The Reaper Prince

CHAPTER 10| The Bloody Vow

The guard who touched her is still standing there.

Still breathing. Still existing in the same space as Leah while she's on the floor, gasping for air that won't come, trapped in a nightmare that's five years old but playing out right now behind her eyes.

That's unacceptable.

I move before conscious thought engages. My hand goes to the holster concealed at the small of my back—the compact Glock 43 I always carry, diplomatic immunity making weapons charges irrelevant—and I have it out and swinging before anyone can react.

The pistol connects with the guard's temple with a wet, meaty crack.

He drops like a puppet with cut strings, blood immediately streaming from the gash above his eye. His partner starts to move—protective instinct, probably, or maybe just shock—but I have the gun pointed at his face before he can complete the motion.

"Out," I say in French, my voice completely flat. "Take him. Leave this building. If either of you are still in Massachusetts by sunrise, I will hunt you down and remove your hands with a dull blade. Do you understand?"

The conscious guard nods frantically. He's already bending to grab his bleeding colleague, already dragging him toward the elevator. They're gone within thirty seconds, leaving a smear of blood on the hardwood floor.

I holster the gun and lock the penthouse door. Multiple locks. Heavy deadbolts. The kind that would take a battering ram to break through.

Then I turn back to Leah.

She's still on the floor, curled into herself, her whole body shaking so violently I can see it from across the room.

Her hands are pressed against her ears—crushing her hearing aids, probably breaking them, but she doesn't care because she's not here anymore.

She's somewhere else. Somewhere terrible.

Somewhere I can't reach with violence or money or manipulation.

Somewhere only patience can penetrate.

I lower myself to the floor. Not close to her—that would trigger more panic. But close enough that when she comes back to reality, I'll be the first thing she sees.

I make myself small. As small as a six-foot-one man can make himself. I sit cross-legged, hands visible and empty, posture non-threatening. Every predatory instinct in my body is screaming at me to grab her, to force her out of the flashback, to make it stop through sheer will.

But force is what broke her in the first place.

So instead, I wait.

And I speak.

Soft French, the language she's been hearing in her sleep for weeks now. The language I've been conditioning her subconscious to associate with safety.

"Tu es en sécurité, mon papillon," I murmur. "Personne ne peut te toucher ici. Tu es avec moi. Seulement avec moi." You are safe, my butterfly. No one can touch you here. You are with me. Only with me.

Her breathing is still ragged, still too fast, but I see her eyes flicker. Some part of her registering the sound even through the panic.

"Le monde dangereux est dehors," I continue, keeping my voice rhythmic, hypnotic.

"Mais ici, dans cet espace, il n'y a que moi.

Et je ne te toucherai jamais sans permission.

Jamais." The dangerous world is outside.

But here, in this space, there is only me.

And I will never touch you without permission. Never.

Minutes pass. Maybe five. Maybe ten. Time becomes elastic when you're watching someone fight their way back from hell.

Slowly—so slowly—her breathing starts to even out. The violent shaking reduces to tremors. Her hands lower from her ears, revealing hearing aids that are indeed broken, the left one cracked completely in half.

She blinks. Once. Twice. Her eyes focus on me.

"Nikolai," she whispers. That broken, raspy voice that she hasn't used in five years except to say my name.

"Oui, Butterfly. I'm here."

She starts crying then. Not the silent tears I've seen before—this is full, body-wracking sobs that sound like they're being torn from somewhere deep inside her chest. She curls tighter into herself, her forehead pressing against the floor, her whole body convulsing with the force of emotions she's been holding back for too long.

I don't move. Don't try to comfort her physically. Just sit there, a stable presence in her peripheral vision, and let her break.

Because she needs to break. Has needed to for five years. And maybe—just maybe—she's finally safe enough to allow it.

The sobs eventually slow. Taper off into hiccupping gasps. She lifts her face from the floor, and her eyes are so red and swollen she can barely see.

Her hands move. Shaking violently, barely able to form coherent shapes, but she's trying to sign something.

I'm sorry, she signs. I'm sorry I'm broken I'm sorry I'm damaged I'm sorry—

"Stop," I say firmly, and her hands freeze mid-sign. "You have nothing to apologize for."

But I ruined your floor I made a scene I—

"Leah." I wait until she's looking at me. "The guard who touched you is currently in an emergency room getting stitches. His partner is unemployed and will be out of the state by morning. The floor can be cleaned. None of this is your fault."

Her hands drop to her lap. She's staring at me with an expression I can't quite read—exhausted and terrified and something else. Something that might be the first edge of trust.

