54. West

M y fingers clench around the button as the defibrillator—a white box against the grim canvas of his body—springs to life. A jolt of electricity tears through him, pulling him back from the abyss he’d fallen into.

“Wake up, sleepyhead.” I strike, landing a punch square on his jaw. A sickening crunch follows, sending a few teeth flying from his mouth, their white edges quickly lost in a sea of crimson.

Grabbing him by the hair, I yank his head down, making sure this piece of trash doesn’t choke on his blood before I’m ready for him to die. But he presses his lips tightly shut, holding it all in on purpose.

“I know you want to die,” I say, surprised by his stubbornness as he refuses to spit it out willingly. “But it’s too early for that, Logan.”

With my other hand, I pry his mouth open, pressing harder when he falters. At last, he coughs it all up, straining so hard that blood begins to trickle from his nose, even dripping from his ears.

“Please, stop this,” he begs, his words garbled and nearly incoherent, most of his teeth missing. I release him, and his head bows like a puppet on a string. “This is madness?—”

“Madness, you say?” I taunt, stepping closer to the table of knives. They’re laid out in different shapes, sizes, and sharpness, each tempting. For once, I want precision—I’m not the only one who’ll have to look at what I do next.

That word, though . Madness. He didn’t call it that when I used him as a punching bag, breaking him down and readying him for this next phase. When he blacked out, I hooked up the defibrillator to snap him back to consciousness. It wasn’t urgent—his heart hadn’t stopped—but it was slowing, and I needed him awake fast. I’ll admit, I’m disappointed. I thought he’d last longer.

“Ah, Logan,” I say, doing my best to ignore the fact that his name churns up a bitter ball of bile in my throat. “What’s wrong? A big, tough man like you can’t handle a little game?”

“W-what the fuck do you want from me?” he whines. I snap my head toward him, wondering if he’s genuinely confused or if I’ve fried his brain completely. “I was bluffing!”

Oh, so I haven’t fried it completely after all.

“This is the funniest part for me,” I say, turning my attention back to the knives. Some assistance would really come in handy right now. “Tell me, did you honestly think I’d let you lay a finger on my girl?”

He mumbles something under his breath as an idea sparks in my mind. Ignoring his rambling, I pull out my phone and call Grandma. After a few rings, she picks up, exhaling a cloud of smoke I can smell through the line. “West. What’s up?”

“I need your help,” I say, getting straight to the point. “Ceramic or butcher knife?”

A pause. “Don’t tell me you’re killing someone again.”

“He hurt my Venetia.”

“Butcher knife,” she blurts out without hesitation, and a grin spreads across my face.

“Thank you,” I reply, reaching for the right tool and hanging up as I do. “Tell me, Logan,” I begin, slowly turning back to him. He lets out a sob, though I doubt he fully grasps what’s about to unfold. “Do you think the suffering you’re feeling now compares to what you put Venetia through?”

He shakes his head, frantically trying to wriggle free from the ropes. “It wasn’t just me! It?—”

“I know,” I cut in, aware that this is only the beginning. The other one is still blissfully unaware that today is his last. “But you were the most enthusiastic, weren’t you?” I stalk toward him, the urge to slash his throat pounding in my ears, barely contained. “It was your idea.”

“Fuck!” he cries, his voice breaking as realization spreads across his battered face. He understands there’s no way out, and I feel a surge of adrenaline and satisfaction, knowing I’m finally delivering justice for Venetia. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry?—”

“No, you’re not. You’ve been drugging and raping her since she was fifteen, and you never felt sorry for it. Not until your life started hanging by a thread.”

Disgust churns in my stomach as I watch him struggle. He mutters something that sounds like a prayer. Just moments ago, he was begging me to end this, and now he’s desperately trying to reach God or whatever he believes in, hoping for salvation. I’ve dealt with a lot of people in my life, a lot of assholes, but nothing like this. He’s the most pathetic excuse for a man I’ve ever seen, and of everyone I’ve killed, he deserves hours of torture the most—he and the other fucker I plan to have fun with today.

“A part of me wishes she were here.” My voice softens as I picture her face, feeling the warmth of her touch still sparking along my skin—a comforting nudge to stay steady and follow the plan. “That part wants to hand her the knife or a gun and watch her do to you everything you deserve, to see the anger she would unleash on you.”

I step closer to his right hand, my gaze settling on the ropes binding him just a little below his wrist. “But my girl has endured enough violence. She’s the kind of woman who deserves others to do the dirty work, you know?”

As I bring the tip of the butcher knife to his hand, he squeals like a pig, kicking his legs and struggling against the ropes.

“I’m just making sure she’ll never feel the imprint of your touch on her again.”

With that, I drive the knife into his flesh, slowly plunging it in. His high-pitched screams are grating, but I focus on the task at hand. The blade sticks against the bone, so I press harder, ensuring he feels every moment. I hear the satisfying crack, and when I reach the edge of the chair arm, I pull the knife away to examine my work.

It’s perfectly symmetrical. Good.

Blood flows in thick streams, coating his skin along with the severed hand until no clean spot remains, but that won’t be an issue. I’ll clean both of them up before placing them in the box.

His voice fades to nothing as I shift my focus to his other hand and repeat the process. Slowly, methodically, I sever it, and halfway through, he blacks out. I finish, then double-check to make sure everything looks symmetrical before pressing the button to activate the defibrillator.

Electricity jolts through his frame, but he doesn’t wake up. I try again and again, but his eyes stay shut, his body still.

Fuck. I was hoping to spend more time with him. A pang of frustration twists in my stomach, sharpening the guilt that I know will never fade. I didn’t know Venetia back then, and I couldn’t do anything to help her, but the thought fucking haunts me. I keep trying to remember what I was doing during that time, but the memories are blurred—a chaotic mess clouded by drugs.

I can’t stop thinking about it. I keep picturing her—a teenager, alone in her room, trying to piece together what happened and why she’s in pain.

Christ. I’d be ready to die if it meant erasing her memories of the past. But that’s not possible. It’s not realistic.

The only thing I can do for her—the least I can do—is track down the last one and enjoy the same satisfaction I just had with Logan.

Then, I’ll go back to her, carrying the presents in my hands.

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