Chapter 35
Chapter thirty-five
Damien
His wife left this morning to visit her sister in Phoenix. This is a fortuitous turn of events because I’m not taking him back to my basement. He’ll die here, where he committed his sins.
I’ve spent the two days since the festival preparing. Reviewing his file. The man has a record. Three arrests for animal cruelty, but only one conviction that resulted in a slap on the wrist. The system failed, as it so often does.
I don’t fail.
Dressed in black, my wolf mask secured over my face, I’m the hunter. The executioner. The darkness Luna both fears and craves.
Thank fuck, I was at the festival on Saturday.
I shudder to think what might have happened with Pearson if I hadn’t been.
Though Shadow seemed like he might have had it under control.
He was ready to rip Pearson’s face off. But if he’d attacked the man in public like that, it would have resulted in his being taken from Luna.
That would devastate her, and I’ll never let it happen.
My protection of her extends to everything and everyone she loves.
Pearson’s truck sits in the dirt driveway. I creep across the overgrown yard. Empty beer cans litter the porch, and through the grimy windows, a television flickers in the living room. The security is laughable. A single deadbolt on a door that looks like it could be kicked in with minimal effort.
But I choose finesse.
The lock gives way to my tools. I slip inside, and the television masks any slight sound I make. The smell of stale beer, unwashed clothes, and rancid food infects the space. This is where care goes to die.
Pearson sprawls on a threadbare couch, holding a beer, with glazed eyes as he stares at the screen. He fails to sense the predator in his home until it’s too late.
My hand clamps over his mouth before he can scream, the rag covering his nose. His eyes widen in terror as he sees the wolf mask looming over him before they roll back in his head.
When he comes to, he’s shackled to a post in his barn, chest bare, arms chained above his head. The same barn where he abused his horses.
It’s poetic justice, really.
Mouth gagged and eyes wild with terror, he registers his predicament. On a blood-stained plank, his instruments of cruelty are lined up—knives, whips, and prods.
“Remember me?” I lean in, close enough to see the sweat beading on his forehead. “No? It’s the mask, isn’t it? No matter. But more importantly, do you remember her? Luna Foster? The woman you threatened two days ago?”
Pearson’s eyes track me as I move around him, following the glint of the knife in my hand.
Walking around a victim always fucks with their head.
They lose track of you, even for a second, and that second is everything.
Straw, mud, and manure crust the floor beneath my boots, releasing a sharp, pungent stench.
Luna’s sanctuary doesn’t smell like this.
This is the unmistakable odor of neglect.
He tugs at his rough bindings, but the effort is futile. The stench of his fear grows stronger with every step, making my heart race, and a dangerous grin spreads across my face.
“The body tells stories.” My voice is casual, even though I’m barely holding back the urge to carve him open. “The horses Luna rescued from you? Their bodies were maps of your cruelty. Scars upon scars. Evidence of systematic torture.”
I bring the blade to his face and drag the tip along his jaw. He whimpers, a strangled sound as pathetic as the man himself.
“I wonder what your body might tell me. What stories can we write on your flesh?” I tilt the knife, savoring the way his eyes go even wider as it pierces the skin. “Now it’s your turn to bleed.”
I don’t drag it out tonight, but I don’t rush either. In the privacy of my basement, I can take my time, but I’m late because I was inside Luna. A mere two hours ago, I was in heaven. Now I’m in hell.
White-hot rage crawls over my skin like needles. Dealing with this festering piece of shit pulled me away from her. But he’ll pay for it as surely as he’ll pay for his other sins.
I start with his Achilles heel, slashing the serrated knife over the rope-like tendons, hobbling him, like he did to several of his horses. His body convulses, legs buckling, shoulders wrenching upward until the joints pop, leaving him unable to stand.
Choked screams erupt behind the gag. The sound washes over me, a full-body experience that leaves my limbs buzzing with wild energy, like touching an electric fence. Adrenaline floods through me, a searing, burning sensation that makes my heart pound against my ribs.
Next, I carve his horses’ names across his hairy, sweat-slicked chest, each letter a tribute to those he maimed.
The steel slices through skin and muscle with ease.
Thick ribbons of dark crimson blood coat my hands and snake down his trembling torso.