"What happened to you?" I ask quietly. "Not just—" I gesture vaguely, encompassing the panic attack, the aftermath. "Before. What happened that made touch feel like death?"

She shakes her head violently. No. She's not going there. Not telling me. Not reliving it.

"Leah," I say again, softer this time. "I already know you were assaulted. Viktor's file told me that much. But files don't tell me what I need to know. They don't tell me names. Locations. Specifics."

Her whole body goes rigid.

"They don't tell me," I continue, my voice dropping into that low, dangerous register, "who I need to erase from existence."

Her eyes widen.

I lean forward slightly, still maintaining distance but making sure she understands I'm serious.

"You think I broke Carter Morrison's arm because I'm violent?" I ask. "You think that was the extent of what I'm capable of?"

She doesn't respond. Just stares at me like I'm something incomprehensible.

"Carter touched you without permission," I tell her. "So I shattered his arm in three places and made sure he'll never have full mobility again. That was proportional response for a grabbing without consent."

I let that sink in for exactly three seconds.

"So tell me, Butterfly—what do you think I'll do to the men who actually raped you?"

The silence that follows is absolute.

She's not breathing. I don't think she's capable of breathing. She's just looking at me with eyes that are trying to process whether I'm serious.

I'm deadly serious.

"Tell me their names," I say quietly. "Tell me where they are. Tell me everything."

She shakes her head again, more frantically now. Her hands move: No no no I can't I don't want to think about it I don't want to—

"I know," I interrupt gently. "I know you don't want to relive it. But you're reliving it anyway, aren't you? Every time someone touches you unexpectedly. Every time you're in a crowded space. Every time you try to sleep and the nightmares come."

Her face crumples.

"So give me their names," I tell her. "Give me the nightmares. Let me take them out of your head and put them where they belong."

She's trembling again, but this time it's different. Not panic. Something else. Something that might be the terrible temptation of revenge offered by someone who actually has the power to deliver it.

Her hands move slowly, hesitantly: You can't. They're probably long gone. It's been five years. The orphanage is probably closed. There's no way to—

"There is always a way," I interrupt. "Viktor can find anyone. My family has resources you can't imagine. If they're alive, if they exist anywhere on this planet, I will find them."

I lean closer, still not touching but close enough that she can feel the intensity radiating off me.

"And then I will make them regret every second they spent breathing the same air as you."

She's crying again, silent tears streaming down her face. Her hands hover in the air, caught between signing and stopping, between telling me and protecting herself from the pain of remembering.

"I can't," she finally signs. "I can't say it out loud. I can't—"

"Then sign it," I tell her. "Sign their names. Sign the location. Sign whatever you can manage."

Her hands shake so badly I'm not sure she'll be able to form coherent shapes. But she tries.

She signs: St. Catherine's. The orphanage was called St. Catherine's Home for Children.

I commit it to memory immediately. St. Catherine's. Probably on the East Coast, given where she ended up. Viktor will narrow it down within an hour.

Where? I ask, keeping my voice gentle.

Her hands move: Outside Boston. Maybe an hour north. It closed down two years ago. Not enough funding. Too many complaints.

Complaints about what? I press.

She closes her eyes. Takes three shaking breaths. Opens them again.

Her hands move, slow and painful: About the staff. About what they let happen. About the older boys who would come into the younger kids' rooms at night. About how no one stopped it even when we told them. About how they said we were lying, we were troubled, we were making it up for attention.

The cold fury that settles over me is almost peaceful in its absoluteness. It's not rage—I don't experience rage the way normal people do. It's calculation. Pure, crystalline determination about what needs to happen next.

"The staff who didn't stop it," I say carefully. "Do you remember their names?"

She shakes her head. Then pauses. Her hands move: Mrs. Patterson. She ran the place. She knew. She had to know. But she didn't care.

I file that name next to St. Catherine's in the part of my brain that never forgets anything.

"And the boys?" I ask, my voice still gentle despite the violence building behind my eyes. "The ones who hurt you?"

She's trembling so hard now she can barely hold her hands steady enough to sign.

Her hands move: I don't remember all their names. It was dark. I was so scared. But there was one—

She stops. Her hands fall to her lap. She's staring at the floor, her whole body radiating the kind of shame that comes from trauma, from violation, from having your autonomy destroyed by people who were supposed to protect you.

"Tell me," I say quietly.

Her hands don't move.

