Chapter 31
SILAS
The moment Malachi finishes his pathetic confession, I see Elias's face transform. The mask of controlled civility he's worn for the past hour dissolves, revealing the fury that's been simmering beneath the surface for decades.
“Did you really think we'd honor any deal with you?” Elias asks, his voice dropping. “After everything you put us through?”
Malachi's eyes dart between us, the color draining from his face. “You said—”
“We lied.” The words taste like vindication on my tongue. “Just like you lied to us every day for years. About God. About purpose. About love.”
I move closer to where he's strapped to the chair, studying the man who created me, who tortured me, who shaped me into what I am today. He looks so small now. So ordinary.
“Elias.” My voice carries years of barely contained rage. “I believe it's time.”
“Please,” Malachi whispers. “I told you everything. The locations, the names, the accounts—”
“And we're grateful for the information.” Logan steps forward, cracking his knuckles. “But gratitude doesn't erase twelve years of hell.”
“Or little Zach bleeding out in my brother’s arms,” Rowe adds quietly, his scarred forearms catching the light as he traces the raised tissue.
I feel that familiar fire building in my chest—the one that's burned there since I was a kid, watching this monster select children for his sick games. But this time, instead of swallowing it down or channeling it into escape plans and survival, I let it consume me.
“You want to know what I remember most about the Sanctum?” I ask, circling his chair. “The way you made us thank you after each punishment. Thank you, Prophet, for teaching us humility. Remember that phrase?”
Malachi's lips move soundlessly.
“I said, do you remember?”
“Yes,” he gasps.
“Good. Because you're going to have plenty of opportunities to thank us tonight.”
Elias produces a leather kit from beneath the makeshift altar—the same type Malachi used to keep his “teaching tools” in during our childhood. The sight of it makes my hands shake with anticipation rather than fear for the first time in my life.
“Logan,” Elias says, “would you like to start? I believe Father owes you an apology for burning your hands on the ceremonial brazier.”
Logan's grin is feral as he approaches. “With pleasure, brother.”
The first blow lands across Malachi's face with a wet crack. Blood immediately streams from his nose, but Logan's just getting started. He grabs Malachi's left hand and bends his fingers back until I hear the distinct snap of breaking bone.
Malachi's scream fills the trailer, like music to my dark soul.
“Thank you,” Logan snarls, “for teaching me that fire purifies everything. Including garbage like you.”
He steps back, flexing his scarred hands. Rowe moves forward next, silent as death. Where Logan was explosive, Rowe is methodical. He produces a thin blade.
“You remember Samuel Harlan, don't you?” Rowe's voice is barely audible. “Your favorite Prophet. The one you gave me to when I turned ten.”
Malachi's eyes widen in recognition and terror.
Rowe draws the blade across Malachi's forearm—not deep enough to be fatal, but enough to open a line of red that immediately begins to weep. “He liked to cut too. Said it helped him see the truth beneath the skin.”
Another cut, parallel to the first. Malachi writhes against his restraints.
“What's the truth about you?” Rowe asks, adding a third line. “Are you a prophet? Or just a sick old man who liked hurting children?”
“Please—”
The blade flicks across his other arm. “Answer me.”
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I was sick, I was—”
“Wrong answer.” Rowe's blade finds the soft flesh of Malachi's inner thigh.
Jonah steps forward as Rowe retreats, his massive hands surprisingly gentle as he examines Malachi's injuries. “You know what you taught me about strength?” he asks conversationally. “That it should be used to protect those who can't protect themselves.”
He places one enormous hand on Malachi's shoulder, the other on his wrist. “Let me show you what I learned.”
The sound of Malachi's shoulder dislocating is a wet pop that makes even Cole wince. Malachi's scream reaches a new pitch, his body convulsing in the chair.
“Thank you,” Jonah says quietly, “for teaching me what not to become.”
Cole practically bounces as he takes his turn, knife dancing between his fingers. “Oh, this is going to be fun. Remember how you used to make us kneel on rice while you lectured us about purity?”
He produces a handful of rice from his pocket—where the hell did he get rice?—and scatters it beneath Malachi's feet. Then he cuts the zip ties holding his ankles.
“Kneel,” Cole commands, pressing the knife tip to Malachi's throat.
