Chapter 38 #2
Following the directions given to me, it’s not long until I’m cloaked in darkness at the bottom of a driveway, looking up a gravel path towards a derelict-looking house.
Swallowing down the fear threatening to swallow me whole, I think about Freya, about the life lost for no reason, her son left without a mother, all the hopes and dreams snuffed out in the blink of an eye, all because she wanted to save me from the same fate.
Steel straightens my spine and rids me of any lingering hesitation.
Crouching and blending in with the shadows as much as possible, I edge towards the house while keeping my eyes peeled for any movement.
I can’t afford to be caught now, not when freedom is within touching distance.
Slowly, I make my way around the side of the house, heading for the back.
The French doors make me freeze in my tracks, but when a minute or two passes without any signs of life, I ease them open.
Flinching at the creek, I duck and roll behind the nearest item of furniture: a sofa.
Straining to hear over my pounding heart, I don’t dare move a muscle for the longest time.
After a while, I crawl out of my hiding space and slowly make my way through the house, heading towards the basement.
Given how still the house is, my money is on him being there.
Shoving down the emotions that want to rush to the surface at the thought of going down there, I force myself to head down the stairs, holding my breath and hoping none of them creak.
Spying the light pooling under the door, I tighten my grip on my borrowed knife.
Once I hit the landing, I take a deep breath, brace myself for the worst, and slowly inch the door open.
Blinded by the sudden light, it takes a second to realise what I’m seeing: Benedict hunched over a porcelain tub alone.
Questions as to what the fuck he’s doing down here when I’m sure he’s got a fully functioning bathroom upstairs hold me captive for a second before I shrug them off.
At the end of the day, what he’s doing doesn’t matter.
The only thing that matters is what I’m about to do.
“If you’re here to kill me, you may as well get it over with.” His words freeze me in my path, one foot over the doorway with the knife raised. Flicking his eyes from the bath to me, he raises an eyebrow. The silent challenge is evident, even if the reason for it is not.
“Come on, then. Get it over with.” His words are void of all his usual cockiness.
Part of me wants to demand answers, but bloodlust clouds my rationale.
The need to make him pay for what he did far outweighs any curiosity about him as a person.
And so, with a guttural cry, I lunge at him, driving the knife straight into his artery and watching as he slumps into the bath face first in a pool of his own blood.
But it’s not enough—it’s nowhere near enough.
Pulling the knife free, I thrust it into him over and over again until I can’t anymore, until I’m once again covered in the blood of a monster.
I hope you can forgive me, Frey. I should have saved you, but instead, all I can do is avenge you.
Getting to London was almost too easy once I had the cash in hand and a ferry ticket in my pocket.
But ease doesn’t mean peace. Not when your soul is fraying at the edges.
The moment I arrived, I caught whispers—soft, cautious ones—about a gang member’s funeral.
The kind people didn’t speak about unless they had to.
The kind that carried weight. Meaning. Power.
With my heart lodged in my throat and dread coiling sharp beneath my ribs, I followed the murmurs to the cemetery, each step heavier than the last. I didn’t know what I was hoping to find. I just knew I couldn’t stay away.
It’s been twenty-three years since I last laid eyes on Jonathan O’Neill—but standing at the edge of the crowd, it's as if no time has passed at all. Even from behind, I’d know him anywhere. That broad frame. The set of his shoulders. The quiet command of space.
Time has been kind to him—the same way it’s been merciless to me.
I glance down at myself—blood-stained, broken, barely stitched together—and something in me twists. What would he see if he turned around? A ghost? A stranger? A woman too far gone to be loved again?
Before I can disappear, he turns.
His eyes lock on mine. And in a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe.
Those eyes—God, those eyes—I used to dream about them.
But memory failed me. They’re more vivid, more alive, more him than I ever remembered.
His lips part. His head shakes, like he can’t quite trust what he’s seeing. Then the moment shatters.
A sob. Raw. Shaking. It cuts through the silence like a blade.
Cora .
Her face crumples, and before I can move, she’s thrown herself into my arms. And then—Jonathan. He’s there too, one arm around each of us, holding us all up like he’s the only thing keeping the world from falling apart.
I let myself feel it. Just for a second. The warmth of him. The solidity. The safety I once knew like the back of my hand.
Because when I tell him the truth—what I’ve done, what I’ve lost—I know that warmth will vanish.
I’m safe now. But somehow, it still feels like I never left Hell.