"Leah," I say again, and this time there's command in my voice. Not force. Not threat. Just absolute certainty that she's going to give me what I need. "Tell me his name."

Her hands lift slightly, then fall again.

She's not going to sign it.

I realize this with a clarity that's almost clinical. She's too damaged by the memory. The act of forming his name with her hands—the hands he violated, the hands that tried to push him away and failed—is too much. It's asking her to claim ownership of the trauma in a way she's not capable of.

But I need the name.

"Say it," I tell her, my voice dropping into that register I've been conditioning her to respond to. "Don't sign it. Say it out loud. Give me his name with your voice."

She looks at me like I've asked her to cut out her own heart.

"I can't," she signs, the words barely understandable the way she signs it. "I haven't—I can't—"

"You said my name," I remind her gently. "That night with Carter. You called for me. Your voice works, Butterfly. It's damaged, but it works."

She's shaking her head, tears streaming down her face.

"Please," I say, and I mean it. This is the first time I've said that word to anyone and actually meant it. "Please give me his name. Let me take this from you."

She takes a breath. It's shaky and painful and sounds like broken glass.

Her lips part.

Nothing comes out.

She tries again. I can see her throat working, see her forcing air through damaged vocal cords that haven't been used for anything but that one desperate whisper in five years.

"D—" she starts, and the sound is so broken, so raspy, that it physically hurts to hear. "Daniel—"

She chokes on it. Starts coughing. Her hand goes to her throat like the word is cutting her from the inside.

But it's enough.

Daniel. One of the older boys at St. Catherine's Home for Children, approximately an hour north of Boston, operated by someone named Mrs. Patterson, closed two years ago due to funding issues and unspecified complaints.

That's enough information for Viktor to find everyone involved.

That's enough information for me to do what needs to be done.

"Good girl," I tell her softly, and watch her crumple at the praise. "That's all I needed."

She's sobbing again, full-body shaking that makes her look even smaller than usual. She's pulled her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, made herself into the smallest possible target.

"But I don't—" she tries to sign, but her hands are shaking too badly. "The building the orphanage I—"

"Say it," I tell her again, my voice firm but not harsh. "You started with his name. Now give me the rest. Say the name of the place that broke you."

Her whole face twists with effort and pain. Her damaged vocal cords are screaming at her to stop, to go back to protective silence, to not give voice to the nightmare.

But she's already given me Daniel's name. She's already crossed that line.

"Saint—" she gasps, and the word comes out like gravel. "Saint Cath—Catherine's—"

She can't finish. Can't force out the rest. Just sits there with her hand pressed against her throat, tears streaming down her face, looking at me like I've just asked her to relive the worst moment of her life.

I have. And she did it. For me.

"Perfect," I tell her, and I mean it. "That's everything I need."

I stand up smoothly, already pulling out my phone. She looks up at me with red, swollen eyes, clearly not understanding what's about to happen.

"Stay here," I tell her, gesturing to the penthouse around us. "Don't leave. Don't answer the door for anyone except me. There's food in the kitchen, new hearing aids in the bedroom drawer. Rest. Sleep. Let your body recover."

Her hands move weakly: Where are you going?

I look down at her, this small, broken girl who just gave me the only things she had left to give—names spoken in a voice she hasn't used in half a decade, trauma relived in the name of trust.

And I tell her the truth.

"I'm going to erase the place that hurt you," I say simply. "Every brick, every memory, every person who let it happen. By the time the sun comes up, St. Catherine's Home for Children will be nothing but ash."

Her eyes go wide. Her hands start to move—probably to protest, to tell me not to, to say it's too dangerous or not worth it or something reasonable that a normal person would say.

But I'm already walking toward the bedroom to change clothes.

Already planning the drive to whatever godforsaken town houses St. Catherine's abandoned building.

Already cataloging the supplies I'll need. The weapons. The gasoline. The soundproofing equipment for when Daniel and whoever else Viktor finds start screaming.

Because I meant what I said.

I'm going to erase it.

All of it.

The private jet touches down at a small regional airport forty minutes outside Boston at 2:37 AM.

Viktor is waiting on the tarmac with a black SUV and a tablet containing everything I need to know.

"St. Catherine's Home for Children," he says without preamble, handing me the tablet as we walk toward the vehicle.

"Closed in 2023, officially due to funding cuts.

Unofficially, there were multiple investigations into abuse allegations that went nowhere because the state didn't want to admit they'd been warehousing vulnerable children in a place run by predators. "

I scroll through the file, absorbing information with the same clinical precision I apply to everything.

