21. Jasmine #2
He clicks the slide into place, that wicked grin spreading across his face like war paint. “Yeah,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “But, if you want, you can have fun with him first. A little payback. A little fear.”
I’ve killed by accident, not knowing truly what I was doing. But this is different, I have never killed on purpose, but the ghost of Tommy is standing somewhere behind me, whispering that I don’t need to know how. I just need to do.
“Let’s go,” I whisper, throat dry.
The three of us move like a unit—Conner calm and clinical, Landon humming with rage just under the surface, and me, somewhere in between grief and fury, because with each step the fear slips away and red replaces my gaze.
The front porch creaks under our boots as we step up to the door. There’s a dull thud of music inside, voices arguing over something I can’t make out.
Conner knocks once. Silence. Then the door yanks open.
Xavier’s wild eyes meet mine, bloodshot and glassy, and for a second I think he might lunge at someone again. But he just stands there, chest heaving, jaw tight.
He doesn’t say anything—just steps aside and nods once. I watch the quiver in his jaw and the tense grip of his body, a part of me wants to run, hide and tell him nevermind but Conner is already walking deeper into the house.
Landon brushes his fingers along my spine as I pass through the doorway, grounding me with the touch, but it’s Xavier who leads the way. He doesn’t look back as he moves down the hallway, his boots thudding against the worn floorboards with purpose.
“Come on,” he mutters.
We follow him through a narrow corridor past the living room, through a rusted metal door that groans when he shoves it open. Inside is a stairwell—cracked cement walls, flickering light bulb above, and a steep descent that smells like damp concrete and rot.
The moment I step inside, the temperature drops.
The air turns colder, heavier. It clings to my skin like damp cloth, seeping into my clothes. My footsteps echo too loud against the stairs as I follow Xavier down into the dark. Each creak and shift of wood behind me reminds me that Landon and Conner are still there, silent shadows at my back.
The basement is wide, unfinished. Exposed beams line the ceiling.
The walls are made of old, pitted stone, and the ground is slick in places—dark stains I don’t want to name are crusted into the floor.
Chains hang loose from a support beam in the far corner, like a haunted prop from a horror set, and there's a metal table with what looks like old restraints bolted into the sides.
I stop in the middle of the room, shivering.
“What the fuck is this?” I murmur.
Xavier doesn't answer right away. He walks to the far wall and flips a switch. An overhead bulb crackles to life with a flickering buzz, casting everything in harsh yellow light.
And then I see it. Marcus King.
Strapped to a reinforced chair with duct tape and chains, shirtless, bloodied, but still breathing. His jaw is bruised, one eye swollen, and his lip split in two places—but his grin? His grin is still there. Crooked. Wild. Unapologetic.
“You’re fucking dead, Xavier,” Marcus spits, jerking against the restraints with a metallic rattle. “You hear me? You’re a fucking traitor. They’ll eat you alive Xav. Kill you for fucking dog food.”
“God, do you ever shut up?” Xavier snaps, pulling a cigarette out of his front pocket and sliding it between his lips.
Marcus throws his head back, laughing through blood-stained teeth. “You think you’re the first little bitch to try and take my seat? I’ve buried better men than you.”
In the corner, Asher stands shirtless under a heat lamp, long blonde hair tied back, his pale chest streaked with smudges of dried blood.
His expression is blank—emotionless—as he carefully cleans off a gleaming, curved blade.
Beside him, an assortment of tools glint on a steel tray: pliers, clamps, knives, things I can’t name but know aren’t for anything gentle.
He growls low, a sound more animal than human, as he tests the edge of a blade with his thumb.
Marcus keeps going, voice rising like arrogance alone will shield him. “What, gonna let this little slut do your dirty work?” His eyes cut to me and widen with feral delight. “Oh, you’re here? Perfect. You’re the cherry on top of this pathetic mutiny.”
“You killed Tommy,” I snap, stepping forward. The words feel like venom on my tongue. I raise the gun, my grip tightening until my knuckles ache.
Marcus rolls his eyes and spits blood to the side. “I didn’t fucking kill Tommy.”
My jaw clenches. My vision tunnels.
“It was the fucking Italians,” he adds, eyes burning. “They found out about the cartel talks—about us trying to split off. Tommy was a warning shot.”
My hand trembles, but I don’t lower the gun. “Yeah, I heard that,” I bite out. “But if it weren’t for you—if you hadn’t dragged us into this psychotic turf war—he’d still be alive.”
“Spare me the guilt trip, sweetheart,” Marcus growls.
“You think you’re the only one who’s lost something?
This game doesn’t care about blood. It doesn’t care who raised you or who kissed you goodnight—it just takes.
And if you’re dumb enough to think you can stand on the board and not be sacrificed?—”
I fire. The bullet hits the wall just inches from his head.
Marcus laughs.
It’s not loud. Not manic.
It’s low—rotten—and it slips under my skin like a parasite.
The sound alone makes my stomach knot.
Because the way he laughs… it reminds me of him.
The one who used to smile just like that. With that same curling of the lip, like the cruelty was something private and sweet to him. The way he’d smirk right before his hand slid lower—right before he gripped tighter.
The man who haunts my nightmares. The man I killed when I was thirteen.
Marcus has his eyes. That same cold glint. That same hunger masked as power. He wears that same steel-edged exterior, the same ego made of blood and dominance and rot.
He’s everything I’ve spent my whole life trying to claw away from. Everything I loathe in myself. Everything that turned me into someone who lies. Who manipulates. Who betrays.
He’s the echo of the worst parts of me.
And suddenly I can’t breathe.
“ Shut up! ” I scream, the gun shaking in my hand now—not with fear, but with a chaos I don’t know how to name.
But Marcus only grins wider.
He leans forward, teeth bloodstained, eyes locked on mine with a terrible, knowing glint. “Be a good little pick-me, sweetheart,” he hisses. “Pull the trigger. Prove you’re one of us.”
Conner steps forward sharply. “Shut your fucking mouth,” he snaps, and it’s the first time I’ve heard that sharp, razor-clean edge in his voice. “You’ve already said too much.”
I can barely hear them. Because I’m still looking at Marcus. I’m still seeing him. My abuser. My shadow. The one whose light I watched die in his eyes. And I feel filthy. My soul feels filthy. Like no matter how many times I wash my hands, my skin will never be clean again.
“Peach,” Landon murmurs, stepping behind me, his hands sliding up my arms, anchoring me in his warmth. His voice is low, graveled with something soft and sacred. “You don’t have to do this.”
I freeze. Because I thought I did. I thought I had to be the one. That it was justice. That it was closure. That killing Marcus would erase something inside me. That it would bring something back. But all I feel now is weight. And I can’t.
I let the gun lower, slow.
“I would kill you, but I think Xavier would do a better job,” I look over at Xavier and watch the smoke bellow from his nostrils.
“Nah, its because you’re a fucking coward,” Marcus crackles.
I shrug, “Maybe, but you should be more concerned with those weapons over there. They look pointy.”
My hands shake, but I turn and practically run up the stairs taking a deep breath like I wasn’t breathing down there and for the first time in a while I feel those eyes on me again, and a part of me wants to scream.