Chapter 38
The Brid e
N icklas’ basement feels like a vault beneath the earth, the kind of place where sounds go to die. Harsh fluorescents buzz overhead, casting no shadows, leaving nowhere to hide from the truth of what we’re about to do.
The concrete walls trap the scents of bleach and iron, the antiseptic smell failing to mask older stains that have seeped into the foundation.
Shelby sits before us, wrists and ankles bound to a metal chair bolted to the floor, her lips twisted in a superior sneer I can’t wait to wipe away. I feel Jack shift beside me, his patience stretched thin after days of waiting, or maybe he, like me, is buzzing with anticipation.
Jack’s hand finds the small of my back, warm through the thin fabric of my shirt. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks, though we both know the answer. This isn’t a question of whether, only how.
“Absolutely.” I lean into his touch, drawing strength from the solid presence of him. “She took me apart. Now it’s my turn.”
“Fuck, you’re so sexy right now.” His mouth crashes over mine, all teeth and heat, a bruising claim that tastes of promised violence.
When he lets go of me, I’m panting and lightheaded. I take a moment to gather myself again. Damn, Jack’s kisses always leave me wanting more.
I step forward, my heels clicking against concrete, the sound sharp as a metronome counting down the minutes she has left.
“Happy Halloween, Shelby,” I say, savoring the way her body tenses. “Today you get both a trick and a treat.”
I don’t know if she even realizes what day it is after all this time in isolation. Time loses meaning in the dark. But I want her to know—want her to understand that while the world above celebrates with candy and costumes, she’ll be meeting a different kind of darkness.
Jack moves to stand beside a folding table where a laptop waits, screen black but ready. His fingers hover over the keyboard, green eyes fixed on me, waiting for my signal.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about what drives people,” I continue, circling Shelby like she’s a specimen pinned for study. “What made you do what you did? All that pain, all that rage. It was for love, wasn’t it? For John.”
At the name, she jerks against her restraints, something frantic and desperate in her muffled cries. I smile, reaching behind her head to loosen the gag.
“I want to hear you,” I explain, pulling the cloth free. “Every sound.”
“You bitch,” she spits, voice raw from disuse. “How dare you talk about him? He was the love of my life and you don’t know the fucking meaning.”
I hum softly. “Yes, so I’ve gathered. He was your ultimate love.” I circle her once. “But one question remains.” I circle her again before crouching in front of her. “Were you his one true love?”
Doubt flickers across her face, just for an instant, before hardening back to hate. “Of course I was.”
“Were you?” I gesture to Jack, who brings the laptop and table closer, setting it right in front of Shelby. “Because I think it’s time you saw the man you’ve been mourning. The man you killed your own brother for.”
Her eyes dart between my face and the screen, fear wrestling with defiance. “What trick is this?”
“No trick.” I lean close, my lips nearly brushing her ear. “Only a treat. After all, when we lose someone, all we want is to see them again. So we’re about to make your wish come true.”
I nod to Jack, who presses play. The video is grainy security footage, but clear enough. John Simmons—alive, unharmed, and exactly one day before his death—in a hotel room with a woman who isn’t Shelby.
The date stamp in the corner doesn’t lie. Nor do the naked, writhing bodies, or the carnal sounds they make.
“That’s not…” Shelby’s voice breaks. “That’s not him.”
“It is.” Jack’s voice is low, certain. “And judging by his groans, he’s having a great time.”
Her face contorts, grief cracking through rage like lightning through storm clouds. The scream that tears from her throat isn’t human—it’s primal, wounded, the sound of something fundamental breaking apart.
Her body convulses against the restraints, every muscle straining as though trying to physically reject the truth before her eyes.
“No!” she shrieks, over and over, the word shredding into meaningless syllables as the video continues. John moans on screen, his hand around the woman’s throat as he thrusts deep into her pussy. “Turn it off! It’s a lie!”
But she knows it isn’t. I can see the knowledge bleeding into her, poisoning everything she thought she knew. Every moment of those weeks in captivity, every lash of the whip against my skin, every word spat in hatred—all of it based on an unrequited love.
I move close again, my lips at her ear while she sobs, her eyes still fixed on the screen where her world is ending frame by frame. “This is the last thing you’ll ever see,” I whisper, the words soft as a lover’s promise. “The truth about the man you killed for.”
Her breath hitches, and she tries to turn her head, to look at me instead of the screen, but Jack is there suddenly, hands steady as a surgeon’s as he grasps her face.
“Eyes forward,” he commands, voice colder than I’ve ever heard it. Not even when he caged me did he use that tone. “Watch until the end.”
I step back, letting him work. The spoon in his hand gleams dully under the dim light, obscene in its simplicity. Shelby thrashes, her shrieks scraping the walls, but the restraints hold her fast. She knows what’s coming.
The first puncture makes her bu ck against the chair, a sickening pop as pressure gives way, a suctioned rip dragging wet against the air.
Blood sluices down her face in thick sheets, crimson tears streaking over her teeth as she screams, the sound shredding into a high, animal pitch that makes the walls vibrate.
He is detached, deliberate, the spoon moving with terrible efficiency until the first orb comes free, glistening in the light. Then the second.
Her cries collapse into ragged sobs, vibrating so hard it feels like my ribs are shaking with them. Bile claws at the back of my throat, but I force myself still, my eyes locked on hers as blood leaks into the hollows where sight used to be. This isn’t cruelty—it’s justice. Balance.
When it’s done, when her sockets gape empty and her body sags against the chair, Jack finally steps back. Blood coats his hands, but his eyes are steady as they meet mine—merciless and unwavering.
“Are you ready?” he asks, his breath ragged with exertion.
“Yes,” I nod, punctuating the words while I pick up the gun from the table. “Together.”
I move to stand before her, this woman who was once my friend, who became my tormentor, who is now nothing but a broken vessel for pain.
Jack steps behind me, his chest against my back, his hand covering mine on the handle. Both our index fingers curl around the trigger. His breath warms my neck as we raise the gun together.
Shelby thrashes, blind and broken, a ragged sound clawing from her throat. I lean close enough for her to hear me over her own sobs. “This is a treat you don’t fucking deserve,” I hiss. “But we’re running out of time.”
Together, we pull the trigger.
Her head snaps back, chair rattling against its bolts, and then she’s still. Blood trickles from the perfect circle at her temple, spreading in quiet lines down her face. The silence afterwards is deafening.
Jack’s heartbeat against my back is both steady and strong as he lowers the gun, taking it completely and engaging the safety before tossing it aside. Then he turns me in his arms. His lips find mine hard, unrelenting. The kiss is deep, claiming, sealing us in the violence we chose together.
“It’s done,” he says simply.
I nod, feeling lighter than I have in weeks. “It’s done.”
Behind us, Shelby’s body cools in its metal chair, eyes gone, heart stilled. The video plays on, unnoticed now, a loop of betrayal for an audience that can no longer see. In the harsh fluorescent light, Jack and I stand entwined, monsters made from the ruins of what others tried to break.
And I’ve never felt more alive.