The building: a large, three-story structure on twelve acres of land outside a town called Ashford— I mentally make sure to ask Ashford If his family is somehow related to it cause I will burn their political dynasty to the ground If I have to.

If I find out even a small link that connects back to them.

Currently abandoned, ownership tied up in legal proceedings between the state and the Catholic diocese that originally funded it.

The staff: Mrs. Patricia Patterson, former director, now living in a retirement community in New Hampshire. Three other staff members who were employed during Leah's time there—two relocated to other states, one deceased from natural causes.

The boys: Viktor has identified seven individuals who were residents at St. Catherine's during the relevant time period and match the age range to have been "older boys.

" Three have criminal records as adults—assault, drug charges, one registered sex offender.

Two are in prison. Two are living normal lives with families and jobs.

And one is named Daniel Mercer.

Age 24 now, would have been 19 when Leah was 13. Currently residing in Ashford, the same town where St. Catherine's is located. Works at a local auto shop. Lives alone in a trailer on the outskirts of town.

I zoom in on his photo. Unremarkable face. Average build. The kind of person who could walk through a crowd and never be noticed.

The kind of person who could hurt a child and get away with it because nobody bothered to look twice.

"The trailer is isolated," Viktor continues as we climb into the SUV. "Nearest neighbor is half a mile away. No security cameras. No pets. He lives alone, works the closing shift at the auto shop, usually arrives home around 11 PM."

I glance at my watch. 2:45 AM.

"He's home now?"

"Confirmed. His truck is in the driveway. Lights went off at midnight."

Perfect.

"The others?" I ask, still scrolling through the files.

"The three with criminal records—I have their current locations. The two in prison will be handled through other channels. The two with families..." Viktor pauses. "Do you want me to—"

"Yes," I interrupt. "All of them. I don't care if they've built new lives. I don't care if they have children who will be orphaned. They were there. They either participated or they watched it happen. Either way, they don't deserve to keep breathing."

Viktor nods once. This is why I pay him extremely well—he doesn't question, doesn't moralize, doesn't hesitate. He just executes.

"The equipment you requested is in the back," he says, gesturing toward the rear of the SUV. "Soundproofing barriers, medical kit for keeping them conscious, accelerant for the building, cleaning supplies for after. Your father also sent this."

He hands me a small black case.

I open it and smile.

Inside is my Papa's knife. The one he used when he was still active in the field, before he met my mother and tried to become something almost human. It's perfectly balanced, the blade honed to an edge sharp enough to split silk in midair, the handle worn smooth from years of use.

There's a note tucked inside the case, written in Papa's precise handwriting:

Some things are inherited. Some things are earned. This blade has tasted the blood of men who hurt women. It knows its purpose. Use it well. —L

I close the case and tuck it into my jacket.

"Mrs. Patterson?" I ask.

"The retirement home is two hours from here. I can have a team there within thirty minutes of your word."

I consider this. An old woman who didn't directly hurt Leah but created the environment where it could happen. Who knew and did nothing. Who chose institutional stability over the safety of children.

"Not yet," I decide. "Let me finish with the others first. Then we'll pay her a visit. I want her to know that everyone else is already dead when we arrive. I want her to spend her last moments understanding exactly what her negligence cost."

Viktor's expression doesn't change. He's seen me like this before—cold, methodical, completely detached from normal human morality. It doesn't disturb him. Nothing disturbs Viktor.

"ETA to the trailer is seventeen minutes," he says, pulling out of the airport.

I spend those seventeen minutes reading every detail of Daniel Mercer's pathetic life.

He dropped out of high school at sixteen.

Bounced between minimum wage jobs for years.

Currently makes $14.50 an hour changing oil and rotating tires.

Has a drinking problem based on the receipts Viktor pulled from his credit cards—frequent purchases at liquor stores, multiple DUIs that somehow never resulted in serious jail time.

He hurt my butterfly when she was thirteen years old.

And then he just... went on living. Got a job. Pays rent. Probably doesn't think about what he did more than occasionally, if at all.

That ends tonight.

The trailer comes into view at exactly 3:02 AM. It's as isolated as Viktor promised—a rusted single-wide surrounded by overgrown grass and junk cars in various states of decay. The nearest streetlight is half a mile away. The nearest occupied house even further.

Perfect privacy for what needs to happen.

Viktor kills the headlights and pulls off the road about a hundred yards out.

"I'll set up the perimeter," he says. "Soundproofing barriers will take approximately eight minutes to position. After that, you'll have complete acoustic isolation."