His screams, muffled by the gag, ricochet off the rafters, a symphony of agony that sends the three barn cats I discovered earlier scuttling into the shadows.
Their eyes catch the light as they watch from their hiding spots, but I’m undeterred, focused on the task at hand.
He scrambles sideways like a wounded crab, blood drenching the yellow straw, turning it slick and treacherous beneath him, but the rusted chains locked around his wrists keep him tethered in place no matter how hard he struggles.
Every futile attempt to escape spatters my boots with fresh red droplets that join the faded ones from the past.
I cut away his filthy jeans and switch to the whip, its worn handle smooth against my palm. It hisses through the air with each strike against his bare skin. With deliberate cuts, I rip flesh from his quivering thighs and calves, mirroring his own calculated cruelty back onto him.
My hands are steady, and my resolve unbreakable. I’m not driven by cruelty or revenge. This is retribution. A balancing of scales that have tipped too far for too long. But because he threatened Luna, I want him to suffer more. I want to drag it out, even though I’m on the clock.
I pause, wiping sweat from my brow with my forearm. His once-arrogant face contorts with fear and regret, tears cutting wet tracks through the layers of dirt and blood caking his skin. But the remorse came too late. The fear came too late. None of it will save him now.
I charge the cattle prod. The device hums to life, vibrating, heavy in my hand as I size up Pearson’s shredded, bloody body, looking for the most sensitive spots. My mouth waters, satisfaction just out of reach. His eyes widen with dread when I zero in on the first spot.
I press its prongs into the hollow of his knee, closing my eyes in concentration.
The current lances through him, up my arm, and into my shoulder.
My eyes pop open when he howls, an inhuman sound as muscle and bone convulse.
I hunt for fresh spots, pressing again and again.
Each scream that pours from him feeds the beast in my chest, a haunting cacophony of pain that rolls over me in waves, resonating deep in my soul.
These walls have heard worse, but never the sound of a man tearing apart from within. A slow drip-drip-drip of blood cuts through the silence. My pulse hammers in my ears like war drums.
He chokes, and I pull off the gag. A hoarse squeak tumbles free.
Squeezing his cheeks, I force his mouth open, clamp forceps on his tongue, and yank it taut.
With one swift cut at the root, I sever it.
He spasms, and blood splatters my wrists, neck, and chest. The warm, sticky blood saturates my shirt, and the copper scent fills the space between us as it cascades down his body.
I step back, taking in my work with an artist’s clinical eye, noting every detail. The barn is silent now, save for his ragged, gurgling breaths. I’m done, and judging by his slumped, battered body, Pearson is too.
I plunge my knife into his gut, but he barely reacts. I pull it out and hook it under his chin, lifting his face.
“Open your eyes, Pearson.” My voice is sharp as I slide the bloody knife up his cheek, and his eyelids flutter open.
I lift my mask. Something flickers in his eyes. A shadow of recognition, perhaps, but I can’t be sure. It doesn’t matter. My face is the last one he’ll see.
I thrust the knife through his right eye and twist, and his body jerks one final time before it goes still. My shoulders relax, and a wave of peace washes over me, the calming sensation smoothing every nerve.
Justice has been served for those horses, all of whom lived. Luna kept one, a mini horse, barely three feet tall, with a coat like a patchwork quilt that earned him his name, Patches. Local families adopted the other horses and now treat them with the kindness they never knew.
I take Pearson’s belt buckle, stained with his blood. The perfect souvenir for Luna. Before I give it to her, I’ll scrub it clean since she deserves better than his filth.
Collecting the cats takes patience, but I lure them from the rafters with treats before loading them into carriers I have in the Range Rover. They’ll find their way to Luna’s doorstep before dawn, and she’ll take them in.
Pearson’s body gets wrapped in plastic, then I drive out to Odessa Lake, where I dump it on a trail that’s not for the faint of heart.
At this time of the year, there will be few hikers, so it may take days or weeks for anyone to find him.
I walk away, leaving behind the cooling corpse of a man who thought animals were objects to be abused.
Luna’s gift burns in my pocket. Anticipation thrums through me at the thought of giving it to her. She’ll struggle, relieved he’s gone but tormented by that relief.
But that’s why she needs me.
So I can rid the world of the filth that makes her cry.