35. Cain
Cain
It took the staff a full week to pick the last of the glass shards out of the floorboards in my office. A week of diligent labor from the staff to scrub the overwhelming scent of spilled gin and cigar ash out of the velvet and mahogany grain.
I sat at my desk, tracing the faint, scratch on the wood where June’s flying paperweight had made impact. I felt… nothing. No anger, which is a common man’s luxury. No remorse, which is a saint’s delusion. Just a mild, flickering impatience, like a fly buzzing against a windowpane.
June is currently under the impression that her outburst mattered.
She thinks that by smashing my crystal and screaming her hatred into the rafters, she’s reclaimed some shred of control.
It’s adorable, in a tragic sort of way. She can frown, she can pout, and she can stomp through these high-arched halls like a captive queen, but the reality of her situation is as cold and final as the foundation of this manor.
She has been stripped of every exit. Her University applications?
Recycled into the void. Her family? Buried in my garden.
Her friends? Scared off or silenced. At this point, we are all she has.
I’ve made sure of that. We are the roof over her head, the food in her belly, and the only “family” left to claim her.
She is entirely, beautifully isolated. And she’s finally beginning to realise that we aren’t her guardian angels, just the demons who scared the rest away.
Julian hasn’t spoken to me since the incident.
He moves through the house like a seamless extension of the manor's shadows, giving me a shoulder even colder than June’s.
He spends his nights outside her door or, more often, inside her bed, playing the role of the tortured protector.
He thinks his “love” is a shield. It’s a hilarious miscalculation.
They play at drama and morality while the clock on the wall ticks closer to the only date that has ever mattered: June’s twenty-first birthday.
The final countdown. I should feel the weight of it, I suppose.
I should feel some tremor for the way we’ve systematically dismantled her future, piece by piece, until only this house remains.
But as I sit here, I only feel the faint, electric buzz under my skin—the rush of knowing that our life’s work is nearly at its fruition.
All those years wasted, trapped in this stagnant, rot-filled town, are finally about to pay off.
I looked out the window and caught sight of her in the garden—a small, defiant figure among the white roses.
She was wearing one of Julian’s sweaters, the sleeves hanging past her knuckles.
She looks so small from up here. Like an insect I could so easily crush in my hands.
Lifting my hand to the cold glass of the window, I lined up my thumb directly over her distant, retreating figure.
I pressed down, slowly flattening my skin against the pane, deliberately mimicking the motion of squishing her like a bug beneath my finger.
A dark, hollow satisfaction settled in my chest as she vanished completely behind the smudge of my print.
She thinks she hates me now? She has no idea what hatred is.
She still breathes because I allow it. She still eats because I provide it.
Her heart beats only because I haven’t decided to stop it yet.
But soon, that pulsating, annoying thumping in her chest will be a physical weight in my hand.
The blood that gives her cheeks that indignant flush will be the ink that signs our release from this place.
I walked down to the cellar, the air growing colder with every step, the scent of damp earth and old stone rising to meet me like an old friend.
I reached the heavy oak door and turned the key, hearing the satisfying, heavy thud of the bolt sliding into place.
I’ve had to be more careful lately. June has developed a tiresome tendency to go through my belongings—a curiosity I’ll eventually have to scratch out of her.
The deadline is close. So close I can feel it vibrating in the floorboards.
I sat back in the leather chair I’d moved down here, the only light coming from a single flickering bulb overhead that cast long, distorted shadows across the floor.
My mind drifted towards the mathematics of it all.
It requires a discipline that Julian lacks—a stomach for the clinical nature of ascension.
I opened my eyes and looked at the Ritual table in front of me. I won’t let greed or “love” blind me to the details. You cannot rush the dark, you have to court it. You have to build a house for it and invite it in with a steady hand.
I ran a finger over the edge of a silver ceremonial bowl. Julian thinks he’s saving her. He thinks that by playing the hero, he can atone for the fact that he is the one who will lead her to this table. He is a distraction, a soft-edged lie to keep her docile until the final betrayal.
In the end, there is only the work. And the work is almost done. The girl will bleed, the stars will align, and the Blackburn name will finally be carved into the fabric of the eternal.