"Stay with the vehicle," I tell him. "This one is personal."

He nods and hands me a small earpiece. "If you need anything."

I take it, tuck it into my ear, and step out into the cold Boston night.

The grass is wet with dew, muffling my footsteps as I approach the trailer. There's one window with light bleeding around the edges of a broken blind—probably the bedroom. The front door is flimsy, the kind that could be kicked in by anyone with moderate strength.

But I'm not going to kick it in.

I'm going to knock.

I rap on the door three times, sharp and authoritative. The kind of knock that makes people think it's police or emergency services, something they need to respond to immediately.

I hear movement inside. Footsteps. A muffled voice saying something I don't bother to parse.

The door opens.

Daniel Mercer stands there in stained sweatpants and a t-shirt that hasn't been washed in days. He's gained weight since the photo in Viktor's file—soft around the middle, the beginning of a double chin. His eyes are bleary, probably still half-drunk from whatever he consumed earlier.

He looks at me with confusion, not recognition.

He has no idea who I am.

No idea why I'm here.

No idea that he's already dead, his body just hasn't processed the information yet.

"Yeah?" he says, his voice rough with sleep and alcohol. "What do you want?"

I smile. That pleasant, empty smile I've perfected over nineteen years of pretending to be human.

"I want to talk to you about a girl named Leah Harrison," I say calmly.

The name doesn't register immediately. He's too drunk, too tired, too stupid.

Then I see it—a flicker in his eyes. Recognition. Memory. Maybe even a flash of guilt buried under years of telling himself it didn't matter, she was nobody, it was a long time ago.

"I don't know anyone named—" he starts.

I put my hand on his chest and push him backward into the trailer.

He stumbles, off-balance, and I'm inside and closing the door before he can react. The space smells like stale beer and unwashed body. Dishes piled in the sink. Trash overflowing. The kind of squalor that happens when no one cares about you and you stop caring about yourself.

"Leah Harrison," I repeat, pulling my father's knife from inside my jacket. "Thirteen years old. Dark hair. Small for her age. Deaf because of what you and your friends did to her."

His face goes white.

"St. Catherine's," I continue, watching every microexpression. "Five years ago. You remember now, don't you, Daniel?"

He backs away, his hands up. "Look, man, I don't know what she told you, but—"

"She told me your name," I interrupt. "She said it out loud for the first time in five years. Forced it through vocal cords damaged by trauma, made herself relive the worst night of her life, just to give me what I needed to find you."

I advance slowly, letting him back himself into the narrow hallway that leads to his bedroom.

"Do you understand what that means, Daniel? Do you understand what kind of weight a name carries when it's spoken by someone who stopped speaking because of what you did?"

"I didn't—we were just kids—it wasn't—" he's babbling now, his back against the wall, nowhere left to run.

"You were nineteen," I correct. "She was thirteen. You weren't kids. You were a predator and she was a child."

I grab him by the throat with my free hand, not hard enough to cut off air completely, just enough to control his movement. He makes a strangled sound, his hands scrabbling at my wrist.

"Here's what's going to happen," I tell him calmly. "I'm going to make you hurt. Not quickly. Not mercifully. I'm going to take my time, and I'm going to make sure you feel every single thing she felt that night when you and your friends decided her body was something you were entitled to."

"Please—" he gasps. "Please, I'm sorry—"

"No," I correct. "You're not sorry. You're scared. There's a difference."

I drag him toward the bedroom—his bedroom, the place where he sleeps every night probably without a single nightmare about what he did.

That's going to change.

Viktor's voice comes through the earpiece: "Perimeter secure. You have complete acoustic isolation."

Perfect timing.

I throw Daniel onto the bed—his bed, stained and unmade. He scrambles backward, trying to put distance between us, but there's nowhere to go. The trailer is small. The room is smaller.

He's trapped.

Just like Leah was trapped five years ago.

"The soundproofing is excellent," I tell him conversationally, pulling out the medical kit Viktor packed. "Which means you can scream as loud as you want. No one will hear you. Just like no one heard her when she was screaming."

His eyes go to the knife in my other hand. The blade catches the dim light from his bedside lamp.

"Did she scream, Daniel?" I ask, genuinely curious. "When you hurt her? Did she try to fight? Try to get away?"

"Please," he sobs. "Please don't do this. I'll do anything. I'll confess. I'll turn myself in. I'll—"

"The statute of limitations has passed," I inform him. "And even if it hadn't, the evidence is long gone. You would get away with it. You have gotten away with it for five years."