“I can't, my shoulder—”
“I said kneel.” The blade draws a thin line of blood.
Malachi slides off the chair onto his knees, his dislocated shoulder likely making the movement agony. The rice grinds into his kneecaps as Cole forces him to stay upright.
“How long was our longest punishment session?” Cole asks, crouching to meet Malachi's eyes. “Six hours? Seven?”
“Cole,” I warn. We can't keep him alive that long—too risky.
“Fine, fine. The abbreviated version then.” He stands, knife spinning faster. “This is for making us compete for your approval. For turning us against each other.”
The knife stops spinning and flies, embedding itself in Malachi's right hand, pinning it to the floor of the trailer. Malachi's shriek is barely human.
Marek drifts forward like smoke. Of all of us, he's been the quietest about his trauma, but I see decades of rage in his expression as he kneels beside Malachi.
“Do you remember our mother?” Marek asks softly. My stomach lurches at the thought of the woman who gave birth to us. I barely remember her. “You killed her when I was six.”
Malachi's breathing is ragged, his face gray with pain and blood loss. “She... she questioned the teachings—”
“She tried to take us away from you.” Marek's voice remains eerily calm. “She saw what you were doing to us and tried to save her sons.”
He reaches into his coat and produces a silk cord. “You strangled her while we watched. Do you remember what you told me?”
“Marek—”
“You said her death was my fault. That if I'd been a better son, more obedient, she'd still be alive.” The cord wraps around Malachi's neck, not tight enough to kill but enough to restrict his breathing. “You made me carry that guilt for thirty years.”
I wipe the tear sliding down my cheek as Malachi claws at the cord with his good hand, his face turning purple.
“This is for her,” Marek whispers, tightening the silk. “And for every night I dreamed of saving her.”
He releases the cord just before Malachi loses consciousness, stepping back as he gasps and chokes.
Elias and I exchange a look. It's time.
“My turn,” Elias says, approaching with his garrote—piano wire stretched between leather handles. The same weapon Malachi used to execute those who displeased him. “Do you know what this is?”
Malachi's eyes fix on the wire, terror replacing pain in his expression.
“This is what you used to kill Harry when he tried to escape,” Elias continues. “And Marek and Silas’s mother. And at least a dozen others over the years.”
He loops the wire around Malachi's throat, not tightening it yet. “You made me watch every execution. Said I needed to learn about consequences.”
“Elias, please—”
The wire draws taut. Malachi's eyes bulge.
“This is for every child who didn't make it out.” Elias's voice is steady, controlled. “For every life you destroyed in the name of your twisted God.”
He pulls the handles apart. The wire bites deep.
But he doesn't finish it. Instead, he loosens the garrote and steps back, blood trickling from the shallow wound around Malachi's throat.
“Silas,” he says simply.
My turn.
I approach slowly, savoring this moment I've dreamed about for so many years. Malachi looks up at me—his son, his creation, his biggest mistake.
“Hello, Father.” I pull out my own weapon—a simple kitchen knife, nothing fancy. “Do you know what you gave me?”
He shakes his head weakly.
“Everything.” I grab his hair, forcing him to meet my eyes. “Every skill I needed to hunt you down. Every bit of cunning required to destroy your empire. Every ounce of rage necessary to end you.”
I press the knife to his chest, just above his heart. “You created your own destroyer.”
“Silas, you're my son—”
“No.” The blade slides in slowly. Not fatal yet—I want him to feel this. “I'm your consequence.”
He gasps, blood frothing at his lips. I twist the knife, watching his face contort.
“This is for the eight-year-old boy you tortured until he forgot how to cry,” I whisper. “For every night I woke up screaming. For every time you made me choose which child would suffer next.”
The knife goes deeper. Malachi's body convulses.
“And this,” I say, finding his heart, “is for our mother.”
I drive the blade home.
Malachi Voss—Prophet, father, monster—dies with my blade in his heart.
I stand there for a long moment, watching the life drain from his eyes, feeling the rage that's defined me for decades finally, finally begin to fade.
“It's finished,” Elias says quietly.
I nod, unable to speak past the emotion clogging my throat. Around me, my brothers—my real family—stand in silent witness to the end of our nightmare.
The leader of the commune we were born into is dead now. And from his ashes, we rise.