I didn’t even need to break her. I just needed to show her that dropping the act made her into everything she was always meant to be.