I set the medical kit on his dresser and open it methodically. Tourniquets. Clotting agents. Stimulants to keep him conscious even when his body tries to shut down from pain.

"But I'm not the justice system, Daniel. I'm not bound by statutes or evidence or reasonable doubt."

I turn back to him, knife in one hand, a pre-loaded syringe of adrenaline in the other.

"I'm just a monster who loves a girl you broke."

love? I'm not capable of feeling that emotion but he doesn't have to know it.

What follows is methodical.

Clinical.

Almost surgical in its precision.

I start with his hands—the hands that touched her without permission. I don't cut them off immediately. That would be too quick. Instead, I work slowly, carefully, removing one finger at a time while the adrenaline keeps him conscious and the tourniquets keep him from bleeding out too quickly.

He screams. God, does he scream. The kind of animal sounds that happen when pain exceeds the brain's ability to process it as anything but pure sensation.

I don't feel satisfaction. Don't feel pleasure. Don't feel much of anything except the cold clarity of purpose.

This needs to be done. So I do it.

Between each finger, I ask him questions. How many times did you hurt her? Were there other girls? Did you enjoy it? Did you think about it afterward?

He answers eventually. They always do. Pain has a way of making people honest.

There were three other girls besides Leah. He and his friends had a system. They'd wait until the younger kids were asleep, until the staff was in the office drinking or watching TV, and then they'd pick someone small and quiet and unlikely to cause problems.

Leah was the last one before they all aged out of the system.

He remembers her specifically because she fought harder than the others. Scratched his face. Tried to scream even after the blow to her head that caused the hearing loss.

"She was a fighter," he says through sobs and blood. "Wouldn't just... wouldn't just give up..."

"No," I agree, moving to his other hand. "She's never been good at giving up. It's one of the things I love about her."

I work for two hours.

By the time I'm finished, Daniel Mercer is barely recognizable as human. I've removed the tools he used to hurt women—his hands, his genitals, his tongue that probably said terrible things to a thirteen-year-old girl.

He's still alive. Conscious even, thanks to the medical supplies keeping his body functioning despite catastrophic damage.

I clean my Papa's blade carefully, watching Daniel's eyes track the movement. He knows what's coming next. Has known since the moment I asked about Leah.

"Do you have anything you want to say?" I ask him, genuinely curious. "Any final words before you stop existing?"

He tries to speak but only manages a wet, gurgling sound. I removed his tongue twenty minutes ago.

"That's what I thought," I say.

I don't make it quick. Don't grant him the mercy of a fast death.

Instead, I open his femoral artery and let him bleed out slowly over the next fifteen minutes, watching the light fade from his eyes as his blood soaks into the sheets of the bed where he's slept peacefully for years while Leah had nightmares.

When it's done—when he's finally, completely dead—I step back and assess the scene.

It's brutal. Excessive. The kind of thing that would make a normal person sick.

I feel nothing except the satisfaction of a task completed.

I pull out my phone and call Viktor.

"It's done. Send in the cleaning crew."

"The others?" he asks.

I glance at my watch. 5:47 AM. The sun will be up soon.

"I want addresses for all of them within the hour," I tell him. "The ones with criminal records first. The two with families can wait until their children are at school."

Because I'm a monster, not a barbarian. I won't traumatize children by killing their fathers in front of them.

I'll just make them orphans.

"And the building?" Viktor asks.

"I'll handle that myself. Have a vehicle ready with accelerant and a clean change of clothes."

"Already prepared. I'll meet you at St. Catherine's in ninety minutes."

I hang up and take one last look at what used to be Daniel Mercer.

This is what happens when you touch something that belongs to me.

This is what happens when you hurt my butterfly.

This is what happens when you think you can walk away from your crimes just because the system failed to hold you accountable.

I walk out of the trailer into the pre-dawn darkness, my clothes soaked in blood, my Papa's knife clean and ready for the next one.

Behind me, Viktor's cleaning crew is already moving in, professionals who know how to make a scene like this disappear completely.

By noon, the trailer will be sanitized, the body dissolved in acid, every trace of Daniel Mercer's final hours erased as thoroughly as I'm about to erase the building where it all started.

St. Catherine's Home for Children sits on a hill overlooking the town of Ashford like a monument to institutional failure.

It's larger than I expected. Three stories of Victorian-era architecture that probably looked beautiful once, before neglect and abuse turned it into something that belongs in a horror film.

Windows are broken. The paint is peeling.

The grounds are overgrown with weeds that have crept up the walls like they're trying to pull the building back into the earth.

It closed two years ago, but it feels like it's been abandoned for decades.

Perfect.

Viktor pulls up to the service entrance at exactly 7:23 AM. The sun is rising, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold that seem obscene given what I'm about to do.

He doesn't ask questions when he sees the blood on my clothes. Just hands me a duffel bag containing clean garments, five gallons of accelerant, and a timer-based ignition system.

"The other six are handled," he tells me.

"The three with criminal records are already dead—made to look like drug deals gone wrong, drunk driving accidents, suicide.

The two in prison will have accidents within the week.

The two with families... their children are currently at school. Tactical teams are in position."

I nod, stripping off my blood-soaked shirt and replacing it with a clean black t-shirt. "Mrs. Patterson?"

"Waiting for your word."

"Give me two hours," I tell him. "Let me finish here first."

Viktor drives away, leaving me alone with five gallons of accelerant and a building full of ghosts.

I don't believe in ghosts. Don't believe in hauntings or spiritual residue or any of that metaphysical nonsense.

But if I did, this place would be thick with them.

You can almost feel the weight of all the suffering that happened here—children crying in the dark, calling for help that never came, learning too young that the world is cruel and no one is coming to save them.

Leah was one of those children.

For two years, this building was her entire world. These walls heard her scream. These floors felt her blood. This space holds the memory of her being broken.

Not anymore.

I start on the third floor, pouring accelerant through each room methodically. The dormitories where the children slept. The bathrooms with their institutional fixtures. The staff quarters where Mrs. Patterson and her colleagues turned a blind eye to suffering.

I drench every surface. Every wall. Every piece of furniture that's still standing.

The second floor next. The communal areas. The dining hall with its long tables. The recreation room with broken toys scattered across the floor. The office where complaints were filed and ignored.

More accelerant. Gallon after gallon, soaking into wood and carpet and plaster.

The first floor last. The entry hall with its once-grand staircase. The director's office where decisions were made about which children were worth protecting and which weren't. The basement where they probably stored supplies and possibly punished kids who acted out.

I empty the last of the accelerant in the basement, making sure it pools in the corners and seeps into the foundation.

Then I go back to the first floor and set the timer for fifteen minutes.

That gives me enough time to retrieve what I brought from Daniel's trailer.

His body is in the trunk of a secondary vehicle Viktor left for me. It's wrapped in plastic, thoroughly cleaned of anything that might survive a fire. I drag it into the building—into what used to be the director's office—and unwrap it.

Daniel Mercer's mutilated corpse slumps onto the floor of St. Catherine's Home for Children.

The place where he learned he could hurt vulnerable people without consequences.

The place where he first discovered that cruelty was easy when your victims had no one to protect them.

Now he's back. Not as a predator. As evidence of what happens when those victims finally find someone willing to be monstrous on their behalf.

I check my watch. Seven minutes until ignition.

I walk out the front entrance, not hurrying, taking my time to appreciate the building in its final moments. In a few minutes, it will be nothing but ash and memory. The physical location of Leah's trauma will cease to exist. The building that held her screams will burn to the ground.

And maybe—just maybe—some part of her will feel lighter when she learns it's gone.

I'm two hundred yards away when the timer triggers.

The explosion is more beautiful than I expected.

The accelerant ignites all at once, and the entire building becomes a pillar of flame.

Fire tears through the dried wood and old plaster like it's been waiting decades for this moment.

Windows blow out from the heat. The roof collapses within minutes, sending sparks spiraling into the morning sky.

I stand and watch it burn.

Watch the walls fall. Watch the floors cave in. Watch the structure that held so much suffering collapse into itself and become nothing.

The smoke is visible for miles. Fire trucks will come eventually, but by then it will be too late. The building is too far gone. Too much accelerant. Too hot to approach.

They'll find Daniel's body eventually. What's left of it. But by then, the evidence of what I did to him will be destroyed. The forensics will be confused—was he killed here or somewhere else? Was this arson or accident? Was he a victim or was he involved?

It won't matter. Because he's dead. And St. Catherine's is ash.

And Leah is safe in my penthouse, probably still sleeping, unaware that I just erased the physical location of her worst memories from existence.

I watch until there's nothing left but smoldering ruins and smoke.

Then I call Viktor.

"It's done. You can handle Mrs. Patterson now."

"How do you want it done?" he asks.

I think about this. An old woman who never hurt a child directly but created the system where they could be hurt with impunity. Who heard complaints and dismissed them. Who valued her paycheck more than the safety of the vulnerable.

"Make it look like natural causes," I decide.

"Heart attack. Stroke. Something quick and clean.

I don't need her to suffer physically. But I want her to know before she dies.

I want her to understand that everyone else is already dead.

That the building is ashes. That her legacy is being systematically erased because she failed at the one job she had. "

"Understood. I'll handle it personally."

"Send me confirmation when it's done."

I hang up and take one last look at the ruins.

Seven people are dead. One building is destroyed. The entire structure of abuse that hurt my butterfly has been systematically dismantled in less than six hours.

And I feel nothing.

No satisfaction. No remorse. No emotional response whatsoever.

Just the cold certainty that I've completed what needed to be done.

I head back to the vehicle Viktor left for me—a clean SUV with tinted windows and diplomatic plates that make it effectively invisible to law enforcement. Inside is everything I need: fresh clothes, toiletries, documentation in case I'm stopped.

I drive back to the airstrip, shower and change on the plane, and land in Massachusetts as the sun is fully up and the world is waking to news of a terrible fire at an abandoned orphanage outside Boston.

No one will connect it to me. The timing is too tight.

The logistics too complex. And I have an alibi—dozens of security cameras at Ardencrest that will show I was in my penthouse all night with my girlfriend — yes girlfriend, she just needs to accept it soon, who had a panic attack and needed my presence.

Perfect.

By 10:37 AM, I'm walking back into my penthouse.

The guards I stationed last night are new ones—professionals Viktor vetted personally, with strict instructions about maintaining distance from Leah and understanding that physical contact of any kind will result in immediate termination followed by worse.

They nod as I pass but say nothing.

Inside, the penthouse is quiet. The blood has been cleaned from the floor. Fresh flowers have been placed on the table—Viktor's people being thorough as always.

I head toward the bedroom, moving quietly in case she's still sleeping.

She is.

Leah is curled up in my bed, wrapped in the silk sheets I bought specifically because they're soft enough not to irritate trauma-sensitive skin. Her dark hair is spread across the pillow. Her face is peaceful, free of the constant tension that usually lives there.

She's wearing one of the cashmere cardigans over her sleep clothes, even in bed. Still armoring herself even in sleep.

I knee beside the bed—not touching it, not invading her space, just close enough that I can watch her.

My clothes smell like soap and expensive detergent. No trace of smoke or blood. My hands are clean, scrubbed until the skin is almost raw, every trace of violence washed away.

I'm perfectly presentable.

Perfectly normal.

No one would ever guess what I've done in the last eight hours.

I rest my head on the edge of the mattress, turned toward her sleeping form, and just... watch.

This is the closest I get to peace. This quiet observation of something that belongs to me, something I've protected, something I've fought for in the only way I know how.

"Sleep now, papillon," I whisper, knowing she can't hear me without her hearing aids. "The place that broke you no longer exists. And the men who hurt you will never have the tools to hurt a woman ever again."

She stirs slightly in her sleep, her face scrunching briefly before smoothing out again.

And then—

Her hand moves.

Slowly. Hesitantly. Like she's navigating through a dream.

It reaches out from under the covers, extends toward the edge of the bed where my head is resting, and hovers for a long moment.

I stay completely still. Don't move. Don't breathe too loudly. Don't do anything that might break whatever instinct is guiding her unconscious movement.

Her hand lowers.

Gently. So gently I barely feel it at first.

Her small hand comes to rest on top of my head.

Not grabbing. Not clutching. Just... resting there. Her fingers barely making contact with my hair.

For the first time in eight hours—for the first time since I started methodically destroying everyone who hurt her—I feel something that isn't cold calculation.

It's warm. Unfamiliar. Probably the closest I'll ever get to what normal people call emotion.

She's touching me. Voluntarily. In her sleep, when all her defenses are down and her subconscious is running the show, she reached out and touched me.

Not with fear. Not with panic.

With trust.

I close my eyes and let myself have this moment. This one perfect moment where the monster gets to feel almost human because the girl he's obsessed with has decided—somewhere deep in her unconscious mind—that he's safe.

That his presence is comfort.

That his shadow is home.

Outside, the world is waking up to news of a fire and missing persons and investigations that will go nowhere.

Inside, my butterfly is sleeping peacefully with her hand on my head, finally—finally—feeling entirely safe.

And I know, with absolute certainty, that I would burn a thousand buildings and kill a thousand men to keep her feeling exactly this way.

She's mine.

And I've just proven exactly how far I'll go to protect what's mine.